The Ruin

by Richard Lee Byers

  “Produce him,” said the Icy Claw.

  “I’m telling you, it would be pointless for you to take him. He … he can’t even answer questions. He’s fallen ill.”

  The devil cocked its head. “Because you drugged him, too? Why do that if he’s one of you? Why do it, then try to hide him from us?”

  Because Raryn never would have allowed me to poison and surrender his comrades, Wurik thought. “Clearly, we wouldn’t. It wouldn’t make any sense. The guide is sick, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps Iyraclea will see fit to cure him,” said the Icy Claw. Some of the frost giants smirked at what they evidently took to be a joke. “We’ll find out. Produce him.”

  “I promise,” said Wurik, “to keep him here. If the Ice Queen wants him after she’s questioned the others, you can take him then. But for now, please—”

  The devil dropped the point of its long spear and jabbed. Wurik tried to jump aside, but was too slow. The weapon punched into his chest.

  At first he felt no actual pain, just a sort of overwhelming shock. But tearing agony came when the Icy Claw lifted him into the air like a hunk of meat on a skewer. The devil raised him high enough to look him straight in the face.

  “Slaves,” the creature rasped, “should do as they’re told, without arguing. Perhaps your example will help the others learn.”

  Joylin lunged forward, her fists balled. Wurik felt a pang of terror on his behalf, then gratitude when another dwarf grabbed her and pulled her back before any of the Ice Queen’s minions noticed her defiance.

  Wurik’s pain faded to numbness, and his thoughts grew muddled. Sensation, awareness, and life itself flowed out of him with the red blood staining and dripping from the ivory shaft of the spear.

  17 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Using her harpoon as a walking staff, Joylin limped across the ice. With her ankle still hurting, it would have been easier to move about on the back of a sled, but she’d doubted she could hitch up a team without somebody noticing and sending her back to bed. All the grownups were making a special effort to comfort her, attend to her needs, and supervise her as they deemed necessary.

  Sometimes she hated them for it. What was the use of all their fussing, except to get in her way? Why hadn’t they shown all this concern when it might have done some good? Why hadn’t they risen up and attacked the Icy Claw before it speared her father? Better still, why hadn’t they refused to surrender to the Ice Queen and do her shameful bidding in the first place?

  The problem with such condemnation was that in large measure, it applied to her father, too. He was the leader who’d decided they must capitulate, just as he was the one most responsible for the treachery at the feast. Joylin, who loved and missed him with her whole heart, didn’t know how to be so angry at him at the same time. It often felt like the contradictory emotions were tearing her apart.

  But when she busied herself with the task she’d been given, things didn’t hurt quite as badly. So she sneaked away from the village every night, to scan the starry sky and gleaming, moonlit ice, and listen for whatever other noises floated on the moaning of the wind.

  Despite the resulting lack of sleep, she was vigilant, and possessed her people’s ability to see in the dark. Yet when something finally happened, it still caught her by surprise.

  She sensed a surge of motion overhead, and instinctively leaped backward. A huge reptilian form plunged down in front of her, the impact jolting and cracking the ice. The creature’s scales were dark and mottled, with a jet-black ridge running down the spine. Its eyes glowed like embers, and it stank of acrid smoke. A ring of gems and pale metal gleamed at the base of its neck.

  Just before Raryn had lost consciousness, he’d croaked, “A dragon follows us … jeweled collar … tell him.”

  Of course, the drakes native to the glacier were fearsome predators. But Joylin had assumed any wyrm affiliated with her uncle would be friendly, maybe even prankish and playful like Jivex.

  But the dragon before her radiated a malignancy as terrifying as that of the Icy Claw. It had, moreover, just tried to kill her like an eagle diving to catch a hare in its claws. She screamed, knowing it was useless. Even if anyone heard, the village was too distant for help to arrive in time.

  The drake sneered, and its eyes burned brighter. Joylin had a sudden sense that she ought to look away, but found she couldn’t.

  “Drop the lance,” the reptile whispered, “and come to me.”

