The Rite

by Richard Lee Byers

  “Who … who are you?” he asked.

  “Friends,” said Dorn. “We came through the caves, but we ran into trouble. Our companion needs a healer. Right now.”

  “The clerics are all on the upper levels,” said the boy. “Everyone is, except the youngest neophytes, the wounded, and those of us charged to mind them.”

  “Take us.”

  “You don’t understand. You can’t hear it this deep in the rock, but the wyrms are attacking. The priests are busy fighting them. No one can break away to—”

  “Shut up!” said Dorn. “Listen. My comrades and I are good at killing dragons. We’ll kill some for you now, to pay for the healing Kara needs. But somebody is going to care for her. Otherwise, we’ll help the wyrms bring this pile down around your ears.”

  The monk swallowed and said, “Come on, then.”

  Limping, he led them to a broad staircase that, zigzagging back and forth, carried them higher and higher. As they scrambled upward, Dorn started to hear the cacophony of the battle raging above his head, the sounds weirdly distorted by the tons of intervening stone, but recognizable nonetheless. The roars and hisses of dragons, and the boom and sizzle of their breath. Their human prey crying out in desperation, and screaming in agony.

  For a moment, much as he lived for the satisfaction of killing wyrms, he also flinched from what was to come. He was weary from clambering and trudging through the caves, and sore all over from the beating the landwyrm had given him, in no condition to plunge into a new fight. But he reckoned he had no choice.

  So don’t be weak, he told himself. Don’t be tired. You don’t have any right to be. Softness is for people, and you’re not one anymore. You’re a thing of metal, built for killing. Just go do it.

  Finally the monk opened a triangular-arched door, admitting a gust of smoky air, the stink of burned flesh, and sunlight. After his hours underground, Dorn had to squinch his eyes to slits and wait for them to adjust to the brightness.

  Once they did, he peered out into a courtyard. High walls surrounded it, and a net made of rattling chains with barbed hooks attached covered the top. Other such constructions stretched between towers like enormous spiderwebs. Together with mystical barriers—floating sheets of flame, clouds of spinning blades, planes of seething light—conjured by the monastery’s spellcasters, the nets made it difficult for the wheeling, swooping dragons to fly or fight in the air immediately above the stronghold.

  Yet the mesh couldn’t stop the scourge of their breath, or the relentless pounding savagery of their sorcery. Sometimes it even failed to hold back the reptiles themselves, if they were eager enough to break through.

  A colossal green plummeted at one of the wall-walks and the curtain of chain strung above. The drake’s momentum tore the net loose from its moorings, and it slammed down atop the battlements tangled in the wreckage, with the hooks embedded in its scaly hide. That should have hampered it, but when monks came running to engage it, it struck and clawed at them with all a wyrm’s horrific speed. Its strength was such that the chains simply snapped like threads to accommodate its movements. It clawed two monks to death in as many seconds, flinging their tattered bodies off the wall to thump down in the courtyard.

  Dorn rounded on his guide and asked, “You’ll help the lass?”

  “Yes,” said the youth.

  Dorn ran out into the courtyard, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. It pierced the green’s neck, but not deeply enough to do much damage. Raryn shot it in the chest, but that too was only a pinprick. It caught the wyrm’s attention, though, and the green lifted its head in the way that meant it intended to use its breath weapon.

  Dorn and Raryn waited for it to start spewing forth its billowing cloud of poison before flinging themselves to the side. Had they dodged too soon, the green would simply have adjusted its aim. Even so, Dorn’s exposed skin burned, and his eyes flooded with tears. But he didn’t think he’d inhaled any of the muck to rot away his lungs.

  Blinking the water from his eyes, he took another shot, and as he did, noticed the arcane sigils cut into the green wyrm’s scales. It was evidently one of the draconic mystics called the hidecarved, with the special abilities that implied.

  Dorn cast about, spotted a stairway to the top of the wall, and ran toward it. His archery hadn’t done much to the green, but maybe he’d fare better with his sword.

  As he clambered upward, Chatulio pounced out into the courtyard and spat his acid upward to spatter the green’s mask. At last the chromatic seemed to feel a hurt. It screamed and thrashed.

