Brimstone Angels

by Erin M. Evans

  Still Brin was sure of none of these things, and his stomach pulled with the familiar unease that puzzling out someone else’s motives always gave him.

  “Where are you coming from?” Brin asked the strange priest.

  Tam smiled again, but there was still that look in his eye. As if he knew they were playing a game. As if he could manipulate and maneuver all day long against a little turncoat Cormyrian. As if he knew exactly how Brin’s stomach felt, and how weak that made him.

  “Westgate,” he said.

  “Did you flee Neverwinter then?”

  “No, just lending a hand.” Tam seemed to consider Brin a moment, and he was a little less certain of his assessment—Brin’s mother used to give him a similar look. “Are you sure nothing’s weighing on you?”

  “It’s weighing on me that you keep asking that,” Brin said as lightly as he could. “I must look wretched. How soon will we reach Neverwinter, do you think?”

  Tam began to answer, but a ululating cry out of the forest startled both of them, and no amount of maneuvering or manipulating would have made any difference then.

  “Come on,” Havilar said, stomping her foot. “Hurry up. A good hard sprint and we’ll catch them.”

  It was too hot to be sprinting after anyone. Farideh shifted her haversack to her right shoulder. Her scar itched where the strap had rubbed against it for the last few miles. The sweat that trickled over her skin made the itch sting in places.

  “Do that,” Mehen said, coming to stand beside her on the crest of the road, “and you’ll spook our bounty.” He raised a spyglass to one eye.

  “You don’t even know the bounty’s on the caravan,” Havilar protested. “Because you won’t let us catch up!”

  “What do you think is going to happen if we wait?” Farideh asked, joining them. “We’re miles from anywhere.” Ahead on the road, the caravan that had been slipping in and out of sight for the past day was close enough to make out the black dog hanging its head over the edge of the last cart, the bright pink of its tongue.

  “This one might … I don’t know … run into the woods and join up with bandits,” Havilar said, “and then what will we do? Hmm? Creep through a bandit fortress for another three bloody tendays?”

  Mehen collapsed the spyglass. “Havi, calm down. Let them get ahead. Let them get to the next waystation if they need to. Then at least we’ll have a room and someone we can buy passage to the next Tormish temple from. We’ll catch up. Go practice with your glaive.”

  Farideh watched the last wagon hobble over a stone in the roadway. Three tendays had passed since Mehen had taken on the bounty in Proskur, and more and more Farideh suspected they were on the wrong track altogether.

  Not that she was an expert; Mehen had done such work in the time between leaving his clan and settling in Arush Vayem, and returned to it quickly enough when they left there. But none of the bounties they’d had in the last six months had been this difficult—

  Her scar suddenly flared, hotter than the baked road. She drew a sharp breath and clapped a hand to her shoulder. The pain faded, but Farideh knew it would come again. It came when the cambion was watching her, and it meant he was angry or annoyed or just wanting her attention. It meant he would come. Farideh tensed.

  She had no idea why Lorcan was stirred-up—the gods probably didn’t know why he was stirred-up. If he came … Oh Hells, if he came with the caravan so near, they would all be in so much danger. And Mehen would never let her forget it. She rubbed her arm, as if she could rub away the lingering sensation of Lorcan’s pique.

  Calm, she told herself. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe more slowly. None of that’s happened.

  The burn flared again.

  She opened her eyes and cursed. She’d told the cambion—repeatedly—that he couldn’t just appear in front of Mehen and not expect to get them both into trouble. At least Lorcan had stopped appearing as if he were merely coming by to borrow some butter. Now, he needled at her brand until she removed herself from any company. It was only a matter of time before Mehen noticed that, too, not that Lorcan cared.

  Bastard, she thought, then wished she hadn’t. She wondered what he wanted.

  Farideh looked back at Havilar and at Mehen, who was watching her grimly.

  “Fari, come spar with your sister.”

  Farideh watched her sister’s fluid sweeps of the wicked-looking blade, her quick jabs with its sharp end.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need practice,” Mehen said. “And it will help … It will give you something to distract yourself with.”

