From the corner of his eye, Diero saw the dragonkin take hold of the windlass. From his stance, it was plain he meant to give it a vigorous turn or two.
The wearer of purple rounded on the hulking reptile. Annoyance made his voice shrill: “No! I didn’t tell you to do that.”
The creature grunted. “Want truth, right?”
Diero sighed. “He’s telling the truth. He did from the start.”
As far as the wizard was concerned, his fellow Turmian had behaved with admirable good sense. He had nothing to reveal that would cause additional problems for his superiors or his people, so why not speak and spare himself unnecessary pain? It was simply his misfortune that candor couldn’t forestall all of it. Diero had still needed to torture him for a while, just to make sure his story didn’t change as the agony tore away at him.
The dragonkin shook its head. “Lying, I think.”
It verged on being comical, in an irritating sort of way. “You just want to cripple him, so he’s of no use except as food.”
“Well … hungry! Can’t eat beans, peas, and other muck humans grow. Can’t hardly fish, or somebody sailing by sees us. Don’t hardly get any of slaves, when they die–dragons always take.”
Diero sighed in grudging sympathy. “I know it’s difficult, being on short rations. I assure you, I have my own problems and frustrations.” Such as the constant need to pander to Eshcaz’s vanity, demeaning work for one of the ablest magicians for hundreds of miles around. “But it will all be worth it when we rule Faerûn as the dracoliches’ deputies.”
“Hope so,” the dragonkin grumbled.
“Well, to reach that joyful tomorrow, we must observe some discipline today. Look at the arms and shoulders on this one. He can do a lot of carving before the work breaks him down.” Diero studied the reptile’s lizardlike features. It was tricky to interpret dragonkin expressions, but he was finally picking up the knack. “So I can count on you to give him to the overseers with his limbs still in their sockets?”
The torturer bared its fangs, but in such a way as to convey disappointment, not defiance. “Yes.”
Tu’ala’keth lingered in the niche in the bedrock long after Eshcaz wearied of fishing for her and flew away, and she was still there when night darkened the waters. For she felt she had nowhere else to go.
Her burns, whip cuts, and bruised ribs smarted. She could have eased the discomfort with a prayer, but chose to endure it instead. It seemed a fitting if insufficient rebuke for her misplaced self-assurance and general ineptitude.
The worst of it was that Anton had readily predicted the fiasco, and she’d ignored him. She’d only been able to see one path to her goal, and assumed her constricted vision equated to revelation.
But perhaps Umberlee had never revealed anything. Maybe it was merely Tu’ala’keth’s deluded self-importance that made her believe the goddess had charged her with a vital task or provided aid and guidance along the way.
Perhaps Anton was right, and the powers didn’t care about anything mortals attempted during their brief little lives.
Suddenly, after a lifetime of certitude, Tu’ala’keth was sure of only one thing: She’d failed and survived to rue it. It would be better, perhaps, if Eshcaz had burned her to ash, or torn her apart.
But he hadn’t, and in time, when the emptiness in her belly made her feel weak and ill, the same brute instinct for survival that had made her flee the dragon drove her forth from her hiding place. She glided with the current until she spied a perch large enough to satisfy her hunger then veered in its direction.
Recognizing the threat, the fish fled, but she put on a burst of speed and closed with it anyway. If she’d still had her trident, she would have speared it, but as it was, she had to kill it as one wild thing killed another. She seized it with her hands, sank her teeth into its scaly back, and biting and rending, tore the thrashing creature apart.
Fine bones crunched between her teeth. Blood billowed, tingeing and perfuming the water. Despite her bleak mood, the perch’s raw flesh was sweet, and she knew a sudden exultation at the success of the hunt, at extinguishing another’s life to perpetuate her own vitality.
With that unexpected ecstasy came a renewed comprehension of what every creature ought to understand, but which even priestesses sometimes failed to appreciate. This act of predation was sacred. It was Umberlee.