  Her fingers opened, and the harpoon clattered on the ice. She trudged forward.

  The dragon sat back on its hindquarters, the better to pick her up with its right forefoot. It lifted her up to its jaws, and the smoky smell grew stronger. It inhaled deeply, taking her scent.

  Joylin realized it was savoring her aroma, tantalizing itself with the promise of pleasure to come. In just another moment it would bite into her. The horror of it shattered her trance, or perhaps the wyrm released her from the spell. Either way, it came too late to matter. No matter how she thrashed and squirmed, she could no more break free of the drake’s talons than she could have picked up a mountain and carried it on her back.

  Then, however, the wyrm shifted her away from its mouth to regard her with its luminous eyes. “You have scents on you,” it said. “Karasendrieth, Jivex, Taegan Nightwind, and the sun priest—where are they?”

  Joylin took a deep breath. Even so, her voice shook. “They told me to find their dragon friend. Is that you?”

  “I’m Brimstone,” the reptile said. Seeing she didn’t recognize the name, he added, “I am their ally. I’ve been seeking them for two nights. Where are they?”

  “If you truly are their friend, put me down and promise not to hurt me. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Brimstone bared his fangs, and Joylin realized how little inclined he was to release prey, or to bargain with the likes of her. Still, after a moment, he deposited her back on the ground.

  “Assist me, and I swear to spare your life,” said the dragon. “Now speak.”

  She did her best to explain what had happened. Telling the story made her feel a fresh pang of shame at her people’s treachery, and renewed anguish at her father’s death. She blinked, trying not to cry.

  When she finished, the wyrm said, “I should have stayed with them, no matter how we grated on one another. I might have sensed your people’s intentions. In any case, I would have had no desire to eat your tainted feast, and could have protected my helpers. Curse it, anyway! Where does Iyraclea live?”

  “In a …” Joylin strained to remember the exotic word. “A castle made of ice.”

  “I haven’t noticed such a thing hereabouts.”

  “Neither have I, nor anyone in my tribe. It’s just what her servants told us. It’s not anywhere nearby.”

  “Yet your father somehow summoned the Ice Queen’s minions, and they arrived the same night?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means they travel by aid of magic. Even if I was certain of besting a gelugon—”

  “A what?”

  “An ice devil. The baatezu you call an Icy Claw of Iyraclea. Even if I knew I could defeat it, giants, and human soldiers all at the same time, I have no hope of overtaking them on the march. They’ve reached the citadel already.” He shook his enormous wedge-shaped head. “Why have I never heard of this Ice Queen? How is it that Raryn Snowstealer evidently knew nothing about her?”

  “She wasn’t always here. She came after Uncle Raryn left. Anyway, even though she’s called herself queen for a long while, it’s only this year that everybody started obeying her.”

  Brimstone’s mouth twitched into a bitter grin. “Of course it is.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Find a suitable patch of ice,” Brimstone said, “and scry. Perhaps I can determine where the fortress stands, and what’s become of the prisoners.”

  “Be careful,” Joylin said. “They say the Ice Queen can feel things happening a long way off. That�
��s part of the reason everyone follows her orders.”

  “Rest assured, child, I have my own tricks and powers.” The crimson eyes burned brighter. “Now, what am I to do with you?”

  She goggled at him. “You promised not to hurt me!”

  “It wouldn’t be the first oath I’ve broken, and your blood would be the sweetest I’ve tasted in a while. I know, I can smell it through that bandage.” He glided forward.

  It seemed that everyone practiced betrayal. Joylin felt a surge of disgust powerful enough to eclipse even her terror. She scuttled backward, snatched up her harpoon, assumed a fighting stance, and shrilled an ululating Inugaakalakurit battle cry.

  Brimstone hesitated as if astonished that she hadn’t run, frozen, or collapsed in fear. As he well might be, for she recognized that in relation to his hugeness and prodigious fangs and claws, she was like a rabbit striking combative poses in front of a bear.

  He turned away from her. “Go home,” he whispered.

