The Ruin (26 page)

Finally Pavel had no choice but to use a healing prayer on his leg, in his exhaustion nearly fumbling over the proper cadence. Even magic didn’t produce the surge of strength or exuberant sense of health it sometimes did, but at least it numbed the pain.

Sometime after that, he realized with dull surprise that Dorn had put his arm around him and was half-carrying him along. He thanked him, and the big man responded with a grunt.

The ground rose, and the edge of a sizable forest loomed up on the right, where it could guard an army’s flank. As the sky brightened behind the trees, the Sossrim clambered up onto a tableland, and the officers herded the various squads to one position or another, establishing a formation. Obviously, that was where Madislak wanted to make his stand.

As soon as their superiors gave them leave, warriors collapsed wherever they happened to be standing. Pavel wanted to do the same, but had to attend to his observances first. He disentangled himself from Dorn’s arm, faced the dawn, and somewhat groggily started to pray.

Soon he felt Lathander’s bright and loving presence hovering near. The communion didn’t purge the exhaustion from his body, but it cleared his mind and refreshed his spirit, dampening fear and the urge to despair.

He asked for the spells he’d need to see him through the battle to come, and with flares of bracing light and warmth that only he could perceive, the god emplaced them in his mind like arrows in a quiver.

When the process was done, he lay down wrapped in his cloak and bedroll, to sleep as long as Zethrindor would permit.

17 Uktar, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Kneeling, gripping Rilitar’s sword partway down the blade, Taegan scratched away with it as if it were a stylus, and the point inscribed lines and curves in the slope. He disliked treating the superb weapon in such a churlish way, but it cut the frozen earth far, more easily than a chunk of rock would have done, and it was an aspect of its excellence that even such rough usage wouldn’t. dull it.

When he finished, he worked the incipient soreness out of his fingers—it had been awkward to grip the blade in a way that ensured he wouldn’t cut himself—and inspected his handiwork, a crude but recognizable copy of the flame, eyes, and claws emblem of the Cult of the Dragon. Presumably the Tarterians, being Sammaster’s allies or servants, knew what that particular device signified. Even if not, it would still give them something to puzzle over.

It was time for the difficult part. Taegan contemplated what was to come, and despite all that he’d already experienced and survived, felt a pang of dread.

He currently possessed every advantage his magic, and that of his comrades, could provide, layered enchantments to make him as elusive as possible. Bladesong rendered him stronger, more nimble, and could provide other benefits when he found himself hard-pressed. Kara had shrouded him in invisibility. Raryn had heightened his endurance, granted him the ability to see in utter darkness, deadened his scent, and insured his feet would leave no tracks. Brimstone claimed to have sharpened his wits—though Taegan preferred to believe that was scarcely possible—and to have supplied a protection that might enable him to go where even Tarterians wouldn’t follow.

Yet against half a dozen wyrms, creatures Sammaster had conjured from the foulest reaches of the netherworld, could such tricks possibly prevail?

Well, Taegan told himself, pushing trepidation aside, they’d have to, wouldn’t they? Because, while he and his friends could die—indeed, expected to, in one way or another, for all that they forbore to say it outright—they couldn’t fail. The stakes were too high.

He breathed a prayer to sweet Lady Firehair, then, on impulse, petitioned Aerdrie Faenya, principal goddess of the avariels, as well. Since he hadn’t acknowledged the Winged Mother since forsaking his tribe, it seemed unlikely she’d listen with any particular sympathy, but perhaps she’d help him in order to preserve the legacy of his ancestors.

He drew a deep breath, then shouted across the valley: “Sammaster is here! Attend me!”

Then he fled, flying fast along the inner slopes, skimming low over scree, snowdrifts, and the gouged places where the Tarterians, who could apparently subsist on most anything, had made a meal of earth and rock.

He kept on for as long as he dared, while, hissing and screeching to one another, the Tarterians winged their way closer. Finally he lit in the shadow of a boulder. He was trying

his best to be stealthy, but still worried that, once the drakes drew near enough, their keen ears would catch the snap and rustle of his pinions.

