“So,” said Brellan Starav, also wearing plate and bearing a tall rectangular shield emblazoned with the sign of the golden cup, “you want to lead a company of the most able captains Damara has left into the netherworld, there to risk their lives fighting wyrms. Vampire, if this is a trick….”
“I know,” Brimstone snapped, his red eyes flaring, “I’ll regret it. How much time do you posturing fools intend to waste, delivering the same threat over and over?”
“Brandobaris knows,” drawled Will, “it’s starting to bore me too.”
Will had likewise reequipped himself. The armorer had even found him a fresh supply of skiprocks.
“We’re going to do as Brimstone recommends,” said Christine, “for I believe his plan represents our only real hope. Sir Dragon, how many comrades can accompany you on the journey?”
“A dozen,” Brimstone said, “two of whom will be Master Shemov and Goodman Turnstone.”
Celedon frowned. “You have the flower of Damaran chivalry arrayed before you.”
“I have two experienced dragon killers standing beside me,” Brimstone retorted. “They’re going. It only remains to choose the rest.”
“I’ll send no man unless he’s truly willing,” said Christine, “not on a venture as perilous as this.” She surveyed the assembly. “Who—”
As one, the king’s men stepped forward, bring a momentary smile to the queen’s pretty but careworn face.
“Thank you, gentlemen” she said. “Now I must select.”
“Your Majesty,” said Celedon, “I insist on going. First, because I’m one of Gareth’s oldest comrades. Second, because it’s my fault the dragon cultists got close enough to the king to harm him.”
“I’m to blame as well,” said Mor Kulenov. “The traitors were magicians under my command. I should have realized what they were doing. I too plead for the opportunity to atone.”
“I don’t have the same reason to offer,” said Drigor, “but send me, also, Your Majesty. You know I’ll pull my weight.”
“Yes,” said the queen. “I choose the three of you.”
“And me, surely,” Brellan said.
“No, Milord,” Christine said, “I’m sorry.” He stared at her in amazement bordering on outrage. “But you said it yourself. We gamble the lives of Damara’s best. I’m not prepared to risk all of you. Someone must remain to advise me and command our army if the worst befalls.”
Brellan bowed stiffly. “As Your Majesty commands.”
Christine selected six more champions, paladins mostly. Then a lanky youth with a pox-scarred face, perhaps the least impressive-looking of all the men-at-arms gathered there under Selûne’s silvery gaze, could contain himself no longer.
“Please, Your Majesty,” he cried. “I beg you, give me the last place.”
Celedon regarded the young man with a sympathetic expression, then said, “Your eagerness does you credit, Sir Igan. But you only won your spurs a few tendays back. Every other warrior here has more experience than you.”
“Pardon my frankness, Milord,” Igan snapped, “but if you and Master Kulenov are going because you failed the king, then surely I can request the same privilege based on the fact that I saved him.”
Celedon looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled at the young knight’s show of spirit.
“You did save him,” said Christine, “and perhaps you’ll be lucky for him a second time.” She turned to Brimstone. “You have your dozen.”
“Good,” said the dragon. “All of you, stand in front of me.” The twelve obeyed. “First, I’m going to cast an enchantment that will enable you to see in the absence of light. It’s dark in Shadow, and if you carry torches or lanterns, Sammaster’s allies will notice, as will every other predatory creature for miles in every direction.”
He rattled off an incantation in the Draconic tongue.
Magic crackled through the air, and for an instant, Pavel’s eyes stung. But when he blinked his tears away, he could see across the courtyard almost as clearly as if it were day, though the night still dulled most colors to gray.
“Now,” said Brimstone, “we’re ready to depart.”
The second whispered incantation took considerably longer, and the words of power made Pavel’s skin crawl, even though, for the most part, he couldn’t understand them. Gradually, the shadows within the high walls deepened. Then they lengthened and shifted from side to side. On the final phrase, they reared up from the ground and raced toward the would-be rescuers like gigantic waves converging on a ship at sea from every direction at once.
Pavel stiffened, his body anticipating the shock of impact, but he felt nothing at all when the blackness swept over him. When the shadows collided, they instantly disappeared, and he could see that the courtyard and castle were gone as well.
