“Which is unfortunate,” Khouryn said, “because we have to climb the slope. If there is a way out, that’s it. The question is can you do anything to keep us alive while we try?”
Medrash frowned and reviewed all the feats he’d learned to perform by channeling Torm’s might. “Yes. Let’s start with a blessing. If we’re stronger, we’ll get to the top of the slope that much faster.”
He drew on his god’s power once again. It seemed to pour down from high above and well up inside him at the same time. A tingling surge of vitality washed the weariness and soreness out of his muscles. His thoughts focused into a sort of fearless clarity. Khouryn worked his massive shoulders and flashed his teeth in a grin as he felt the same effects.
“All right,” the sellsword said. “Let’s do it.”
They hiked back to the foot of the rise. Inspecting it anew, Medrash decided that parts of it were so steep that he’d never make it up without using both hands. He’d never make it without light either, but fortunately his broadsword had a martingale to bind it to his wrist. He let the weapon dangle from the leather loop, and he and Khouryn began their scrambling ascent.
It was more difficult than he expected. Some of the rock was soft. It crumbled when he clutched it or set his foot on it, then pattered down the slope. Hanging as it was, the sword kept bumping his leg in an irritating way.
But the chief problem was that in such an attitude the blade didn’t light up nearly as much area as when he’d held it aloft like a torch. Yet it was important that he spot the quicksilver dragon as soon as it appeared; otherwise it stood an excellent chance of killing Khouryn and him before he could react. Keeping his eyes moving, moving, always moving, as his clan elders and masters-of-arms had taught him, he watched the murk at the top of the rise.
Although he knew it was just an illusion of sorts, it seemed to take forever for Khouryn and him to clamber halfway up. Then they were perfectly positioned for an ambush, too high to retreat easily, yet still well below the top. If the dragon truly was up there, it was really going to make its move—
There! A stirring in the darkness! Medrash drew breath to bellow Torm’s holy name then saw at the last possible moment that nothing solid, nothing real, had moved. A shadow had simply shifted as the sword-lamp swung and bounced with the motion of his body.
Easy, he thought, easy. Don’t waste your magic. Don’t let the foul creature know you’re ready for it.
He hauled himself upward, through another stretch where it was essential to grip the rock with both hands to make any progress. The claws of his off hand made little scraping noises on the granite, and his armor clinked.
Then Khouryn shouted, “There!”
Medrash peered, still couldn’t see anything in the darkness overhead, and looked at the dwarf instead. Khouryn was pointing at the left side of the ledge. Medrash looked there and still didn’t really see the wyrm. But he felt it as a kind of festering malevolence.
That was good enough. He gathered his god’s righteous anger and his own and hurled them like a javelin.
White light flared at the top of the rise. Seared by the power, patches of its gleaming hide charring, the quicksilver wyrm thrashed and roared.
But it didn’t drop, and after a moment, when the light faded, it arched its neck over the top of the slope in a way that reminded Medrash of an angler about to drop his hook in the water. And Khouryn was the fish directly underneath jaws that were spreading wide.
Medrash channeled more of Torm’s power, clenched his fist, and jerked his arm backward. Made of silvery shimmer, a huge, ghostly gauntlet appeared in the air, grabbed hold of the dragon just behind the head, and yanked.
Medrash knew he hadn’t channeled enough of Torm’s power to break such a huge creature’s neck or tumble it from its perch. But the unexpected jerk at least pulled its head out of line just as the bright vapor of its breath weapon hissed out of its mouth.
Unfortunately, though, the smoke wasn’t like an arrow that had to be aimed precisely. It would still wash over a substantial area, and for a moment it looked as if the thickest part of it would still stream over Khouryn. But, risking a fall, he swung himself to the side and avoided all but the edge of the misty blast. And though he cried out anyway, Medrash dared to hope that he’d escaped mortal or crippling harm. In the gloom, he couldn’t actually tell.
Nor could he take the time to find out. He’d been lucky, but he couldn’t continue to contend with the dragon while clinging to the slope. He had to make it up onto the ledge quickly and simply hope Khouryn would join him in due course.