  Hoping to take advantage of its momentary incapacity, the monks on the battlements attacked it with javelins, flails, and naked fists. A man in gray robes and a red skullcap dived beneath its throat, slashed with a sickle, and somersaulted clear beneath a shower of gore. The green shuddered and swayed. The defenders plunged in again, even more furiously, trying to administer the death blow.

  “No!” Dorn shouted. He could tell it wasn’t hurt as badly as it pretended, and if what he’d heard about the hidecarved was true, in another moment it might not be hurt at all.

  Some of the monks heeded his warning and pulled back. The others were too intent on the attack.

  When the green invoked the magic of the runes scarring its body, the gash in its neck closed. Knitting flesh shoved out arrows and spears as those punctures likewise healed themselves.

  Full of strength, all but whole once more, the green exploded into motion, biting, raking, swatting with its wings and bashing with its tail. Taken by surprise, even monks, with all their trained nimbleness, couldn’t dodge. Some perished instantly. The rest, stunned, reeling, surely would die in another instant, unless someone distracted the wyrm.

  Dorn bellowed a battle cry and charged down the wall-walk. He was keenly aware that the elevated path was a wretched place to fight a dragon. He had nowhere to sidestep. But it was too late to worry about that.

  The green stretched out its neck to snatch the half-golem up in its jaws. Dorn stopped short, gripped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands, and cut the creature’s long, curving jaw. It hissed and lunged forward, trampling a shrieking, wounded monk in the process. Dorn scrambled back just quickly enough to avoid the same fate, came on guard with his iron hand leading, and snapped his knuckle-spikes into the green’s snout.

  He’d been lucky these first few moments, but knew it couldn’t last. The dragon was going to kill him unless somebody came to his aid.

  Fortunately, someone did. The green jerked its head around and stared at empty air. Dorn assumed it was gawking at some terrifying phantom of Chatulio’s devising. He took advantage of its distraction to cut at its neck.

  At the same time, Raryn chanted one of his ranger charms and shot another arrow. The shaft plunged into its flank all the way up to the fletchings.

  The green roared, turned, spread its wings, and sprang into the air.

  “My spell softened up its scales,” Raryn called.

  Dorn started to answer, but then glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye. He flung himself flat, foiling the attempt of another diving wyrm, a young red, to pluck him from the battlement.

  And the fight roared on.

  Such was the frantic confusion of the battle, and so crushing the exhaustion and suffering the dragons left in their wake, that Cantoule didn’t hear about the newcomers until an hour after the reptiles broke off their attack. Then it required considerable self-discipline for him to keep from complaining because no one had alerted him sooner.

  What he did instead was smile, thank the novice who’d brought him the tidings, and swing himself up off his cot in the infirmary. His burned leg throbbed in protest, but he ignored the pain. It meant nothing compared to the glow of hope the news had kindled in his heart. Pain, after all, had become a daily occurrence, while hope was such a rare emotion that he hadn’t truly expected ever to feel it again.

  He hiked across a courtyard, taking a wary, reflexive glance at the black and starry
sky even though sentries kept watch along the battlements. After a battle, the dragons usually retired for at least a day or two, to heal and replenish their spells. Once in a while, though, hoping to catch the defenders napping, they launched a fresh assault in a matter of hours. Thus, the monks could never drop their guard.

  Cantoule found three of the newcomers lounging outside the dining hall, at the center of a clump of curious, chattering young monks. One of the neophytes soon noticed the thin, sun-bronzed, aging Grand Master in his gray vestments, red skullcap, and yellow rose-embroidered sash. The youth announced his presence to the others, whereupon the crowd parted before him, affording him a clear look at the strangers. And a strange-looking trio they were.

  The wavering light of a nearby fire glinting along the sinuous curves of his body, the copper dragon gave Cantoule a gap-toothed grin.

  “I’m Chatulio,” he said. “The grumpy half-iron fellow’s Dorn Graybrook, and the dwarf’s Raryn Snowstealer. Judging from the way these young ones made way for you, you must be somebody, too.”