He waited tensely until it became clear that the gigantic reptiles’ attention was centered on the approximate point from which he’d called, not his current hiding place. They hadn’t perceived him moving from one spot to the other. That was reassuring, albeit, not profoundly so, not when they were casting their net widely enough that, on two occasions, a vast winged shadow swept right over him.

It only took a few moments for one of the reptiles to notice the mark he’d left behind. It cried to the others, and tilting and furling their wings, they all came wheeling and thudding down to earth to inspect the sigil more closely, peer about, and hiss and snarl.

Taegan couldn’t speak their language and had no idea what they were saying to one another, but he thought they had an air of perplexity that might have been comical in other circumstances. To say the least, it seemed unlikely they actually believed that Sammaster had returned to the valley to play childish games with them, but they couldn’t figure out the point of what really was happening.

The answer was simple mystification. Anything to befuddle them and keep them on that end of the vale while Kara and Brimstone labored to penetrate the citadel.

Three of the Tarterians bounded back into the air and resumed their wheeling scrutiny of the slopes. Their fellows stalked around on foot, forked tongues flickering, sniffing the air and ground like enormous hounds. Taegan held his breath whenever one prowled too close, but feared the reptile might still hear the pounding of his heart. He could certainly feel it, beating in the arteries in his neck.

They didn’t find him, though. His father had taught him how to conceal himself, his comrades were able spellcasters, and perhaps the fact that the Tarterians were probably looking for Brimstone again, not a considerably smaller creature, aided him as well.

So it was all right. Until the great dark creatures with their mottling of lighter scales and lambent green eyes shrieked to one another, and the trio on the ground beat their ragged wings. Then all six flew out over the ancient battlefield with its carpet of tangled bones.

Which was to say, they were moving their hunt elsewhere, and Taegan couldn’t allow that. He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could, to crack down on the slope and start other rocks tumbling and rattling.

The Tarterians wheeled, orienting on the noise. Taegan flew in the opposite direction, toward a shadowy depression that ought to serve for a second hiding place.

Will found Pavel still asleep, and taking care not to bump the gimpy leg, or do any other actual harm, kicked him in the side until his eyes fluttered open.

“You poxy dung beetle,” the human croaked.

Will grinned and proffered a steaming tin cup. “Lentils and beef stock. Not too vile, for army food. Drink it while you have the chance.”

Pavel tossed off his blankets and stood up. Will was relieved to see that his leg didn’t appear to be giving him any more trouble. He sipped the soup, then asked, “How long did I sleep?”

“Most of the day, sluggard. Once we won the race to get here, Zethrindor and his crew apparently slowed down. So they could march up in good order, maybe, with all sorts of obnoxious enchantments in place. But they’re coming now.” He pointed.

Some distance beyond the foot of the tableland, the snow appeared to stir like the rippling, heaving surface of the sea. Then the eye picked out individual shapes from the all-encompassing white: Striding giants, barbarians, and dwarves; and crawling wyrms. Other drakes wheeled and darted against a leaden sky.

Pavel studied the oncoming horde, then gulped the rest of his meal, stooped, and collected his weapons. “Let’s find Dorn.”

“He’s with Stival and his troop. Madislak shuffled the squads around and put them—us—over this way.”

They wended their way through a host making its final preparations for battle. Warriors honed blades and arrowheads, reinforced ramparts built of branches and packed snow, or kneeled to accept the blessings of one or another of the lesser druids. The greater ones were busy at the center of the company, swaying and murmuring in front of fires that leaped and changed color in response to their incantations, or declaiming words of power that made the cold air gust and the ground tremble and grumble. Wolverines, badgers, stags, and even a shaggy, hulking bear prowled among Mielikki’s servants as though awaiting instructions.

A bowman bustled into the midst of the ritual preparations and jabbered a question, interrupting Madislak in the midst of a prayer. The stooped, scrawny old man with his bald, brown-spotted crown spun around glaring.

“You officers know the strategy!” he snarled. “Is it too much to ask you to manage the tactics by yourselves? It is supposed to be your area of competence, isn’t it? Then go away and let me work!”