  Farideh pursed her lips, but drew her short sword. She turned the hilt in her hand to get the proper grip, the leather wrappings slick and still uncomfortable in her damp palms. Havilar gave her a skeptical look.

  “So are we doing basic passes, then?”

  Farideh sighed. “Whatever you’d like.”

  “You can’t do what I’d like,” Havilar said. “But it’s not going to help me to go easy on you with Kidney Carver.”

  “Kidney Carver?”

  “My glaive,” Havilar said. “It needs a name. Every warrior worth talking about has a weapon with a name.”

  “Kidney Carver?”

  “It’s … carved kidneys,” she said. “Or close enough.”

  “Girls,” Mehen warned.

  Havilar rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said to Farideh, “get your guard up. You start defensive.”

  Farideh readjusted her grip and brought the sword up in front of her. The glaive swung down in a careful arc, and she caught it on the flat of the blade, shoving it aside. Havi tried again, sweeping the glaive up under Farideh’s sword this time, and Farideh stepped out of its reach, knocking Havilar’s guard open.

  Farideh went through the motions like the steps in a dance she only half knew. Parry, dodge, parry, reverse … She counted on the fact that Havilar would go through the passes as rote as possible, if only because she thought Farideh couldn’t handle anything more. It gave Farideh a chance to think about other things—about the bounty, about Mehen’s disappointed expression, about the searing pain that laced her shoulder—so she didn’t bother giving Havilar any other impression.

  Farideh’s brand stung so sharply she gasped. At the same moment, Havilar’s glaive came up hard into Farideh’s sword.

  Farideh yelped and loosed her grip. The glaive locked under her guard, and sent her sword sailing over Havilar’s head and into the brambles beyond. Mehen heaved a great sigh and covered his face with one hand.

  “Gods,” Havilar said. “Did you throw that?”

  “You know I didn’t,” Farideh snapped. She wiped the sweat from her hand on her skirt. Her shoulder was on fire. “Go get it, would you?” she begged.

  “Hells, no,” Havilar said. “I don’t want to dig through brambles. You lost it. You get it.”

  “Fari, go get your damned sword,” Mehen said. “A few brambles won’t hurt you.”

  Farideh hesitated. She couldn’t tell Mehen why she didn’t want to go. Better he think she was so fragile as to be afraid of some thorns. Not like Havilar, she thought, as she ducked into a break in the canes where some animal had made a path, and wove her way through the brambles.

  The fat smell of blackberries baking in the sun and the buzz of wasps swallowed Farideh. The brambles snagged at her loose robe with every step. When she’d woken that morning to the already-humid air, she’d thought it better than her leather armor. Now, as she untangled thorns from the fabric and waited for Lorcan to appear, she just felt foolish.

  She finally stepped free of the thorns and into the open forest. On the other side of the brambles, the hill fell away down through a sparse gathering of pines and spreading maples, their feet carpeted in ferns and overlaid with the remnants of cracked boulders.

  And no devils. She waited a moment, but there was nothing. Perhaps he’d had his fun needling her while Mehen grew suspicious.

  A little searching found her sword
caught on the overhanging canes that had launched themselves over their predecessors in greedy arcs down the hill. She ducked beneath them and wound her hand between the thorns and blackberries, then snaked the sword out, hilt-first, the same way. Through the brambles, she could just hear Havilar and Mehen’s voices, but not what they were saying. She sheathed the sword.

  A breeze stirred the air and lifted the sweaty hair off Farideh’s neck.

  Out of the breeze, a pair of hands grabbed ahold of her shoulders. Startled, Farideh turned sharply, bringing her elbow around to slam into her attacker’s arm. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of Lorcan’s red skin and his wings. She pulled her arm back against her chest, sending her off balance, and onto one knee.

  “Gods,” she hissed. She glared up at him. “Why must you do that?”