  Cantoule bowed and gave them his name. “I’m the Grand Master of Flowers, the senior monk here, and in other circumstances, I’d welcome you with every courtesy. From what I’m told, your courage deserves no less. But I must know immediately: You came through the caves?”

  “How else?” said Dorn, the half-golem, with a surliness that seemed more habitual than directed at anyone or anything in particular.

  “Then are others following behind you?” Cantoule asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Raryn, the squat, broad-shouldered dwarf.

  Cantoule shook his head, puzzled. “But we sent our messenger to find help. No offense, but he wouldn’t have stopped with just you. He was supposed to fetch an army.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” Raryn said, “but he didn’t have a chance to fetch anybody. Dragons climbed up from deep below the mountains to hunt the caves. One of them dealt him a mortal wound. He managed to keep going just long enough to make it out onto a mountainside, where we found his body. It showed us you must have a secret way in and out of the monastery, and since we needed to come here, we backtracked him through.”

  Cantoule felt a piercing disappointment. He took a deep, slow breath, enduring and mastering the emotion, as Ilmater taught. Refusing to let it rot into soul-killing despair.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “We’ll dispatch another messenger immediately.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Dorn. “No one will come.”

  Cantoule cocked his head. “I trust you’re mistaken. The king himself is a friend to our order.”

  “Gareth Dragonsbane’s dead,” the half-golem said, and the novices babbled in shock. “The orcs of Vaasa and any number of dragon flights have overrun Damara. Your nobles and knights only care about protecting their own fiefs.” He paused a beat. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  It became even harder for Cantoule to hide his dismay, but with so many of his flock gazing on, depending on him for leadership, he tried his best.

  “I regret to hear it,” he replied.

  “The news isn’t all bad,” Raryn said. “We slayed the wyrms that killed your messenger. The way out is clear. Those who wish can flee the stronghold.”

  Dorn glared at the dwarf as if Raryn had just committed some foul betrayal. But the small, white-haired warrior bore the hostile regard without flinching.

  “They have a right to know,” he said.

  “We have other guests,” Cantoule said, “travelers trapped here when the wyrms first appeared. They may wish to leave—so may novices who have yet to swear their final vows—but we monks are pledged to defend this sanctuary, and we’ll remain.”

  Until the end. For it seemed they had no chance after all, and would give their lives as martyrs. In the eyes of Ilmater, no service was more blessed, but even so, for Cantoule, it was a bitter thing that the stronghold, which his predecessors had defended against countless threats, would fall on his watch. Kane, he thought, should have stayed and run the place himself, or failing that, picked someone else. Someone who could defeat dragons.

  “It’s good you’re staying,” said Dorn, “because we have to hold the drakes back until our friend Kara and Chatulio here finish their studies. Let me tell you why wyrms are laying siege to the monastery.”

  Blunt and curt, he laid out the facts like a man chopping wood. Yet perhaps his very lack of rhetorical flourishes made his words more persuasive, for bizarre as his story was, Cantoule found that he believed it.

  “By the ever-flowing tears,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Raryn said, “you’ve been fighting for more than you realized. All Faerûn is depending on you, even if nobody knows it.”

  “We’ll die to the last man,” Cantoule promised, “to give you the time to find the lore you seek.”

  Dorn spat.

  Cantoule frowned at him and asked, “Do you doubt our resolve?”

  “No,” the half-golem said. “I saw how bravely you monks fought in the battle we just finished. But your job isn’t to serve yourselves up for the slaughter. It’s to slaughter the stinking wyrms.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You have to fight better.”

  Cantoule had tried all his life to cultivate humility, as the creed of Ilmater recommended, yet even so he felt a twinge of outraged pride.

  “The Monks of the Yellow Rose are generally considered highly proficient at the martial arts.”

  “You are good, considered as individuals, but that’s the problem. Every monk fights like he’s the only defender on the battlements.”

  “Our philosophy of combat teaches a fighter to take full responsibility for his own well-being, even against multiple opponents attacking from every side.”

  “Maybe it works against lesser foes,” said Dorn, “but the only way to fight dragons is to operate as a team. I’ll drill you on the tactics.”