Luckily, since a foe had actually appeared, he could use another of his gifts to close the distance. As Khouryn retched, Medrash reached out to Torm, felt the power flow, then scrambled upward. His progress was twice as fast as before because he was flying as much as climbing, or at any rate, skittering like a bug. The Loyal Fury’s power negated his weight.
The effect lasted just long enough for him to heave himself onto the shelf. Instantly the quicksilver dragon snapped at him. He jumped back from the attack and almost fell back over the edge, and the huge fangs clashed shut short of his body.
He tried to riposte, but he hadn’t quite found his balance, and he was too slow. The wyrm snatched its head out of the distance and raked with its claws. He dodged and managed to slice one of its toes. But the wound was only a shallow nick.
The fight continued in much the same way for a few more desperate moments. He ducked and dodged attacks that otherwise would surely have torn him apart or mashed him flat. Occasionally he scored with a thrust or cut but never to any great effect. Even when he drew on Torm’s power to lend force to a stroke or to glue his foe’s feet to the ledge for an instant, his sword never reached a vital spot.
He doubted he could last much longer in that way. Either he’d make a mistake or he’d start to tire and slow, and the wyrm would destroy him. The realization didn’t frighten him, not with his god’s blessing clarifying his thoughts and bolstering his resolve. But it was maddening to know that Khouryn, Balasar, and his other comrades might die, that Tymanther itself might ultimately fall to Tchazzar’s army, if he didn’t find a way to prevail.
Jaws open wide, the dragon’s head hurtled at him. He dropped low, planting his off hand on the shelf. The wyrm’s head shot over him, and bellowing, channeling Torm’s might into the stroke, he cut at the underside of his adversary’s neck.
The blade sheared deep but not deep enough. Blood showering from the new wound, the dragon still didn’t falter. It instantly raised a forefoot to stamp. Medrash scurried, and his enemy pivoted, compensating. Realizing he wasn’t going to get out from underneath, he raised his point to impale the extremity when it hammered down.
But it didn’t. The quicksilver dragon jerked and snarled, and Medrash finally managed to scramble clear. He looked across the ledge. Khouryn had made it to the top and buried his battle-axe in the creature’s haunch.
Together they started to work the dragon in much the same way that the dwarf had taught the vanquisher’s troops to fight the giants and other enormous denizens of Black Ash Plain. When the wyrm’s attention was on one warrior, he concentrated on defense. When its attention shifted to his comrade, he switched to offense.
The tactic by no means guaranteed victory when it was just the two of them fighting in what amounted to a maelstrom of snapping fangs, slashing claws, pounding wings, and a whirling, battering tail. But it took enough of the pressure off Medrash that occasionally, just for an instant, he had room in his head for a flicker of something besides the need to strike the next blow or keep his adversary from scoring on him. And at those moments, he hated the filthy dragon.
That was no surprise. His clan elders had raised him to hate dragons, and Skuthosin and the lesser wyrms who’d served him had done nothing to soften that animosity. But the loathing he was feeling had a different edge to it, and eventually he realized why.
Though he despised dragons of flesh and blood, he cou
ldn’t deny that Bahamut had aided him repeatedly. And by rights, the metallic dragon in front of him ought to worship the Lord of the North Wind and uphold the principles he embodied. It offended Medrash that the creature manifestly didn’t.
As though in response to that realization, he felt another pulse of vileness throbbing from his foe like a demon’s heartbeat. Then he saw a chance to drive his blade into its flank, and the urgency of that swept all other thoughts away.
He landed the cut, but it didn’t slow the dragon down. Both spattered with the blood still streaming from the creature’s neck wound, both panting, he and Khouryn fought on until the tip of the wyrm’s whipping tail swatted the dwarf and bounced him off the cavern wall like a ball.
Medrash caught his breath. But demonstrating the hardiness of his people, Khouryn rolled to his feet, sidestepped the tail when it pounded down in a follow-up attack, and chopped it with his axe.
Still, when he spoke, his voice grated with pain. “Whatever magic you’ve got. Now.”