  She blinked, scarcely daring to believe it. “Really?”

  “You’re too small,” Brimstone said, keeping his eyes averted. “Your blood would be tasty, but it takes more than a few drops to slake my thirst. Now flee, before I change my mind.”

  Pavel’s eyes flew open. Above him danced something he’d never before beheld, though he’d read of it. Veils of green and purple light shimmered across the night sky.

  For a second, he smiled at the miraculous sight, then recalled the ice dwarves and their poisoned feast. He bolted upright and cast about.

  The situation in which he found himself was so strange and unexpected as to seem almost unreal. Someone had removed his clothing, all but the sun amulet, and lain him on a bier atop a tower. To all appearances, both the pedestal and spire were made of carved and polished ice. Yet despite his nudity, he felt warm. He experimented by removing the pendant, and at once cold pierced him and made him gasp. A spellcaster had plainly cast an enchantment on the pendant to protect him from the chill, and he hastily replaced it.

  He moved to the parapet and looked around. The tower was only one portion of an enormous castle that had been hewn—or magically raised—from the glacier.

  He couldn’t see any way down from his perch, but a table, likewise shaped of sculpted ice, caught his eye. Atop it sat a pewter pitcher, goblet, and platter of food. The sight of the items gave him a pang in his stomach, and for a moment he feared he hadn’t yet recovered from the poison. But it wasn’t that. He was simply hungry, and thirsty too, his throat scratchy and dry.

  He walked to the table and helped himself. The pitcher proved to contain a tart white wine. The pink bloody pieces of rothé meat on the tray were raw, but tenderized and seasoned in a way that rendered them palatable even so.

  “Do you like your meal?” asked a dulcet soprano voice.

  Startled, Pavel jerked around. Before him stood a slender, fair-skinned woman, not tall, but imposing even so, by virtue of a flawless beauty and an air of utter self-assurance. She wore only a light white gown with blue embroidered borders, evidence that she too was the beneficiary of some magical protection against the cold. At her back, a round hole pierced the roof. Evidently it had opened to grant her access.

  Pavel had always had an eye for attractive women, and beholding such perfection, felt a stirring of desire despite the wholly inappropriate circumstances.

  “The food is good, thank you,” he said. “May I ask whom I have to thank for it?”

  “My name is Iyraclea,” she said, “and my palace holds many pleasures in addition to savory food. My retainers are free to enjoy them all.”

  “Why am I here?” Pavel asked.

  “To enlighten me,” Iyraclea said, sauntering closer.

  “About what?” He wondered what would happen if he grabbed her by the throat. Could he force her to take him to Will and the rest of his friends, then set them all free? No, she surely wasn’t as vulnerable as she appeared.

  Besides, the thought of laying hands on her brought another pang of irrational excitement, as if he himself didn’t truly know whether his intentions were aggressive or erotic.

  Iyraclea smiled. Pavel had encountered some brutish folk and sordid circumstances during his travels, but rarely an expression so rich with lust yet devoid of any trace of warmth. He wouldn’t have imagined a lovely woman’s face could look like that, at least not with a sane mind behind the eyes.

  It frightened him, but didn’t dampen his steadily heightening desire. He realized he was trembling.

  “You can touch me if you wish,” she said. She took his hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed his palm. Her tongue caressed his skin.

  Her mouth was cold as a corpse’s. With any other woman, it would have been repellent, but instead it seemed delightful.

  “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

  Tell her no, he thought, or shove her away. You don’t really want it. She’s casting a spell on you.

  “Yes,” he said. He took her in his arms.

  In another minute, he was fumbling at the fastenings of her gown. Over the years, he’d grown adroit at undressing women, but he needed her so fiercely it made him clumsy.

  She laughed, assisted him, and the garment fell away. She was bare underneath, her silky alabaster skin painted with gray and white sigils.

  He saw they were diamonds with snowflakes inside. Emblems of Auril, malevolent goddess of winter, ice, and cold. That too failed to extinguish his ardor.