  “We’ll also,” Raryn said, “teach you where to hit them to do the most damage, and how to tell when they’re getting ready to breathe or spin around, when to get in close, and when to get away … tricks like that. They make a difference.”

  “You’ll slow the dragons down,” said Dorn, “and spill more of their blood than you would otherwise. That’s all we can promise.”

  “It’s enough,” Cantoule said, bowing. “It’s a great gift.”

  Dorn scowled. “Don’t thank us yet. We’ve got more to say. Those chain nets are a clever idea. So are the floating obstacles your spellcasters conjure in the air. But they aren’t enough to cancel out the advantage the wyrms’ wings give them. Attacking from on high, they’re killing you with their magic and breath weapons, and the javelins and sling stones you toss up in response scarcely bother them at all.”

  “Then what’s the answer?”

  “You have to give them the walls and courtyards,” said Dorn, “and fight on inside your great keep and the vaults beneath.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Cantoule said. “Every inch of the monastery is sacred ground. Even the smallest shrines and chapels contain holy relics and—”

  “Move your treasures deep into the mountain. Truly, that’s the only way to protect them for even a little while longer.”

  “Dorn’s right,” Raryn said. “Make the dragons fight us on foot, at close range, on ground we know better than they do. Set traps and ambuscades. That way, we can hold them back for a long time. Keep fighting outdoors, and we won’t last another tenday.”

  “But,” someone said, “to let evil profane the temples and gardens? The thought is unbearable!”

  “No,” Cantoule said. “The Crying God teaches us that nothing is truly unendurable, except to turn one’s back on righteousness and duty. Our duty now is to hold the wyrms back from the archives long enough for our new friends to discover the secret they seek. Goodmen, we’ll do as you advise.”

  2 Kythorn, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Folk often called th
e sixth month the Time of Flowers, and even gray, desolate Thar had grudgingly put forth the occasional white or scarlet blossom. As far as Will was concerned, it might as well have spared itself the effort. The sprinkle of wildflowers did nothing to make the ruins rising by the dark, stagnant lake in the hollow among the hills look any more inviting, nor could it make the chilly, moaning wind sound cheerful. The halfling suspected that if he listened hard enough, he might catch the voices of ghosts inside that melancholy wail.

  Many of the ogres gazed down at the vista of leaning towers and broken colonnades with the same uneasiness it inspired in him. In their eyes, the site had always been a forbidden place, and it still felt taboo to them even though their shaman had ordered them there.

  Indeed, the only folk who actually looked eager to descend into the warren were Yagoth Devil-eye and Pavel. The former leered down at the ruins as if they were a foe sprawled helpless before him. Leaning forward on his roan horse, the priest of Lathander peered intently, already trying to glean secrets even from hundreds of yards away.

  “Onward!” Yagoth said.

  “The sun’s going down,” said Will. “It might make more sense to camp and start exploring in the morning.”

  Yagoth laughed an ugly laugh. “I forget, you little nits are blind in the night. But don’t worry. Pavel can make light. Or one of us ogres will build a fire.”

  The halfling said, “Suit yourself.”

  He urged his pony down the trail, and Yagoth and Pavel followed. The giant-kin was taller shambling afoot than the lanky human was astride his steed.

  Once the procession reached the broad, straight central avenue running the length of the complex, Will perceived a resemblance to places he’d visited before. To all appearances, the servants of various gods had built their temples in proximity to one another, as a lure to crowds of pilgrims who wanted to sacrifice to multiple deities, or consult more than one soothsayer.

  But the shrines honored deities no halfling or human would choose to venerate. Misshapen idols crouched as if to spring, brandished severed heads, sank their fangs into hearts torn from their enemies’ breasts, or committed carnal atrocities on the bound and crippled bodies of their prisoners. Hideous faces sneered from friezes, cornices, and entablatures. Will recognized some of the deities so memorialized, including one-eyed Gruumsh, chief god of the orcs, Yurtrus of the pallid hands, their ruling power of suffering and death, and Vaprak, the ogres’ own ferocious patron.