Medrash realized the sellsword was right. They couldn’t win with steel alone. Maybe if he’d had his shield, and Khouryn his mail, but they didn’t. It was a marvel they’d lasted as long as they had.
But Medrash had been using his gifts. He’d struck with supernatural strength and floated runes of light, symbols to ward a paladin and his allies and hinder any enemy, in the air. What was left to try?
He felt another throb of nauseating wrongness, almost like a nudge. The nudge reminded him of the palpable taint that had clung to Skuthosin and, even more important, to the members of the Cadre.
“I have an idea!” he gasped. “Keep the wyrm busy!”
Khouryn instantly rushed in and attacked. Despite its hugeness and all its other advantages, the startled dragon flinched back from the almost demented assault.
That gave Medrash a chance to back away from the fight. He hated leaving Khouryn to fight alone, but it was necessary.
He focused his resolve and drew down all the power he could hold. What he was about to attempt would exhaust his mystical gifts. If it didn’t work, he and Khouryn would indeed be left to battle without so much as a glimmer of magic to help them.
He shifted his sword to his off hand, raised his gauntleted fist high, and whispered a prayer very much like the one he’d improvised on the drill field outside of Djerad Thymar, on the day the warriors of the Cadre came to ask his help.
The cleansing power of the exorcism locked on to something inside the quicksilver dragon, enabling Medrash to perceive it more clearly. That made his muscles bunch with revulsion, but it also revealed beyond question that the quicksilver wyrm bore Tiamat’s stain. It wasn’t exactly like the possession that had corrupted the dragonborn cultists, but it was close enough to bolster his confidence that he could drag it out.
He willed it forth, and slowly, twisting this way and that, five columns of vapor, each a different color but all noxious and filthy looking, boiled up out of the dragon’s body. The creature didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps Khouryn did, but if so, he was too busy fighting to comment.
The tops of the pillars of mist formed themselves into vague shapes like crested, wedge-shaped heads. As one, they swiveled in Medrash’s direction. Two points of light flowered inside each.
Meanwhile, the quicksilver dragon struck like a snake. Khouryn tried to meet the attack with a chop, but the wyrm stopped short. Its action had been a feint intended to draw just such a response, and it stretched its neck again and seized the axe in its fangs. Khouryn bellowed and somehow managed to rip the weapon free, though the effort sent him staggering off balance.
The smoky heads on their long necks arced over both their host body and Khouryn to strike at Medrash. He didn’t know exactly what would happen if one of them succeeded in touching him, but he assumed it would spoil the exorcism at the very least. Refusing to allow the threat to disrupt his soft, measured recitation, he sidestepped a surge of blue vapor, ducked the green, and retreated from the white. The white head splashed to shapelessness when it struck the surface of the ledge but reformed as the misty neck raised itself once more.
The quicksilver dragon leaped backward, unfortunately without stretching the smoky extrusions past the breaking point. Perhaps the move caught Khouryn by surprise, or maybe he was just too winded to chase the creature. He faltered for the first time, while the wyrm inhaled deeply and cocked its head back. Its breath weapon had renewed itself, and it was about to give the dwarf another blast.
“Torm says, get out!” Medrash bellowed. And one by one, writhing like parasites that a healer and his forceps were plucking from under a patient’s skin, the roots of the misty columns floated free of the quicksilver dragon’s scales.
The uprooting made the smoke-things attack more furiously than ever, and as Medrash ducked, dodged, and shifted his sword back into his dominant hand, he suspected he might pay for his success with his life. But as he cut at the black head, it and its counterparts burst into formlessness, then vanished entirely.
Perhaps unable to swallow its venom back down, the quicksilver wyrm twisted its head and spat it over the drop. That left it vulnerable, or vulnerable for a dragon, anyway. Khouryn charged with his axe raised high.
Medrash detested wyrms, but he still yelled, “Stop!”