  He guided her to the bier, or perhaps she led him. They writhed atop it, tangled together, first kissing, then caressing, and finally joined.

  Chill soaked into the core of him, but the sensation was pleasant, an aspect of the tide of passion lifting him high. The only unpleasant thing in his universe was the amulet brushing and bumping against his chest. It felt too hot, as if someone had dangled it over a flame. It almost made him want to toss it away.

  His hands and arms altered, becoming a glassy blue-white, perhaps even translucent. It reminded him of the moment when Kara began her shift from human to song dragon, and he realized he too was undergoing a transformation. It frightened him, but the fear didn’t matter. It was feeble compared to the urgency of his desire.

  Something faded and frayed inside him. At first, he didn’t know what it was. Then he realized his mystical bond with Lathander was attenuating.

  Pavel’s earliest memory was of gazing at a rose-and-gold sunrise above the steeply pitched roofs of Heliogabalus, and feeling as one with the power behind it. He’d adored his god his whole life long. Their communion anchored him and defined him. He could sacrifice his will, his very humanity, perhaps, but the thought of losing his priesthood was intolerable.

  Iyraclea kissed him, twined around him, held him tight and close in every way a woman could embrace a man, and another surge of rapture threatened to drown his newfound desperation. He silently cried to the Morninglord for aid, and likewise groped for the sun amulet. Iyraclea reached to capture his hand, but not quite quickly enough. His fingers closed on the garnets and gold plating.

  The pendant burned him like metal fresh from the forge, but denying the pain, he gripped it tightly. He sought for Lathander once again. This time, the deity’s response was unmistakable. An inner light warmed Pavel’s heart, driving out the chill.

  He was still too drunk with passion to channel that infusion of strength into the precise articulations of a spell. But he could cast it forth in the same sort of raw blast sufficient to wither and repulse the undead. Maybe a servant of the Frostmaiden would find it similarly obnoxious.

  He released the power, and the flash painted Iyraclea’s ivory skin gold. She cried out. The spell of love she’d cast on him shattered, and she seemed but an enemy clutching at him to do him harm, and he only wanted to stop her. He pulled back his fist, preparing to strike.

  Hands grabbed him and pulled him away. Their strength was prodigious, and he struggled helplessly in their grip, meanwhile looking about to see what had taken hold
of him. Whatever it was, it was invisible, some infernal or elemental spirit. No doubt it had hovered protectively around Iyraclea the whole time.

  It dangled him over the balustrade of ice. It would be a long fall to the snowy courtyard below. Standing, Iyraclea glared at him.

  “If your lackey drops me,” he said, “I’ll no longer be able to ‘enlighten’ you.”

  “I have your companions to interrogate.”

  “Suit yourself. I understand the wrath of a spurned woman. Not that I’ve spurned many myself. I certainly could never have found it in my heart to say no to a lady as beautiful as you, if you’d been content to couple and let it go at that.”

  “Your faith is strong,” she said. “In time, you could grow into a truly accomplished priest. Since my deity is at war with yours, that gives me all the more reason to kill you. But I suspect that you, with your learning, may understand things the other prisoners don’t.”

  The spirit dumped Pavel back on the roof. He still couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there, and he could feel the ogre-sized bulk of it floating in the air behind him.

  “Tell me who you are and why you came to the glacier,” Iyraclea continued, “and perhaps you’ll survive the night.”

  “As you probably know,” he said, “Raryn, one of my companions, was born in the village where the ice dwarves poisoned us. He simply wanted to visit his kin—”

  The spirit gripped his forearms with all its strength. He gasped in pain.

  “You have one last chance,” Iyraclea said. “What do you know about Sammaster and his schemes?”

  He studied her. “I’m surprised to hear you mention that name, and suddenly very curious to hear what you know.”

  “You’re not here to question me!” She sighed in an exasperated way that, just for an instant, made her appear a hair less cruel and imperious. “But perhaps if I explain, it will show you it’s pointless to lie.”

  20 Eleasis-17 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons