The dragon’s head swung toward him—then immediately away, and Nu Alin could almost believe he had felt his presence touch him. A message seemed to shiver through his being, much like the visions Albric had once received from the Elemental Eye. Stay your hand.
Nu Alin forced Eklabet’s grip to slip from her swords. None of the other drow seemed to notice. “He saw us,” muttered Larcees.
“If he saw us, we’d be dead,” said Quarhaun. “What’s wrong with him? I’ve never heard of a dragon that looked like that.”
“He’s sick,” said Ivriashalal. “All the more reason to put him down.” She pointed at a bulging leather sack around which the dragon paced as if it contained his entire hoard. “The skulls?” she asked Diue.
The warrior nodded. “I saw him toying with them on one of my scouting trips.”
Larcees’s eyes fixed on the sack. He rubbed his palms on his robes. “Are the others in position?”
Diue rubbed a hand over a bracer on her right forearm. Nu Alin saw a flicker of sparks, dimmer than fireflies, where her fingers passed, then she nodded. Ivriashalal’s eyes narrowed. She nodded in turn to Larcees, who stretched out his hand, curled his fingers into an arcane gesture, and spoke a low, hissing word.
The dragon roared in fury as ghostly light flashed around him, coalescing into webs with strands thick as rope. Phantom spiders skittered through the webs and swarmed over the dragon. At the same moment, bands of other drow dashed from their hiding places around the courtyard. Swords and white eyes flashed in the moonlight.
“Now!” said Larcees. “The skulls!” He led the dash from their own hiding place toward the waiting leather sack. The others followed him and Nu Alin followed them. A sense of amusement at their earnestness flittered through him, but he held his tongue just as he had stayed his hand.
They were about ten paces out into the courtyard when the dragon’s fury faded into sudden silence.
Tiktag scrambled into a hidden niche in a hollow wall just in time to see the drow’s spectral webs snare Vestapalk. For a brief moment, Tiktag dared to hope the dark elves might actually succeed in putting an end to the dragon’s schemes. As Vestapalk thrashed against the webs, drow burst from hiding around the courtyard with their swords at the ready.
Then Vestapalk’s roaring ceased and Tiktag knew hope had been a fantasy.
The drow didn’t even have a chance to halt their charge. Vestapalk spun to face the nearest band of drow, and the thick strands that had seemingly held him in place tore like dusty cobwebs. His chest expanded as he inhaled, his head snapped forward, and he unleashed his deadly breath upon the dark elves.
Tiktag had seen his master attack enemies with his breath many times, choking them with a cloud of poisonous gas. What spewed from Vestapalk’s throat and mouth, however, startled the kobold at least as much as it did the drow.
Instead of roiling green-yellow gas, fine red mist sprayed out, flashing and glittering in the moonlight. Some of the drow fell back, some of them leaped ahead, as they tried to escape the cloud. It was already too late, though. The first drow to go down dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat. The second one simply collapsed, twitching and shuddering. One by one, all of the drow caught by the cloud fell to the ground before they’d taken five steps more toward Vestapalk.
Vestapalk didn’t even pause. He leaped into the midst of the next band of drow, hurling them aside with raking sweeps of his claws. An instant later, he swung to another band and breathed out a second spray of the Voidharrow. The drow tried to scatter but most weren’t quick enough and more went down.
Some among the first group to suffer Vestapalk’s breath were shambling and stumbling back to their feet. Other drow called out to them—until they saw what Tiktag, from his hidden perch, had already seen. The drow’s white eyes were already turning crystal red. Hideous plague blisters were already swelling on their skin. The Voidharrow had them. Tiktag shuddered and bit down on his tongue.
Closest to him, the band of drow that included the caster who had attempted to snare Vestapalk broke down in a frightened scramble of waving arms and incomprehensible Elven shouts. It looked almost as if they might come to blows, then the group split apart. The spellcaster ran, like a lone madman, for the sack of golden skulls; all of the others turned and sprinted back for the edge of the courtyard. A female in ornate armor barked something at one of the others, who pulled a bolt from her belt as she ran, dropped it into a small crossbow, then loosed it into the air.
