by James Wyatt
The first time he’d seen it, it had made him think of Dania, made him wonder if Gaven had dreamed of her one tortured night in Dreadhold. Had Gaven seen Dania exorcise the spirit from Maija’s body, trapping it in her own? She had bound the servant, the lesser evil, before it could carry out its plan to free its master, a still greater evil bound in the depths of the earth.
Could Dania’s death have fulfilled some part of the Prophecy? Did it have some greater purpose, something that would give meaning to her sacrifice?
Could life grow from her death?
The night passed without another attack, and by dawn’s light Vor announced that they should clear the Labyrinth by the end of the day. That lifted Sevren and Zandar’s spirits even higher, but Kauth could think only of the far greater danger that lay on the other side.
Sunlight barely penetrated the clouds that day, and they walked in a strange twilight world of dim red light and greenish shadows. When the day had worn on to what Kauth guessed was its middle, the earth suddenly erupted a few yards ahead of them, cutting off Zandar’s laughter. Kauth thought at first that a flow of mud had burbled up from the depths, accompanied by a sound that was not so much liquid as metallic, almost like coins in a pile shifting around each other. The oozing stuff began to pile on itself in a mound, then a slender pillar, and he realized that the flow was composed of brownish black beetles, each one about the size of a gold galifar, massing together into a figure the size of a human.
When only a few beetles still skittered over the ground, the sound grew to a shrill droning as all the ones in the pile lifted their wing casings, becoming a shimmering blur of color. Then silence, and what stood before them was no longer a swarm of insects, but a beautiful woman with the slender grace and elegance of a fey queen or a noble elf of Aerenal. Her eyes were pearly orbs of silver staring wide, her hair was a wild tangle, and she wore a crooked smile that reminded Kauth of Zandar’s. The long hem of her tattered velvet gown dissolved into beetles as it swept the ground. She spread her arms wide as though beckoning Vor into her embrace. “You,” the orc murmured.
Sevren threw a sharp glance at Vor. “What’s going on?” he said.
A blast of Zandar’s dark fire shot over Kauth’s shoulder, between Sevren and Vor, and splashed against the smiling woman. Kauth saw beetles fall from her gown and lie still on the ground, but the woman’s smile didn’t falter.
“It’s charmed him,” Zandar said. “Take it down.”
“You didn’t escape,” Vor said, his voice choked with grief. He dropped his sword on the ground, pulled himself free as Sevren tried to grab at him, and stumbled toward the beetle-woman.
Zandar blasted her again, and Kauth felt in his pouch for the cherry wand, the one tipped with a fire opal. He drew it out and pointed it at a spot a few yards past where the woman stood. When he loosed the knot of magic in the wand, fire blossomed out from his target point and swallowed the strange figure. More beetles dropped off her and, for an instant, her fair face vanished and she was just a column of beetles again. Then the beetles shimmered and droned, and her lovely face returned. Her smile was gone, but she didn’t take her gaze from Vor.
“Your child,” the orc murmured. “What happened to your child?” He was just a few steps from her now, and she stepped forward to meet him, to take him in her arms.
Sevren sprang forward to intercept her, slashing his knives through her belly. A few beetles fell from her body, this time with a splash of green-black blood and an angry chittering sound, and she turned her eyes on him with fury. She swung her arm in what would have been a backhanded slap—unhindered by another slash from Sevren’s knife, which seemed to pass right through her arm—but her hand dissolved into crawling vermin as it connected with his face. Sevren cried out in pain and shock and he clawed at his face.
Kauth’s stomach turned as he saw the beetles burrowing into the skin of the shifter’s face and neck. At the same moment, Zandar shouted and Kauth wheeled to see the warlock stumbling away from a new threat—a towering hulk of a monster, clutching a curved sword in both hands. But for its purple skin, it might have been an ogre or a degenerate giant, something twisted by the evil of the Demon Wastes. A pair of gleaming white horns emerged above its hideous face, which was twisted in a mocking grin as it advanced upon Zandar.
Indecision paralyzed Kauth. The battle seemed to be playing out beyond the grasp of his understanding, and it overwhelmed him as he glanced between the giant demon on one hand and the beetle-woman on the other. Shaking himself, he returned the wand to his pouch, drew out his mace, and ran to help Zandar, entrusting Vor to Sevren’s able care.
The giant’s smile broadened as Kauth approached. It stepped to one side, putting Zandar between itself and Kauth’s approach, then pointed a claw-tipped finger at them. Lightning sprang from its hand and flew in a mighty bolt through the warlock’s body and just past Kauth. Zandar dropped to the ground, stirring a grumbling laugh from the giant. Kauth continued his headlong charge, but just as he reached the spot where Zandar lay, his foe vanished.
Cursing, Kauth drew up short and closed his eyes, straining to hear the monster’s footfalls. Zandar scrambled to his feet beside him, crunching the gravelly earth but holding in his breath. A few yards away, Sevren was growling his pain, and Kauth could hear the whistle of his blades slicing the air, and the quiet chittering of the beetles. But no sound from the demon-thing.
“Eleni, what happened to the child?” Vor’s voice was pleading, pained. “Where is my child?”
Kauth’s eyes shot open and he whirled around to look at the orc. The child had been his—he let the woman go because she bore his child! And now he thought this apparition of beetles was her, and he walked willingly into her embrace.
“No!” Sevren and Kauth screamed together. Sevren, closer to Vor, sprang at the orc and knocked him to the ground. Too late—beetles swarmed to cover them both, wriggling between the plates of Vor’s armor and beneath Sevren’s chain mail shirt, burrowing into the flesh of both men.
Kauth fumbled in his pouch for a wand that would help, unsure how to attack a foe that was burrowing inside his friends. Zandar ran past him and started blasting the ground with black fire, incinerating the beetles that still crawled free. Kauth shuffled forward, painfully aware of the beetles all too near his feet but deciding that the best way he could combat this creature was to make sure Sevren and Vor stayed alive.
At that moment, the demon-giant’s sword appeared out of empty air and slammed into his stomach. His armor, reinforced with magic, deflected the edge of the blade, but the force of the blow alone was enough to send him stumbling backward, fighting to breathe. The giant stood before him, visible once again, peering at the blade of its sword as if unsure how it had failed to kill him.
The creature’s brow furrowed, and it dropped the sword on the ground. Spreading its fingers wide before it, it blasted a wave of freezing air, engulfing Kauth and his three companions. First pain, then a deadly numbness washed over Kauth. He drew a shuddering breath, and the frigid air seared his lungs. He fell to his knees, clutching at his chest and teetering at the edge of despair. The giant grinned, stooped to retrieve its sword, and lifted the blade over its head for a killing blow.
Kauth could do nothing as the blade descended—the cold had stiffened his limbs, and darkness was trying to claim his vision. He had failed. They would never get through the Labyrinth, never goad the warlord into attacking eastward. On the other hand, he had succeeded in getting himself killed, which was certainly part of Kelas’s plan.
Then a flare of silver light drove away the darkness, and he saw Vor standing over him, sparks flying from his sword as the giant’s blade scraped along it. Vor moved like a whirlwind of fire, cutting at his monstrous foe with every step, deflecting every blow. Kauth thought he glowed with silver light, much as Durrnak’s blade had burned with holy flame.
With numb fingers, Kauth fumbled for the wand that had fallen from his hand, then loosed its healing magic t
o flow through him. Warmth spread over him and through him, soothing away the cold and the pain. Confident that Vor had the giant’s full attention for the moment, he turned to check on Sevren.
To his relief, he saw the shifter getting shakily to his feet. Lifeless beetles, dusted with frost from the giant’s wintry blast, littered the ground.
That must explain Vor’s recovery, he thought. And Sevren—
Sevren had not recovered. Kauth could see beetles still lodged beneath the skin of the shifter’s face and hands, and he moved with what seemed to be enormous effort. He slowly bent to retrieve one of his knives, and just as slowly straightened.
“Sevren?” Kauth said. “Do you need help?” Something was terribly wrong with the shifter, as though the beetles under his skin, rather than his own mind, were in control of his body.
Sevren shuffled forward until he was next to Kauth, then suddenly slashed at him with the knife. Fortunately, whatever was slowing the shifter’s feet interfered with his attack, and Kauth dodged it easily.
“What in the—” Kauth said, but another swing cut him off. “Sevren!”
“Heal him!” Zandar shouted from somewhere behind him. “Your wand!”
Kauth glanced down at the wand in his hand. “I have to touch him first,” he muttered. Trying to imagine it as a dagger, he dodged another swipe of Sevren’s knife and lunged, trying to time the wand’s discharge for the instant it touched the shifter.
But it didn’t touch the shifter. Sevren jerked to the side just in time, then plunged his knife into Kauth’s stomach. The taste of blood filled his mouth, complementing the bitter taste of defeat.
CHAPTER
18
Which side are we on?” Rienne asked, turning to look at the dragonborn crashing through the forest toward them.
“Neither,” Gaven said. “Let’s get out of here.” He retrieved his sword from the ground and started in the direction they had been running, but the dragonborn woman moved to block his path.
The initial volley of arrows had little effect—the dragonborn had attacked in haste, surprised by the sudden appearance of one group of enemies while they were in the midst of interrogating another. Most of the woodland dragonborn, as Gaven imagined them, had dropped their bows and drawn huge-bladed swords, charging their new enemies, the farmers. A few hung back and loosed well-aimed arrows into the fray. But the leader’s attention hadn’t shifted away from Gaven.
“You still haven’t told me where you’re going,” she said, “though you seem in a great hurry to get there.”
“I do not”—Gaven suddenly grasped how to form a contraction in their language—“I don’t know our destination. We came to learn more about the Prophecy, about the Time Between, but I don’t know anything about this land or your people. We are not so much travelers as explorers.”
The dragonborn seemed to consider this carefully, while letting her eyes rove across their faces, clothing, and weapons. She seemed oblivious to the battle raging around her.
“We will call you pilgrims, then, and place you under the protection of the city of Rav Magar. But if you accept our protection, you must fight in our defense.”
That struck Gaven as odd, but he was willing to accept it. He turned to Rienne.
“She says she’ll accept us as pilgrims and protect us, but we need to help them fight these other ones.”
“I suppose that answers my original question.”
“Right. At least these ones were willing to talk to us.” He looked back at the dragonborn, who had listened intently to their conversation but showed no sign that she understood. “We accept your protection and offer our swords to your defense,” he said, aware that he’d lapsed back into more formal dragon-speech.
“The left flank could use our aid,” the dragonborn leader said. Gripping her axe and shield more tightly, she strode to where one of her soldiers was struggling to beat back the long hafts and biting blades of two of the farmers. The leader opened her mouth and released a blast of lightning that shot through the two enemies, leaving them scorched and dazed but still standing.
So the resemblance to dragons is more than superficial, Gaven thought.
Gaven spoke a spell to shield himself in cold fire and charged after the dragonborn leader, charging the nearest dragonborn farmer. He knocked his foe’s halberd aside with a swing of his sword, then brought his blade back around in a deadly cut. Rienne whirled into motion beside him, Maelstrom dancing easily between the farmers’ long polearms.
The skirmish was over quickly, before Gaven reached his stride. The woodland dragonborn outnumbered their opponents and seemed to outmatch them in skill as well—not surprising, Gaven supposed, considering that the farmers were laborers who left their fields to pursue Gaven and Rienne through the woods. A few of the farmers ran off into the woods, but fleet-footed woodland dragonborn pursued them.
“Thank you for your help,” the dragonborn leader said. She pressed her fists together in front of her chest and bowed slightly to Gaven and Rienne.
Gaven returned the bow. “Thank you for not turning your wrath on us.”
“I’m Lissann Orak,” she said, “first captain of the Magar scouts. Or Lissa.”
“I am Gaven. My companion”—he tripped over that word, unsure of which nuance of meaning to put on that word, finally deciding on the most neutral—“is Rienne ir’Alastra.” Hearing her name in the midst of Gaven’s Draconic babble, Rienne gave a small bow.
