The Ruin (41 page)

She called out to Brimstone, who was gliding nearby. “You know the lich,” she said. “How do we counter this magic? How do we reach him?”

“l don’t know,” the vampire said. “Perhaps if we fetch Nexus—”

“We can’t! We’ve pulled too many warriors out of the fight with the hell drakes already. Look at the sky! What do you think would happen if either he or Tamarand withdrew?”

Sammaster conjured a dozen shadow-shapes like disembodied jaws. They shot at Azhaq, swarmed on him like angry bees, and sank their needle fangs into his scales. He roared in pain, and the lich laughed.

No more, thought Havarlan, no more of this, and she knew what she was going to attempt. She lashed her wings and flew straight at Sammaster.

She’d already discerned that concentric spheres of protection surrounded his perch. As she hurtled through the first one, pain stabbed down the length of her body from her nose to the tip of her tail.

Refusing to let it balk her, not bothering to look and see how deeply the ward had slashed her, she streaked onward. Into the second barrier.

This time, the agony pierced all the way into the core of her. Blood surged up in her throat, and her left eye went blind. Her heart juddered, and worst of all, something broke or sheared apart inside the linkage of bone and muscle controlling her pinions. They locked up, and she fell. She roared, spitting gore and bits of broken tooth, strained to shift them, and finally they flapped and bore her onward.

At the third barrier. Which she dreaded as she’d never dreaded anything before. But she was the Barb of the Talons of Justice, and duty demanded she plunge on through.

It was like being on fire, outside and in. Like becoming a being that didn’t merely suffer anguish, but purely and simply was anguish. If she was still beating her pinions, she couldn’t tell it. The sensation was lost in all-consuming pain. But maybe she was, for something—sheer momentum, conceivably—flung her at the skull-faced lich in his window.

He goggled in sudden realization of what was about to happen. Opened his mouth full of chipped and rotting teeth, no doubt to jabber a spell. But before he could, she crashed into the top of the tower like a boulder flung from a catapult.

The impact shattered Sammaster’s perch and knocked him backward. He and Havarlan fell to the ground outside the castle wall amid a rain of broken stone, splintered timber, and roofing tiles.

The world faded, then jumped back into clarity. Evidently Havarlan had only lost consciousness for a moment, because everything was still the same. Sammaster was just drawing himself to his feet.

He planted himself in front of her and glared up into her face. “Die!” he snarled.

Fresh pain stabbed through her chest. She tried to claw at the lich, but her leg wouldn’t move.

She took what solace she could from knowing that she’d dislodged Sammaster from his web of defenses. Perhaps her comrades could handle him from here. They’d have to, for her spasming heart gave a final lurch, then stopped.

Taegan realized he and his companions were trapped between the onrushing guardians on one side and the vault containing the heart of the Rage—where, he gathered, it was death to enter—on the other. He wondered if Darvin would take a moment to observe that he’d tried to warn them all that something like this could happen.

But the man in white didn’t. Instead, like the other priests and wizards, he jabbered an incantation. Flares of booming flame, crackling lightning, and other manifestations of mystic power leaped forth to hammer the guardians.

Or rather, simply to illuminate forms made of sculpted stone and cast iron. As Taegan had suspected, they were automatons like the construct of bone he’d encountered previously, and as far as he could tell, the magic of several of the Moonsea’s greatest warlocks had damaged them not a jot.

“Warriors, forward!” he shouted, and lunged at the iron golem, which radiated heat like an oven. The point of Rilitar’s sword pierced its snout, and, smoke fuming from its molded nostrils, the animated statue struck at him like a serpent. He dodged and cut at its throat, but his blade bounced off.

Jivex swooped over the iron guardian and raked with his claws, striking sparks. Will darted under its belly and stabbed with his hornblade. Pavel scrambled onto its flank and pounded it with the glowing head of its mace. Meanwhile, Sureene, Celedon, and Drigor assaulted the other construct. All the weapons clanging on stone and metal raised a hideous din.

“We’ll hold the things!” Taegan bellowed. “You wizards, stop the Rage!”

Scattercloak started chanting, and a moment later, Darvin did the same. Since they weren’t reciting in unison, the words jumbled together in a confusing, echoing way.