He and his companions stood beneath a black sky devoid of stars or moon. A seemingly lifeless wasteland, the arid ground all sand and gravel, lay around them. Towering masses of rock jutted from the earth, making it impossible to see very far in any direction, and transforming the desert into a maze. The air was chilly. All colors withered to blacks and grays, and in many instances, what had appeared light in the mortal world had gone dark, and vice versa. Will’s face was sooty, while his lovelocks were the color of bone.
“I can’t see as well as I could before,” the halfling said.
“Because, it isn’t just dark, simpleton,” Pavel said. “We’re immersed in the essence of darkness, the very idea of it. Brimstone’s enchantment can’t wholly compensate for that.”
Will snorted. “I should have known it would take more than a trip to another world to stop a charlatan spouting gibberish.”
Celedon looked up at Brimstone, whose charcoal-colored scales looked bleached and leprous in that strange place.
“What now?” the spymaster asked.
Brimstone still had the rag doll. The talisman looked tiny in his claws. He stared intently at it for a few heartbeats, then said, “Your king is this way.” He indicated the proper direction with a thrust of his wedge-shaped head.
“If you were to fly above these pillars of stone,” Celedon said, “you might see exactly where he is.”
“I might also attract attention,” Brimstone said, “even cloaked in the subtlest obscurement any of us can cast. I prefer to stay on the ground for now.”
“If we’re going to march,” said Will, “I’ll scout ahead.”
“I’m a fair hand at sneaking about,” Celedon said.
“But as Brimstone said, I stalk dragons for my living while you’re the king’s officer, too important to do the most dangerous job when someone else can manage.”
“He’s right,” Drigor said.
Celedon pulled a wry face. “Nobody ever lets me have any fun anymore. But very well. Thank you, Goodman Turnstone.”
Will grinned and said, “When we get back, thank me with a wagonload of those bloodstones you folk are so fond of. For now, just give me a couple minutes’ head start.”
He skulked away, his boots silent on the sand and pebbles, and melted into the gloom.
While the rest of them waited, Drigor cast a blessing on the company that washed the anxiety from Pavel’s mind and left a cool, confident alertness in its place, even as it sent a surge of vitality tingling through his muscles. Some of the paladins prayed, enhancing their own personal capabilities, and Mor Kulenov presumably did the same with a spell that made his robes and staff shimmer. For some reason, the glow lingered for an extra moment in his tuft of beard. Brimstone bared his fangs at the display of light.
Then they set forth after Will. Except for the noises they couldn’t help making themselves—the clink of plate and mail, the creak of leather, whispered consultations—the dark world was silent. Sometimes Pavel thought he glimpsed something stirring from the corner of his eye, but when he turned and peered directly at it, the flicker of motion disappeared.
Then, abruptly, the instincts he’d developed during his years
as a hunter whispered that something was wrong. And when Will came scurrying back a moment later, he was certain he was correct.
“What is it?” Brimstone whispered.
“Dragons,” said Will. “Two of them, moving in on you. They didn’t see me, though, so they won’t realize we’re expecting them.”
“At least one will try to attack from above,” Brimstone said. “Perhaps I can intercept him, and take him by surprise.” He rattled off a spell and faded from view. An instant later, the snap of his wings and the gust of air they displaced revealed that he’d taken flight.
Pavel turned to the king’s men. “Don’t bunch up,” he told them. “Strike at a drake when it’s turned away from you, and get away when it pivots in your direction. Remember, though, that no matter where you’re standing, the creature’s dangerous. It can shatter your bones with a flick of its tail or a beat of its wing. It can blast you with its breath or a spell from yards away.”
“Good advice,” said Drigor. “Now, stand in a circle. We want to make sure the creatures can’t creep up on us.”
Pavel peered into the darkness, searching, until a hiss from overhead distracted him. He looked up, at a triangle of dragon breath livid against the featureless black sky. At the wide end, a vague bat-winged shape screeched and floundered in flight as the plume of hot smoke and embers washed over it. At the narrow point of origin, a second such form, rather more distinct, burst into view. The act of attacking had breached Brimstone’s cloak of invisibility.