“As pilgrims you are under the protection of Rav Magar, and we are obligated to see you safely there. But we must go a little farther before we can return to our city. Will you accept a delay in our escort?”
“You’re asking us? Your people must hold pilgrims in high regard.” Gaven wasn’t positive he had grasped the right meaning of the word, hathandra. “Those who travel” was the simplest translation, but the word carried a definite connotation of a sacred purpose, of being on pilgrimage.
“Our cities are constantly at war, but pilgrims must travel safely,” Lissa said.
“So your city is at war with the one back there on the river?”
Lissa nodded. “Rav Dolorr. We’ve fought them for generations.”
Gaven wondered how long a generation was for these draconic people—were they as long-lived as dragons? “How far away is Rav Magar?”
“Twelve days’ march.”
“Twelve days!”
“For a marching army, yes. Eight for us, if you can keep up with us.”
“So that explains why farm laborers had weapons close at hand, so ready to give chase,” Gaven said. “Ah. They were chasing you.”
“They saw us at the edge of the forest. They must have assumed we were scouts from your city.”
“That is unfortunate,” Lissa said. “That means Rav Dolorr is already alerted.”
“Yes. When they spotted us, one ran into the city when the rest pursued us.”
“That’s important news. I have to consult with my takarra.”
Consult her wings? Gaven wondered. Then he saw Lissa call two other dragonborn to stand beside her—one on either side—and speak with them. Her “wings,” then, were something like lieutenants or advisors. The ones who keep her aloft, he thought.
Gaven looked around. He’d been so intent on the conversation with Lissa that he’d all but forgotten about the other dragonborn, who were tending to their wounded and the scout who had fallen. And about Rienne, standing still but expectant beside him. She arched an eyebrow at him.
“They’re scouts from another city,” he explained, “at war with the one we saw first. We might have ruined their mission when those farmers spotted us.”
“What’s the destination of our pilgrimage?” Rienne asked.
“I don’t know. Didn’t think to ask. I know they’re planning to escort us back to their city, Rav Magar. I have no idea what there is to see there.”
“What did you tell them of our purpose?”
“I don’t know,” he said, anno
yed. “I kept us alive, didn’t I?”
“So far. I hope we’re as lucky in a city full of these people.”
Lissa and her takarra decided to head back to Rav Magar, their mission a failure. Drawing near to Rav Dolorr would invite disaster—the city was alerted, and the first group of dragonborn to chase the intruders wouldn’t return. Before long, the forest would be crawling with soldiers from Dolorr, better armed, better trained, and in greater numbers than the laborers they’d defeated so easily.
They sped through the forest for the rest of the afternoon, across ground that rose steadily toward the feet of the mountains. Traveling with the dragonborn confirmed the impression Gaven had gleaned from the fields they’d passed—these people ate bread and drank wine, as well as dried meats Gaven couldn’t identify and exotic fruits they gathered as they walked. They shared their food with Gaven and Rienne, a welcome respite from their diet of dry journeybread. They stopped traveling when the sky fell dark, set up camp and told stories around their fire, then slept until dawn. Camping under the trees and relieved of the responsibility for keeping watch, Gaven fell quickly into the deepest sleep he’d had since their arrival in Argonnessen.
As much as their eating and sleeping habits seemed familiar, the way the dragonborn interacted with each other was totally foreign to Gaven. It was Rienne, despite her ignorance of Draconic, who observed that their behaviors seemed to be based on relative social status. Lissa was the dominant member of the band, clearly, and each other member made varying gestures Rienne interpreted as marks of submission each time they approached her. There was a clear second tier, the ones Lissa had identified as her takarra, who made submissive gestures to Lissa but received them from the others. Once Rienne pointed these out, he could make sense of what were essentially military ranks. She seemed to perceive nuances even in the lower ranks that were beyond him, though. Rienne surmised that they were related more to family status than individual status—and, of course, being a member of Aundair’s nobility, she would be sensitive to that sort of thing. Gaven never had any patience for it.