In grasping anew the essential nature of the goddess, Tu’ala’keth discerned that even if her schemes had been flawed, her intentions had not. If the Queen of the Depths manifested herself whenever one creature devoured another, then plainly, the worship of sentient beings wasn’t too small a matter to engage her interest. She craved it, demanded it, and punished those who denied it, just as her creed declared.
Accordingly, it actually had been Tu’ala’keth’s duty to reinvigorate such worship. She needn’t doubt when the pattern implicit in all that had happened—the coming of the dragon flight, her discovery of Anton, the convenient vulnerabilities of needy Shandri Clayhill and vain, lecherous Vurgrom—proved it.
The problem was that she’d ultimately lost her way. She’d misunderstood what was necessary. But that didn’t mean she’d failed, not yet, not while she could still fight, kill, and embrace her goddess in the holy act of shedding blood. She simply had to see more clearly.
Though they hadn’t in fact confirmed it, she remained convinced the cultists had the answer she needed. The flow of events had borne her to Tan for a reason. But the wyrm worshipers refused to help her. How, then, was she to proceed?
It was plain enough: She’d have to wrest their secrets from them. Anton had even told her so, and she now realized he’d still been speaking as Umberlee’s champion, even if he didn’t know it himself.
But obviously, she couldn’t do it alone and had no idea where to turn for assistance. Serôs had lost one army to the dragon flight and was frantically piecing together another. In such dire circumstances, it was inconceivable that the Nantarn Council would give her any troops for what they’d view as a purely speculative venture in the strange, irrelevant world above the waves. Nor would Anton’s folk be any quicker to heed a stranger, a member of an unfamiliar race and the cleric of a deity they dreaded rather than loved.
Still, she abruptly realized, that left one possibility. Flicking bits of perch from her fingers—tiny fish came rushing and swarming to vie for the scraps—she silently summoned her seahorses.
Anton’s hands were raw and cramped, his knees sore, his shoulders on fire. He was accustomed to swinging a sword and sailing a ship. He’d performed many sorts of manual labor as he played one role or another. But none of it had prepared him for the grueling work of chiseling unholy symbols in a granite floor.
Part of the problem was the residual ache in his joints. At the wearer of purple’s insistence, the torturer had stopped short of mangling him for good and all, but that didn’t mean he’d escaped unscathed. Maybe, in time, he’d find the toil easier to bear.
Or maybe he’d gradually wear out, starve, and die, as the other slaves did. All things considered, he’d rather not remain a prisoner long enough to find out.
Accordingly, weary and wretched as he felt, it was time to start acting like a spy again. He lifted his head to survey his fellow thralls.
Checkmate’s edge, what a dismal lot they were, slumped in the malodorous little cave that served as their pen. It wasn’t their emaciation or festering whip marks that dismayed him, those were unavoidable. It was the fact that they weren’t even whispering to one another, just sitting or sprawling in silence. Misery and hopelessness had hollowed them out inside.
Still they were the only allies he was likely to find. He pondered whom to approach first, and how, and the wrought-iron grate rasped open. Dragonkin emptied wooden pails of vegetables and hardtack onto the floor.
As the grille clanked shut again and the key twisted in the lock, the slaves lunged for their daily meal. Though desperate to grab as much they could, most stopped s
hort of actually laying hands on their fellows. But a tall man, with a broken nose and a livid ridge of scar on his jaw that even shaggy whiskers couldn’t hide, seized two of the frailest-looking captives by the shoulders and flung them backward, in effect usurping their shares for himself. Maybe it was such merciless theft that had kept him looking vital and strong, and his movements, quick and sure.
At any rate, sore and spent as he was, Anton felt little enthusiasm for the prospect of accosting the resident bully. But it was an opportunity to claim a leadership role for himself. So, joints aching, he clambered to his feet. “Leave those fellows alone. Everybody eats.”
The tall man sneered. “You’re new, so I’ll explain how things work in here. My name is Jamark, and I decide what happens and what doesn’t. So you sit back down, shut up, and you can go without your supper tonight to teach you respect.”
“If you want me to respect you,” Anton said, “you’ll have to beat it into me.”