The vampire started snarling an incantation. His opponent beat its wings, hurtled at Brimstone, but missed, as if the smoke drake’s breath had blinded it.
Pavel realized that if one shadow dragon had been on the verge of attacking, the other probably was, too, for surely they intended to make a coordinated assault. He hastily returned his attention to the ground.
Even so, he almost missed seeing the wyrm, its head raised and its throat swelling to discharge its breath weapon. Though huge, the shadow dragon had a mistiness to it, almost a translucency, that rendered it virtually invisible in the gloom.
“It’s there!” Pavel shouted, pointing with his mace. “Look out!”
He and his comrades flung themselves to the sides. Still, when the wyrm spewed its horrifying breath, the expanding, billowing streak of shadow caught Mor Kulenov and five knights inside it. The magician screamed and fell to the ground. The warriors staggered.
With appalling speed, the dragon charged the men it had afflicted. It plainly intended to slaughter any survivors before they could shake off the effect of its breath, and no one was in position to block its path.
But Will whirled his sling, and despite his target’s ghostly indistinctness, the skiprock evidently hit a sensitive spot, because the shadow dragon balked. That gave Pavel time to conjure a flying luminous mace into existence to pound at the reptile’s head. Lashing his hands through the proper figure, Celedon engulfed the creature in an explosion of fire.
Afterward, Pavel couldn’t tell how badly they’d hurt it. Its murky vagueness made that as difficult as aiming an attack at it. But it must not have liked the punishment, for instead of rushing on forward and so inviting more harassment, it stood still.
Pavel realized it was casting a spell, or invoking some innate power. He prayed that a blow from his conjured mace would break its concentration, but on its next swing, the floating weapon missed the reptile in its mantle of gloom. Will fared better. Pavel heard the skiprock whack against the dragon’s hide. But by itself, the impact likely wouldn’t suffice to stop the wyrm from doing as it intended.
The ambient darkness both deepened and seemed to fray into tatters, which spun around the battlefield as if caught up in a whirlwind. It had been difficult enough to see before. But Pavel, all but blind, felt a queasy upswelling of vertigo as well.
As he tried to deny the dizziness, the shadow drake hissed an incantation. Cramps jabbed through his muscles and guts and made him stagger. He silently called to Lathander, and the sickness passed, but then he felt blood on his face. The magic had done more than make him momentarily ill. It had clawed at him as well.
Elsewhere in the whirling, leaping darkness, barely visible, men kneeled or lay retching on the ground. They had yet to shake off the sensation of sickness, and thus, for the moment, they were helpless.
The shadow dragon charged.
Celedon met it with a crackling flare of lightning. Brandishing his warhammer, Drigor called to the Crying God and produced a barrier composed of floating, spinning blades. The wyrm plunged right through it. As before, the chaotic darkness and the reptile’s blurred, inconstant form kept Pavel from discerning whether the magic was truly doing it any harm. At any rate, the spells didn’t stop it, and an instant later, it sprang close enough to strike with fang and claw.
Pavel swung his mace at its ribs. He was certain he’d score on it, but the gloom deceived him, and he was actually out of range. The dragon turned, and he jumped backward, barely evading a rake of its talons.
He kept retreating and circling, avoiding the head and forefeet, until the wyrm pivoted to attack another foe. Then he charged, struck, hit—and the dragon vanished. He realized he’d attacked an illusion. The reptile had conjured phantasmal images of itself, creating another layer of defense to bewilder its foes.
An instant later, its dark breath washed over him, and the strength drained out of his limbs. His legs buckled, dumping him on the ground. He wasn’t in pain, precisely, but felt a sickening sense of violation, as if a portion of his very life had been ripped away.
The shadow dragon raced at him and all the other foes it had just afflicted. Its phantom duplicates lunged along beside it. Pavel tried to scramble back onto his feet, but saw that he wouldn’t make it in time.
Drigor and Igan rushed in on the wyrm’s flank. The priest’s hammer stroke simply eradicated another image, but the young knight’s sword appeared to cut deep into the true drake’s scaly hide. Will tumbled underneath the wyrm’s belly and drove the hornblade in. The wraithlike reptile struck, clawed, and stamped at its assailants.
Shaken though he was, Pavel had to aid his comrades. He heaved himself to his feet, gripped his sun amulet to commence an attack spell, then realized the invocation wasn’t in his memory anymore. In addition to whatever other harm it had done, the wyrm’s breath had burned away a portion of his mystical abilities.
Silently praying to the Morninglord, he charged. Swung his mace, and missed. Somewhere in the wheeling, fragmented darkness, Celedon shouted a rhyme. Darts of light streaked through the gloom, diverging in flight to strike every possible target. All the dragon’s false images burst at once.
Heartened, Pavel struck and missed again. The shadow wyrm whirled, and he flung himself flat to keep its tail from pulping his skull, then instantly had to roll to keep it from trampling him. Its stamping feet jolted the earth.
Had the creature slowed down at all? It didn’t appear so, and Pavel struggled to quell a surge of fear. He lurched to his feet and attempted another prayer.
Thanks be to Lathander, the incantation was still in his head. Warmth glowed through him, calming his mind and cleansing pain and fatigue from his body. He saw the spectral dragon more clearly. Its form didn’t shift and waver as much as before.
He rushed it, struck, and connected, the mace crunching into its scales. Igan sliced its neck, and blood jetted. Underneath the drake, Will cut another gash. The reptile lurched down to crush him, but he rolled clear before its ventral surface slammed against the ground.
The dragon tried to rise again, but floundered. Igan hacked into its neck. It screamed and convulsed, nearly rolling on top of Pavel before he leaped backward, then it lay still.
Pavel had the same reaction he often felt at such a moment, a numbed inability to believe the seemingly unstoppable creature had finally succumbed to its wounds. He was still trying to credit it when someone bellowed a warning.
The other half of the battle still raged high in
the air. He looked up to see a serpentine shape with a tattered, crippled wing plummeting straight at him and Will. It looked solid, not shadowy, which meant it was Brimstone, not his foe.
Will dived. With his extraordinary agility, perhaps he’d make it out from under. Pavel recognized he had no chance of doing the same.
The falling Brimstone eclipsed the dead black sky. Then, just before he hit the ground, his body dissolved into smoke, a sulfurous mist suffused with stinging embers that shrouded the man he would otherwise have crushed.
Brimstone’s transformation revealed the other shadow dragon, swooping after him like a falcon attacking a pigeon. When the vampire turned to vapor, his assailant immediately turned its attention to the folk on the ground. Its throat swelled as it prepared to spit a spray of poisonous, devastating shadow.
A prone man heaved himself to his knees. Without bothering to rise any farther, plump Master Kulenov, evidently at least partially recovered from his immersion in dragon breath, jabbered an incantation. On the final word, he whipped a quirt, evidently one of the spell foci he carried concealed in his voluminous robes, through the air.
The shadow wyrm screeched, and its wings flailed out of time with one another. Flying clumsily, it leveled out of its dive, wheeled, and veered off. To Pavel’s eyes, it seemed dazed, but only for a moment. Then it oriented on Kulenov, and hurtled at the wizard. Kulenov’s nerve broke. He wailed and turned to run.
At the same instant, the cloud that was Brimstone drew in on itself and coalesced into solidity. The smoke drake’s wing was still torn, but not as badly as before. He flexed his legs, then beat his pinions as he sprang into the air.
The shadow wyrm was swooping low, and all its attention was on Kulenov. Otherwise, Brimstone, with his mangled wing, probably couldn’t have intercepted it. But he did, and plunged his fangs and talons into his adversary’s body.
Tangled together, unable to fly, they crashed to earth and rolled over and over. Until Brimstone caught the shadow dragon’s throat in his jaws.
The shadow wyrm thrashed madly for a few seconds, nearly shaking the vampire loose, but then its struggles subsided. Even after it stopped moving, Brimstone clung to it, slurping and guzzling its blood. The stolen vitality knit together the lacerations in his wing and closed his other wounds.
The Rite Page 24