It rose with a piercing shriek in some kind of signal. Instantly, any drow still stupidly trying to make a stand against Vestapalk turned and fled.
The dragon himself whirled to look for the source of the sound. Tiktag saw his eyes, almost seeming to glow from within, dart between the larger group of fleeing drow and the lone drow running for the skulls. Those glowing eyes narrowed and Vestapalk lunged across the courtyard to snatch the spellcaster up in his jaws. He shook him once, then hurled his body across the courtyard at the fleeing group.
The savaged corpse splattered across the stones in front of them. The entire group swerved like a flock of startled birds to race right at Tiktag’s hiding spot. Out in the courtyard, Vestapalk gathered himself, preparing to pounce.
His pursuit of the drow wasn’t over, Tiktag realized. And it would take the dragon right through his hidden perch. Terror broke over the kobold, and he flung himself out of his hiding place, fleeing along with the drow. He didn’t even try to glance back as stone crashed and crumbled behind him, and Vestapalk let loose another furious roar.
The spiders fell to Raid’s power as surely as any other beast he had encountered. He turned them against the drow, sending them crawling through the ruins of the temple to hunt the dark elves wherever they tried to hide. Where the drow tried to make a stand, Raid fought them himself. Slim swords were no match for his axes. The heavy blades carved dark drow flesh, and drow screams were sweet in his ears. Raid snarled his rage at these creatures that would dare to challenge Vestapalk—that would dare to challenge him!
He was so lost in the battle that at first he barely even registered Vestapalk’s own roars of fury, but they finally roused something inside him. Raid let his axes fall and looked around. If he was fighting their drow attackers, who was attacking his master? And where were all the drow that had drawn the attention of Vestapalk’s warriors?
A diversion. They’d been tricked.
“To Vestapalk!” he shouted at the nearest brutes. They turned to follow him through the ruins and any others they passed fell in behind, the command passing through their ranks in some mysterious silent communication.
It didn’t seem Vestapalk needed their aid, however. The dragon roared again, a roar this time accompanied by the furious crashing of stone. Dust from ruins that stood for centuries rose into the air as Vestapalk plunged through them. He was chasing something, Raid realized, and grinned in anticipation. The hunt was a strategy he knew well, and while he might prefer to hunt alone, he knew how to hunt in a pack. He led the soldiers in the direction of Vestapalk’s pursuit, ready to cut off the dragon’s prey.
They came together across the pit where Vestapalk had been keeping his prisoners.
Raid reached the pit first. Down in the shadows, the prisoners huddled, too terrified to escape, even if they hadn’t been bound. Just moments later, there was movement in the ruins on the other side as a handful of drow emerged—along with Tiktag, his eyes wide in a frenzy of panic.
Why the kobold should have been anywhere near the drow left Raid confused. The drow seemed as surprised to see him as they did Raid and the brutes. One of their number didn’t hesitate, however. Putting her companions—a female in the armor of a priest of Lolth, another warrior with two swords on her hips, and a male wielding a jagged black greatsword—behind her, a lithe drow warrior turned before the pit and raced around its edge.
The sight of the greatsword, a warlock’s blade, drew up a memory in Raid. These were the very drow he’d seen below
the temple. With a hiss and a gesture, Raid sent brutes around the ends of the pit to box the drow in, but the running warrior was faster than them. She disappeared into the shadows before they could reach her. The others weren’t so lucky. The brutes cut them off. The priest stared after the escaped warrior and screamed a word, maybe a name. “Diue!”
Scarce moments later, Vestapalk burst out of the ruins. Dust and chips of stone clung to his flanks; behind him, a trail of fresh destruction marked the path back to the courtyard. His eyes were shining and his teeth were bared in a snarl that put fear even into Raid. He came to a stop just paces from the edge of the pit and loomed over those he had been chasing.
Tiktag gave a squeak of despair and threw himself on the ground at Vestapalk’s feet. “Master, let me go! I was caught between you and them. This is—”
He didn’t get a chance to complete his plea. Raid saw the priest glance from kobold to dragon.
Then she stepped forward and grabbed Tiktag by the back of his neck and put a knife to his scaly throat. “He serves you?” she spat up Vestapalk. “Let us go or he dies!”
Vestapalk blinked. His snarl faded … into a grin. “Do you take Vestapalk for a human, drow?” he asked. “Threaten him. Kill him if you wish. It gains you nothing.” He took a lazy step forward.
Raid watched realization of her own error come over the priest’s face. If she as a drow cared so little about a mere kobold, why should a dragon care anymore? She didn’t release Tiktag, but her black face turned ash gray as she turned, looking for another way out.
She should have looked to the warlock with her. As she panicked and the second warrior stood apparently frozen with fear, Raid watched him turn to consider opportunities to escape. His eyes fell on the pit.
Try it, Raid urged him silently. Jump in and be trapped.
Then he saw what the drow had. The brutes that had gone around the end of the pit in an attempt to stop the fleeing warrior had left the steep ramp clear. The three drow could drop into the pit and come running out behind the brutes’ lines if they were lucky and fast. Raid cursed and leaped for the end of the pit.
The warlock was quicker—and apparently believed in making his own luck. Before Raid took two paces, the drow pointed his greatsword at the priest and called out a harsh invocation.
Brilliant white fire seemed to condense out of the air, dripping and running over her body like candle wax. The priest screamed in shocked agony—turning Tiktag loose as she convulsed—and even though the warlock had thrown the spell, all eyes went to the living torch that was the burning priest. Even Raid found himself stumbling, distracted by the screams and the simple act of treachery. One drow would have a better chance of flight than three. In the moment of chaos, the warlock turned and jumped for the pit.
A hand grabbed him in midair and whirled him around, slamming him into the ground with bone crunching force and sending his black blade spinning away. The second drow warrior drew a shortsword, knelt on his chest, and held the blade above his head.
Not even drow moved that fast. Raid felt a strange sensation, a sort of unexpected familiarity. The drow was far more than she seemed—and indeed when she looked up at Vestapalk, thin veins of red crystal shone around the corners of her eyes. The words that came out of her mouth sounded strained, as someone or something else spoke through her mouth. “Nu Alin greets you, Master of the Voidharrow.”
Vestapalk looked down on her, then his jaws curved into an amused smile of recognition. “Our meeting has been slow in coming, my Herald.”
The drow inclined her head. “The inevitable can be delayed, but not prevented, Master.” The shortsword slipped down a little farther. “How would you like this one killed?”
Vestapalk’s head dipped down to inspect her wheezing captive. His eyes narrowed. “I would not,” he said. His voice rose. “Raid! Take this one prisoner. He struck well. I judge him to be exceptional.”
Raid shouted acknowledgment across the pit, but Vestapalk’s attention had already moved on to Tiktag, cowering in the dirt. “Wyrmpriest,” the dragon rumbled, “I know you had nothing to do with this. You warned me about the drow”—Tiktag sagged visibly with relief—“and you will be rewarded. This time I will not listen to your excuses. You will be blessed.”
The kobold twisted bolt upright. “Master, no. I don’t—”
Vestapalk’s eyes narrowed. “I do not offer my talons a choice when I use them.”
Tiktag shuddered—and to Raid’s surprise, suddenly jumped to his feet and ran for the shadows. Vestapalk hissed slightly. One of the soldiers lunged and grabbed the wyrmpriest, easily lifting him off the ground. Tiktag wailed once in fear, then relaxed in wracking, terrified sobs. Vestapalk turned away from him to inspect the drow priest.
The liquid fire had guttered out, leaving Lolth’s servant charred and twitching on the ground. She managed to lift her head and look up at Vestapalk. The dragon’s expression tightened.
“You attacked Vestapalk,” he said, “but only because you follow commands, nothing more. You were a pawn for another and that is the most exceptional thing about you. Carry a message to your spider god for Vestapalk: Tell her what you saw and how you fared. Tell her to be afraid.”
The priest cried out and tried to struggle away, but Vestapalk put one forefoot on her head and shifted his weight.
Her skull made a wet crack as the dragon crushed it. The sound was almost lost, though, in the cry of anguish from the shadows where the first drow warrior had disappeared. “Ivri!”
Raid’s head snapped up and he gestured for the nearest brutes. “Find her!”
“No,” said Vestapalk. He lifted his foot and scraped the mess of the drow priest’s life from the bottom of it. “She is gone. They are all gone.”
Raid felt a flush of anger at having his order contradicted. “They could be back.”
“Yes,” Vestapalk agreed, “they could.” The dragon walked to the edge of the pit and, leaning over the drow he called his herald, looked down at his frightened prisoners. “Vestapalk has lingered here long enough. These few will do after all. If they do not survive, you will gather more elsewhere.” He glanced up at Raid. “Prepare them. Vestapalk will have his exarchs.”
The flush of anger became a burn. “But what about Shara, Uldane, the priest—they have defied us!”
“Vestapalk will not delay triumph for revenge,” the dragon growled. “Not again.” He glared at Raid. “Prepare those who will be my exarchs. Their time comes at dawn.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Albanon heard everything. Not all of it made sense. Most of it terrified him. There were screams and noises that his imagination turned into horrible things—which in reality were perhaps just as horrible as he imagined them. When he’d heard Nu Alin greet his master, he almost vomited inside his hood. Nu Alin. Moorin’s murderer. Here.
And perhaps the worst thing was that Tiktag had been captured, too. Unless Kri, Shara, and Uldane intended to perform some incredible, fantastic, last-minute rescue, they were never going to find out what he’d learned. An eternity seemed to pass in darkness with nothing but the sounds of demons and the other prisoners moving around him, until eventually he could make out the lightening of the sky through his hood.
Dawn came. Rescue didn’t.
But his captors did. Albanon heard the heavy, shuffling tread of their feet as they entered the pit and began taking the other prisoners away. Some prisoners struggled. He heard snarls of Goblin and curses in Dwarven. The ogre put up a fight. Its bellows and howls set off a flurry of responses from the remaining prisoners.
The demons—brutes, soldiers, warriors in Vestapalk’s horde, whatever Tiktag had called them—answered with growls and the thump of fists against flesh. The ogre’s bellows turned into cries of pain. The other prisoners fell silent, but the rain of blows continued, a savage beating that might not have stopped at all if not for a shout from above.
“Don’t kill them!” snapped Raid’s voice. “Vestapalk needs them
alive. Just get them up here.”
The beating ceased, replaced by groans and scraping as the ogre was dragged away. Another prisoner started to sob. They were the next taken. Albanon leaned back against the wall of the pit, fear knotting in his stomach. When the brutes came for him, would he fight or weep? He tried to summon up the fiery defiance that had swelled in him after the ambush on the road.
It remained just out of reach. Hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes blinded by the hood, he knew no magic that would help him.
The eladrin clenched his jaw, biting into the gag. Would Moorin have let such a thing stop him? He’d died fighting Nu Alin. Would Kri? He’d been willing to sacrifice himself to Raid to give Albanon and the others a chance to escape the demon’s ambush.
If the wizard he had called his master and the cleric he’d come to see as his mentor could give so much, so could he. He might never have the chance to take the oath of the Order of Vigilance, but at least he could conduct himself as if he had. He might not have his magic, but he still had his body and his wits. Kri—and Moorin—would be proud of him in the end.
Big hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet. Heavy claws sank into his flesh. Albanon forced himself to breathe, to accept the demon’s grasp as it shoved him across the pit. An idea formed in his mind. The ogre’s mistake had been in lashing out. Down in the pit, it had been surrounded. But if it had waited until the brutes had led it out of the pit.…
His feet found the steep angle of the ramp. Albanon took a deep breath and started to climb. How long was the ramp? He tried to guess when they were a third of the way up. Half the way up.
Three-quarters of the way.
Albanon lurched forward, tearing himself out of the brute’s grasp and at the same time kicking back at where he hoped the creature’s legs were. Incredibly, he connected. His boot crunched into something that felt like a shin. The thing gave a yelping snarl as it hopped back—a snarl that turned into a full, frustrated yelp as it fell on the steep ramp, pulled backward by the weight of the crystal armor across its shoulders. Albanon didn’t hesitate for a moment. He raced up the ramp, yanking at the hood with his bound hands. If he could just get it off, he’d at least be able to—
The Temple of Yellow Skulls Page 28