Taegan hoped the counterspell was brief. He and his comrades were fighting hard, desperately, but to little apparent effect. Even enchanted weapons glanced off creatures of iron and stone as often as not, and generally just scratched or chipped them the rest of the time. While the living statues riposted with all the speed and strength of actual dragons.

Taegan dodged raking claws, slashed at his opponent’s extended leg, and glimpsed motion at the periphery of his vision. The golem’s head was whipping around at the end of its long neck to strike at him. He jumped back, avoiding the attack, and his opponent lunged after him. He retreated, resisting the impulse to use his wings and leave the constructs a clear path to Darvin and Scattercloak. The golem attacked faster, then faster still. It spread its wings so that he couldn’t dodge past it even if he wanted to. Jivex landed on its head, bit and raked, but failed to distract it. Taegan felt a grim certainty that it was about to punch through his defense—

A flare of frost splashed across one of the golem’s outstretched pinions. Taegan’s muscles clenched at the sudden chill, but since the attack hadn’t engulfed him, took no actual harm. The living statue, however, abruptly started moving slower than before. It was easier to evade its strikes; and cut and batter it in its turn.

Perhaps it realized as much, in whatever passed for its mind, for it attempted a different mode of attack, rearing, cocking its head back and spreading its jaws. Taegan poised himself to dodge. But Firefingers rattled off words of power, and when the flare of breath weapon exploded from the statue’s mouth, the flame hooked upward to splash against the ceiling.

“Nice trick!” said Will. He darted under the statue’s belly and stabbed. Gripping his glowing mace in both hands, Pavel bashed dents in its side.

“Get clear when I give the word,” Firefingers said. He declaimed another incantation. “Now!”

The fighters scurried backward, and the golems lunged after them. But then, crashing and rumbling, the floor—and the ground beneath it, evidently—shattered into fragments beneath the statues’ claws, and they floundered down into a pit of rubble like animals in quicksand.

Taegan grinned. Realizing the golems were more or less impervious to his magic, Firefingers had instead employed it to deny them a stable surface on which to stand. It was a clever tactic.

Scattercloak and Darvin’s voices grew louder. More insistent. They’d finally reached the concluding syllables of the counterspell. Taegan turned back toward the source of the Rage to see what would happen next.

As far as he could tell, nothing. The flares of power kept on leaping from the wounds in the walls to the pendant floating in the center, exactly the same as before.

“l don’t feel any different,” said Jivex, hovering. “The craziness is still inside my head.”

“That,” spat Darvin, “is because our countermagic doesn’t work! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it to Baator!”

The chunks of stone at the top of the pit crunched, groaned, and shifted as the golems started to dig their way up from the bottom.

Tamarand caught an updraft., gained the high air, and dived at his foe. The wounded rust dragon tried to dodge, but he compensated and plunged his talons into its neck. They sheared through muscle and smashed vertebrae, all but beheading the creature. He released the convulsing body and let it fall.

Momentarily free of threats to his person, Tamarand then looked around to monitor the progress of the battle as a whole. Just in time to see Sammaster strike Havarlan dead.

Tamarand refused to feel shock or grief. Such emotions were for later, should he survive. For the time being, what mattered, the only thing a war leader could allow to matter, was that the silver had dislodged Sammaster from his prepared defenses.

The question was, how best to take advantage of the opening, and essentially, the answer was another impossible choice. Tamarand scarcely dared divert any more of his strength from the clash with the hell wyrms, but neither could he ignore the lich.

So, rattling off commands in his magically augmented voice, the gold divided his strength once more. The folk on the ground, and some of the metallics in the air, would assault Sammaster. Everyone else would strive to keep the otherworldly drakes from coming to their master’s aid.

At least if they pushed Sammaster hard enough, he wouldn’t be able to direct his troops anymore. Praying it would make a difference, wishing it were wise, invincible Lareth and not just a traitorous lieutenant in command of this desperate venture, Tamarand wheeled to attack a trio of howling dragons.

Sammaster took a moment to savor Havarlan’s death throes, then turned and saw the other foes rushing to surround him, charging across the ground or swooping down from the sky. Brimstone. Azhaq. The song dragon. The two pretty sisters with their wands. The white-haired dwarf in his polar bear-fur armor, and even the maimed half-golem, still fighting despite the loss of an arm and the near-destruction of his leg.