* * * * *
Aoth had found a spot where the stony ground rose before dropping away in another cliff. If a fellow crawled up to the edge on his belly, as he, Mardiz-sul, and several other genasi had done, he had cover. He could look out and survey the Old Man’s Head—which did indeed vaguely resemble a head with a smear of white and gray cloud at the top to represent the hair—without too much concern that a sentry would spot him spying.
Mardiz-sul took a long breath then said, “Well, it doesn’t look too bad.”
Aoth smiled. “That’s the spirit. But actually, it’s even worse than it looks. There’s an earthmote floating near the summit. It has the clouds and some sort of enchantment to hide it, so you can’t see it, but I can.”
The resolution in the firesoul’s face twisted into dismay. “And that’s where Vairshekellabex has his lair?”
“There’s some kind of bridge connecting the mote and the mountain, so I assume that at least some of the wyrmkeepers are over there too.”
“But doesn’t that make things … difficult?”
Aoth certainly thought so but knew he had to project confidence for the firestormers’ benefit. “It’s just a tactical problem we need to solve. Come on. Let’s all go chew it over.”
They crawled backward until it was safe to stand. Then, the more fastidious among them brushing themselves off, they rejoined the rest of the company on the saddleback where they’d left them to rest, munch the tart, wild blueberries that were ripening there, and await developments. They all gave Aoth and his companions inquiring looks of one sort or another.
They’re nervous, said Jet, speaking mind to mind. Now that it’s actually dragon time.
I can fix that.
Or make it ten times worse, the griffon replied.
“All right,” called Aoth, “listen up! Here’s the nut we have to crack.” He laid out the situation.
As he’d expected, it daunted a fair number of them. Eyes grew wide. People whispered to their neighbors. He drew a flash and a whine from the head of his spear to startle them silent and keep them from feeding one another’s fear.
“We can do this,” he said. “Remember, the griffons can fly, and so can the windsouls among us.”
“Captain Fezim is right!” Son-liin said, and Aoth didn’t doubt her support was sincere. She was eager to accomplish the mission, both for its own sake and to prove she wasn’t the liability she’d appeared to be on the first stage of the journey.
But he also suspected that, in a way, she was striking a pose for Gaedynn’s benefit. She’d been spending a lot of time with him since he’d unmasked Yemere, and Aoth fancied he could almost see her watching from the corner of her eye to see if she
impressed him.
“I agree,” Cera said through blue-stained lips. “The Keeper of the Yellow Sun wants us to do this, to save the innocents who would otherwise die when the dragon and his servants venture forth again. The god will watch over us every step of the way.”
“And I revere the gods and their priestesses,” an earthsoul said. “Don’t think I don’t. But …” He spread his brown, gold-etched hands.
“But you know dragons make terrible foes,” Aoth said. “Fair enough. But remember, we’re firestormers. We’re pretty terrible ourselves. We beat the horrors the blue mist birthed. We beat the medusa and the orcs. We killed one wyrm already, even though he was hiding in our midst. We can do this.” He took a breath. “Especially since we have a weapon you don’t know about.”
Mardiz-sul frowned. Flame flowed along one of the golden lines above his right eye. “Why did you wait until now to tell us?”
“Because the creature doesn’t make a comfortable traveling companion,” Aoth replied, “and because I’m not proud of having such a being in my service even to achieve a worthy goal. But the time has come when we truly need him.” He turned to Cera. “Is he nearby?”
She nodded. “When we drew near to the Old Man’s Head, I prompted him to follow closer.”
“Then pull in the rest of the line.”
Cera removed the shadow gem from the pouch on her belt. Genasi close enough to get a good look muttered at its uncanny appearance. They haven’t seen anything yet, said Jet.
Cera gazed into the stone. Her jaw clenched when the inside of it flickered blue. The connection to an unnatural thing such as Alasklerbanbastos was still hurting her, even though she did her best to hide it. Feeling guilty, Aoth told himself that at least she shouldn’t have to suffer it much longer.
For a while, nothing else happened. Among the genasi, tense expectation began to give way to puzzlement and doubt. Then the dracolich crawled through the gap between two weathered granite outcrops, and several firestormers cried out in alarm.
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