Jamark shrugged. “We can do it that way, too.” He raised his fists and shuffled forward.
When Anton tried to close his own hands, they throbbed. He wasn’t sure he could make a good, tight fist, or grip and hold an adversary with his accustomed strength. But he’d just have to cope.
Suddenly Jamark abandoned his mincing boxer’s advance for a bellow and a headlong charge. Caught by surprise, Anton tried to twist out of the way but didn’t make it. His adversary slammed him back into the granite wall, jolting pain through his ill-treated body. Some of the other slaves exclaimed at the impact. Well, at least he’d succeeded in getting them to make some noise.
Jamark reached for this throat. Anton jammed his arms up between those of the other man, breaking the chokehold, then hammered his opponent’s face with the bottoms of his fists. The blows stabbed pain through his hands.
But they didn’t balk Jamark, who hooked a punch into his temple. Anton faltered for a split second, time enough for the other man to bull him back into the wall. It bounced his skull against the stone, splashing sparks across his vision, and drove the wind from his lungs. Jamark caught him, threw him to the floor, and heaved a leg high to stamp on him.
Anton couldn’t avoid the attack. Caught between his foe and the wall, he had nowhere to go. His only hope was to stop it. He grabbed just in time to catch the descending foot and yank and twist it viciously. The ruffian lost his balance and fell.
Anton threw himself on top of Jamark and pounded elbow strikes into his kidneys and any other vulnerable spot he could reach. The ruffian reared up and cocked his arm back for a particularly brutal punch. But it was a mistake to wind up that way; it afforded Anton a good opening to smash him in the teeth. Jamark’s head snapped backward, and blood flowing from his gashed lips, he collapsed. Maybe he was still conscious—his eyes were open—but that final blow had knocked the fight out of him.
Anton turned to the other slaves. “After all that,” he panted, “I hope you bastards saved some food for me.”
They had, and once he caught his breath, he settled down to eat it. Alas, it only took a few bites. As he finished, Jamark sat up and gave him a glower.
“You were lucky,” the bully said, “and you’re stupid, too. Those men I pulled back are dying anyway. That little bit of food won’t do them any good. It could make all the difference to the rest of us.”
Anton smiled. “Somehow, I had the impression you didn’t mean to share it with anyone else.”
Jamark wiped his bloody lips then spat. “So what if I didn’t? I was loyal to my shipmates in my time, but in here, it’s every man for himself. It’s your only hope of stretching your life out as long as possible. Though it’s up to you whether you’d rather do that or die fast and end the pain.”
“I’d rather escape, return with the Turmian fleet, and kill Eshcaz, the wearer of purple, and all their flunkies. Maybe we can if we all hang together.”
Jamark smiled sadly. “I thought that, too, when I first got here. But it’s hopeless.”
“Even for a sorcerer?”
The other man eyed him dubiously. “I haven’t met many mages who could brawl like you.”
“Still, I know a few tricks, and the cultists aren’t aware of it.” Tu’ala’keth hadn’t mentioned it, and since Diero hadn’t known to ask about it, Anton had experienced no difficulty withholding the secret, even when the torment was at its most excruciating.
“Then … you can whisk us all away from here?”
It pained Anton to dowse the other man’s sudden flicker of hope. “No. I’m nowhere near that powerful. But I can at least get out of this cage. I assume a guard comes by from time to time?”
“Yes.”
“Does he—or it—take a head count?”
“Not as I’ve noticed.” Jamark grinned. “Dragonkin aren’t all that clever. I doubt it could count unless it did it out loud, pointing with its finger.”
“That’s all right, then.” Anton rose, and everyone pivoted to look at him. He explained that he planned to find some food and that they needed to stay put. One could leave, but if they all disappeared, it would be noticed. He pressed a finger to his lips then turned his attention to the iron grille sealing the chamber.
He whispered the charm of opening, and the lock clacked as it disengaged. The difficult part was easing the door open. In dire need of oil, the hinges squealed as they had before, and he winced at the noise. But no one came rushing to investigate.
He pushed the grate almost back to its starting position, but left it unlatched. With luck, no casual observer would notice the difference. Then he skulked down the passage.
To his relief, creeping through the benighted caverns wasn’t quite as difficult as he’d feared. The reptiles might be able to see in the dark, but the humans couldn’t and had mounted flickering oil lamps at intervals along the walls. A good many creatures and people were still up and moving about—probably necromancers slept by day, like vampires—but the acoustics were such that he could hear them coming, and the complex was so maze-like that it was usually possible to duck into a niche or side gallery until they passed.
Finally he found what he was seeking, a nook the cultists had converted into a makeshift larder. With a frown of regret, he passed by the freshest and most appealing food—a smoked ham, cherries—in favor of dried and preserved stuff the madmen had presumably laid in to eat when everything else ran out … or to grudgingly feed to their captives. One box yielded ship’s biscuits, hard as oak and crawling with mites. Another contained leathery venison jerky and a burlap sack full of dried apples.
He gobbled some of each then stuffed more inside his shirt. As he was finishing up, he heard noise in the passage outside: trudging footsteps and the swish of a dragging tail.
Most of the crates and barrels were flush with the wall, and he had no time to shift them. He hastily crouched down behind one of the few boxes someone had left in the center of the chamber.
The cursed thing just wasn’t big enough. If the dragonkin glanced in his direction, it was almost inevitably going to spot him. The Red Knight knew, he was in no shape for another fight, but he whispered an incantation and sprouted a sharp, bony ridge from the bottom of his hand.
The footsteps halted, and he heard the rasp of the dragonkin’s respiration. It was standing in the doorway, peering in, without a doubt.
Could he kill such a formidable creature with a single strike, before it raised an alarm? To say the least, it seemed unlikely. Still he gathered himself to jump up and charge, and the dragonkin grunted and slouched on its way. It hadn’t noticed him.
Miraculous. It occurred to him that Tu’ala’keth would attribute the luck to Umberlee. Or she would have, before he tried to murder her.
He gave the dragonkin time to move off then slipped back to the cell, closed the door behind him, and divvied up the pilfered food. The other captives wolfed it down as voraciously as before.
“This was dangerous,” said Jamark through a mouthful of jerky. “If the cultists find o
ut, they’ll punish us.”
“I notice the risk didn’t stop you from grabbing a portion. I didn’t take too much, and only the stuff they’re least likely to miss. If they do, they may well assume one of their own has been pilfering since I gather even they’re a little hungry.”
“Well … yes. They haven’t been to Mirg Isle to reprovision in a while. Too busy preparing for their hellish rituals.”
“Right, and on top of that, we’re locked up, so how could we possibly steal? But I will. Enough food to keep us strong, and weapons, too. That may be trickier. But I’ll wager I can at least find a knife or two no one will worry about and a place to hide them until we’re ready.”
“For what?”
“Here’s one possibility. The cultists have a cog. You and I know how to sail her.”
“So we steal her and put out to sea. Then Eshcaz and the other wyrms fly after us and kill us.”
Anton smiled. “All right, maybe it isn’t a perfect scheme. But we’ll keep thinking … and watch for an opportunity.”
CHAPTER 10
The realm called the Xedran Reefs was not, in fact, all coral reef. Most of it was open seabed lying under shallow, sunlit water aglitter with a multitude of flitting multicolored fish.
Tu’ala’keth had plotted a course through the region so as to skirt all the reefs but the one that was her destination then proceeded warily. It was the only way to avoid sentries and patrols who would otherwise attack her on sight. But now that her goal was within reach, she guided her seahorse, and its riderless counterpart swimming along behind, through clear, open water some distance above the sea floor. She wanted Yzil’s guards to spot her, and with luck, recognize her.
Where were they? It had been years since she’d visited Exzethlix, but it was hard to believe the xenophobic inhabitants had grown so lax. As the minutes passed without incident, a ghastly thought occurred to her: The dragon flight had passed this way and destroyed the city, denying her the aid she so desperately needed.
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