It was the nightmare moment Sammaster could never escape. All he wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to fulfill his destiny and create a better world. Yet time and again, a host of

jealous, spiteful wretches rose up against him, to tear down whatever he tried to build. To defeat and humiliate him. To do like rats in a pack what. none of them had the honor, courage, or prowess to attempt alone.

But not this time. Not if Azuth, Mystra, and all her Chosen took the field against him. This time, by the blood of every wyrm who’d ever flown, he was going to win, and in the process, annihilate Tamarand, Nexus, and all their lackeys for good and all.

He started a spell and pulled a jade circlet from a pocket inside his mantle. The song dragon hastily sang a pounding musical incantation, and flame exploded all around him. The blaze stung a little, but not enough to disrupt his own conjuring. He placed the crown on his head, and power jolted through him.

He willed himself to transform, and though he remained a thing of dead, shriveled flesh and exposed bone, everything else changed. His form expanded, fingers becoming claws, face pushing forward into reptilian jaws. Tattered, rotting wings exploded from his shoulders, and a tail writhed forth from the base of his spine.

In an instant, he was a dracolich. A dream of an undead ancient red given substance. The biggest and mightiest thing on the battlefield, his physical strength as dreadful a force as his wizardry.

Azhaq dived at him, and he spat a plume of flame. The shield dragon veered, but even a graze seared burns across half his body.

Sammaster laughed, and, relishing the snarling thunder his voice had become, commenced another charm.

Pavel watched as Scattercloak murmured a spell and brandished a bit of quartz. ice spread over and through the shivering rubble at the top of the pit, binding it in place as mortar held bricks.

“That might slow the golems down,” the wizard said, his tenor voice emotionless as ever. “Now, I suggest that Sureene or Drigor attempt the counterspell. Perhaps the divine magic version will work where the arcane failed.”

“I’ll do it.,” said Selűne’s priestess. Gazing upward as if she could see the moon through the ceiling, sweeping her mace with its crescent-shaped flanges through mystic passes, she recited the prayer. Meanwhile, the layer of ice crunched and cracked. Celedon and Firefingers murmured charms. No doubt they, too, were trying to hold the living statues down.

At the end of Sureene’s recitation, Pavel conjured a glow of dawnlight, hoping it would help. It didn’t. The flares of power kept right on leaping and twisting from their points of origin to the floating amulet.

“That’s no good, either,” said Sureene. “I’m sorry.”

“If we can’t. do this,” said Darvin, his voice shrill, “we need to clear out before the golems free themselves. Because we can’t cope with them, either!”

Ignoring the mage’s outburst, Will looked up at Pavel. “What was that useless bit of stupidity you tried?”

“From the start,” said Pavel, “we’ve known Sammaster must have modified the enchantment generating the Rage. Because, in times past, it drew its power from the stars, and only woke when the King-Killer appeared in the sky. By the same token, being a creation of elven high magic, it would only obey the will of one of the tel’Quessir.”

“l believe I understand,” said Taegan. “Since the lich had to alter the mythal, the key you scholars devised doesn’t fit the lock anymore.”

“But why did you think a flash of sunlight would help?” Jivex asked.

“Because I think I comprehend what Sammaster did,” Pavel said. “He’s pulling mystical force directly from the Abyss, or possibly one of the Hells, to power the enchantment, and focusing it through his own phylactery. That was the only way he could gain control of the magic: by fusing it with

his own essence. Thus, I hoped Lathander’s power, which is anathema to the undead, would weaken the metaphysical structure of the magic sufficiently for our countercharm to break it apart. Because I refuse to believe our researches missed the mark entirely. Our invention just isn’t as perfect as it needs to be.”

“Yes,” said Darvin, “and your little trick didn’t tip the scales. So—”

“Please, my friend,” said Firefingers, “you’ve fought like a hero so far. Stand fast just a few breaths longer while I attempt something else.” He murmured a charm, and a floating, luminous disembodied hand shimmered into existence beside the phylactery. It tried repeatedly to take hold of the black amulet and pull it away from the center of the pentagram, but the thing kept slipping from its grasp. Then one of the seething streamers of hellfire washed over it and it crumbled from existence.