  “I was starting to worry your arm had been cut off,” Lorcan said, sounding anything but worried. “Or were you just playing hard to get?”

  Farideh let him help her to her feet. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You forced me to,” he said. “You’re going to get hurt if you keep on like this.”

  “What? Havi? She gets enthusiastic, but she knows when to pull—”

  “Not your sister—although we can discuss what an utter waste of time that was, later. No, I meant the orcs.”

  Farideh shook her head. “What orcs?”

  He turned her to face north, and left his hands lingering on her shoulders. “Other side of the road, up on the hillside there. There’s an ambush waiting. Maybe a dozen fellows—axes, arrows, at least one shaman. A wonder dear Mehen didn’t spot it.”

  “That’s …” She turned out of his hands. “… kind of you, actually. We’ll avoid them.”

  “Of course you will.” He smiled and her heart beat to match the throb of her scar. “And even if you didn’t, what are a few orcs? You’d burn them to ashes. I’m not worried about that.”

  “What then?”

  “Darling,” he said, taking hold of her arm and walking her back toward the part in the brambles, “they don’t want you. They don’t even know you’re here. They’re waiting for that caravan, which is carrying a score of people, including children. Also at least two priests—the kind who won’t be happy to see you. The orcs are out of supplies, they’re lost and they’re hungry—they aren’t looking to leave survivors. Which means you’re going to have to decide.” He ran a finger over her jaw and said, low in her ear, “Do you keep safe and hidden and wait for the people to die, or do you aid the caravan with everything you have?”

  A scream split the air, and Lorcan vanished. Farideh stumbled at the sudden lack of him.

  A part of her—the part that was still Arush Vayem through and through—insisted she drop to the ground and stay behind the wall of thorns where it was safe. This wasn’t her fight. She couldn’t help. And if she did, the priests would be after her.

  She pushed past it and past the brambles. It might be safe this breath. It wouldn’t be safe if the orcs triumphed. And people were going to die.

  “Ambush!” she cried, as she broke through to the road. “There’s an ambush! Orcs!”

  Mehen and Havilar were already on their feet, watching the caravan downhill. Mehen’s yellow eyes locked on Farideh and he pulled her through the last of the brush.

  “A dozen,” she said. “Archers, axemen, a priest or something. There are children in the caravan.”

  Mehen spat out a curse and scooped up his pack. “Where did you—”

  “Lorcan,” she said, her pulse in her throat. She took up her haversack.

  “Bloody, karshoji henish—”

  “I know. He was only warning—”

  “Later,” Mehen growled. “Come on.” They raced down the hill toward the caravan and the orcs pouring out of the woods. Mehen slid to a stop, taking in the battlefield.

  “Farideh, stay here,” Mehen barked.

  “I could cast—”

  “No,” he shouted, halting long enough to turn and make sure she stopped as well. “Keep out of the way. You stab them if they get too close. Havilar, with me. Don’t get sloppy.”

  “Wait!” Farideh called, but they both sprinted into the chaos of the road, and were gone.

  A few score feet separated Farideh from the end of the caravan, from the clatter of blades, from the bellows of orcs, the screaming horses, and the singing of arrows through the air. From the heavy thud that carried farther than she’d ever expected as an arrow sank deeply into a man’s chest and toppled him. Mehen was right—she was too nervous for fighting.

  She had to do something. She could do something—she thought of the spells Lorcan had given her. She could take out the archers without entering the fray. It was a better solution than Mehen’s, by far. She sheathed her sword.

  Spurred by her nerves, the powers that swirled through her spread outward in a cloak of shadowy smoke, a miasma that blurred her and made it harder to spot where she stood. A little protection at least.

  She tried to focus, to draw up the powers Lorcan’s pact granted her, but her nerves were jangling. There were too many eyes ready to stare at her.

  There are too many eyes, she thought, but they’re too busy to notice you. If you don’t do something they’ll all be dead, and their eyes will be treats for the crows.