Stival’s troop stood on the western side of the ridge, not too far from the point where the ground fell away so precipitously that it would be difficult for any of the Sossrim’s foes to flank them on that side. Well, any but the white dragons and ice drakes, who could probably fly wherever they cared to go. Dorn was there, filthy and sullen, iron fingers repeatedly clenching on his longbow. Wings flickering, snapping the occasional bug from the air, Jivex darted hither and yon. The bands of color streaming down his flanks seemed almost dazzling on an afternoon when everything else was white and gray.

For the moment, at least. Will reflected that he’d likely start seeing plenty of red in just a little while.

“Hello,” Stival said. You look like you feel better, Master Shemov.”

“l do,” Pavel replied.

“Then may we have your blessing?”

“Of course.”

The Damaran brandished his amulet, invoking a golden glow. Will felt a bracing surge of resolution and vitality. Other folk smiled, or sighed and closed their eyes, as Lathander’s grace buoyed their spirits. Dorn, however, scowled and turned away from the light, spurning the god’s gift as, since Kara’s death, he’d rejected all efforts at comfort.

“Now, then,” Pavel said, “what’s our specific role in Madislak’s strategy? Knowing will help me determine how best to employ the rest of my spells.”

“Well,” Stival said, “naturally, it’s everybody’s job to hold the ridge. But beyond that, you have experience fighting dragons, so do I, and so do the rest of these fellows. So, if somebody has to get in close and meet one of the beasts blade to claw, it’s likely to be us.”

Jivex hissed. “Dragons aren’t ‘beasts.’ Not even the dullwitted runts out there.”

Some of the warriors grinned at the little drake’s display of indignation, or maybe, at his calling wyrms a hundred times larger than himself ‘runts.’ Trying to suppress his own smile, Stival began to offer an apology. But before he could finish, the enemy attacked.

Enormous hailstones hammered down on portions of the Sossrim line, breaking heads and limbs despite the protection of helms and armor. Flares of pure cold froze men into rime-encrusted statues. Bursts of shadow, rushing in like breaking waves or leaping up from the ground like geysers, rotted flesh, or sent folk reeling in shrieking terror.

Behind the cover of that sudden barrage of magic, Zethrindor’s army charged. The warriors on the ground roared their battle cries and sprinted forward. The drakes in the air lashed their wings and hurtled at the top of the hill.

Unfortunately for them, however, their initial ploy didn’t work as well as Zethrindor had no doubt hoped. Sorcery had torn chinks in the Sossrim line, but hadn’t thrown it into disarray. The wards and blessings cast beforehand, and the protection afforded by the improvised fortifications, had saved most of the defenders, and they drew their bowstrings back to their ears. The whole ridge seemed to creak with the sound of flexing wood.

“Shoot!” Stival shouted. Other captains yelled it, too.

The volley clattered and thrummed. Pavel’s crossbow, the only such weapon in the immediate vicinity, gave a distinctive snap amid the ambient drone.

At the same time, the Sossrim druids and wizards struck at the dragons on the wing. Explosions of flame engulfed them, twisting, crackling thunderbolts speared them, and howling whirlwinds, visible thanks to the snow spinning inside, leaped at them. Clouds of stinging flies materialized to swarm on them.

The magical harassment flung the flying dragons backward, while the hurtling arrows balked the attackers on the ground. Many toppled, pierced. Some tried to shoot back, but the bows of the Great Glacier were inferior to those of Sossal, where the proper sort of trees for bow-making grew, coaxed by druids to provide wood perfectly suited to the purpose, and most of the shafts fell short.

Though the frost giants could cope with the range and the disadvantage of lower ground. Their strength compensated for the inferior quality of their gear. An arrow the size of a human longspear drove into the torso of a warrior near Will and slammed him back into the soldiers standing behind him.

When the first exchange concluded, Will couldn’t tell who, if anyone, had gotten the better of it. The Sossrim had kept the flying dragons from descending on them, and their defensive line remained intact. But they’d also, in just a few heartbeats, sustained casualties that no army, facing superior numbers, could easily afford.

At the foot of the hill, Zethrindor snarled orders. Will couldn’t catch the words, but the meaning became clear enough when some of the attacking force split off and headed into the forest. They meant to use the trees to shield them from further volleys of arrows while they advanced on the Sossrims’s eastern flank.