  She clutched at the stream of magic that ran through her and hurled a rain of fiery bolts toward the forest, far from the crowd, over where the arrows seemed to fall from. She cast another, frustrated—who knew if she were even hitting anything?

  Then she saw a boy, about her own age, running toward the thorns that lined the road, chased by orcs. He didn’t see her—she was sure—but she saw the look of fear in his eyes.

  The orcs were going to kill him, and he knew it.

  No one else was going to save him. She drew hard on the powers of the Hells.

  ACHORUS OF BOWSTRINGS SANG OUT AND THE DRIVER OF THE WAGON behind them screamed, an arrow sunk into his side. Orcs boiled out of the brush, axes clattering on their shields. The little girls in the wagon woke, eyes wide, startling at screams and too shocked to listen to their father’s orders to lie flat in the cart.

  All around Brin, people who’d been riding along, quiet as you please, pulled weapons from under provisions and wagon seats and jumped from their carts under a hail of arrows. Tam leaped out of the cart as well and unwound the spiked chain he wore around his narrow waist.

  “Shar and hrast.” The priest spat. He shoved a dagger into Brin’s hand. “Under the cart. Stay low and hamstring them as they pass.” His chain lashed out, suddenly alive with holy fire, and caught an orc that sprang onto the road by the throat.

  Brin’s ears were buzzing loud enough to drown out the screaming. He looked down at the blade in his hand—rougher than the one in his pack, smaller than the short sword he had in the cart bed. What had the priest said?

  What had Constancia said? Loyal Fury, you fight like an actor. You’ll faint the first time someone draws a sword on you, Torm help me—

  Brin gripped the blade, despite the fact he did feel light-headed and sick—he knew how to use a bloody dagger!

  He looked up in time to duck a notched axe blade. It sliced past his head and slammed into the side of the wagon.

  Instinct made him turn the dagger into the orc’s partly bare chest. It sliced through his pectoral and immediately caught on a rib. The orc screamed, a sound more of rage than pain, as he struggled against the stuck axe head.

  Brin bolted.

  The loose dirt of the forest floor made him slip, and his legs seemed suddenly too long and clumsy, but he ran as fast as he could as the clashing sounds of battle built behind him. There was no room in his head for thoughts of what Constancia would think, what the priest would think, what Torm—the god of duty himself—would think. All Brin knew was that he needed to get as far as possible from the orc with the axe.

  Another fearsome roar rattled the air and a creature—half man and half dragon it seemed—bar
reled up the road. The refugees turned to contend with this new front. But the huge, wicked-looking sword the dragon-man carried avoided the humans and cut into one orc after another. He roared, and the crackle of lightning spread out from his mouth, leaping from orc to orc.

  After him, on feet as quick as a deer’s, a devil dressed in well-fitted scale armor used a glaive to stab one orc and then vaulted over his body to kick a second.

  Brin’s foot caught a wagon rut as he sprinted past. He sprawled forward, skinning his nose on the ground. He turned over, at the thud of feet. Axe-wielding orcs, three of them now, were chasing him down.

  He hadn’t even made it across the road.

  The orc in the lead slowed, just enough to pull his axe back over one shoulder.

  Torm forgive me, Brin thought. He wished he could apologize to Constancia.

  Crack!

  With a gust of flames and shadows, something, some creature stood between Brin and the orcs, a horned thing in purple robes with a twitching tail. It raised both hands, gave a soft gasp of effort, and where the robes had fallen down its arms—its human arms—Brin saw veins suffused with black. Horrible clouds of something caustic and dark billowed out toward the orcs. Their screams drowned out the sounds of the fight beyond.

  The thing turned on Brin. He glimpsed a face like a girl’s, but with strange eyes and horns. A devil.

  “Oh, Loyal Torm,” he managed, before she grabbed him firmly by the arm, and he was yanked … away. The world dropped out from under him, and it felt as if he were being dragged through a bonfire.

  He blinked, and suddenly, he was coughing at the sharp taste of brimstone and looking up at the fir tree that had been a solid twenty feet to his right when she’d first grabbed his arm.