Brimstone Angels

by Erin M. Evans

  “I don’t have any glasses,” Brin said apologetically. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “Brin, we live on the road,” Havilar said. “We’re used to not drinking out of glasses.”

  “Oh. Right,” he said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the mouth of the bottle. “And I suppose Mehen doesn’t stand on etiquette.”

  Havilar snorted. “Gods, can you imagine Mehen teaching us how to curtsey and take tea? ‘Put your damn back straight,’ ” she bellowed. “ ‘You curtsey from the hip not the knee! You’re leaving yourself wide open for a snub from the queen of Tethyr.’ ”

  Farideh giggled. “ ‘No, no, no!’ ” she growled back. “ ‘M’henish, how many times do I have to tell you, pass the biscuits with your off-hand so you can parry the zzar with your stronger arm!’ ” Havilar laughed so hard she pounded the floor.

  Brin took a sip from the whiskey bottle. “How long have you been traveling with him?”

  “Forever,” Havilar took the whiskey bottle from him. “He adopted us. He’s our father.”

  That took Brin a moment to absorb. “But,” he finally said, “you call him ‘Mehen.’ Not ‘Father’?”

  “Dragonborn call their parents by name,” Farideh said.

  “What happened to your real parents?” Brin said, and Farideh felt a surge of irritation. Mehen was a real parent, more so than whoever had left them behind, but she bit her tongue. She knew what he meant even if she didn’t like the way he said it.

  Havilar shrugged. “Someone left us at the village gates.”

  “And there wasn’t … a note? Or a clue in the blankets?”

  Farideh and Havilar glanced at each other. Arush Vayem was the sort of place people went to hide from their pasts, to start over right when that wasn’t possible in other lands. They both knew if someone had left a pair of babies at the gates of Arush Vayem, there was no need of a message to say that they didn’t want the twins back.

  “It’s not a story, Brin,” Farideh said. She sipped the whiskey. It tasted sharp and woody and the burn of the alcohol tickled her throat. “We’re not the secret princesses of Abeir or something.”

  “Where are your parents?” Havilar asked.

  “Oh,” Brin said vaguely. “Off somewhere. They’re … adventurers, you know?” He glanced up at them a moment, as if he were weighing something against their expressions, and Farideh wondered what it was. “They go away for years and so I ended up in a strict Tormish school.” He took a careful sip of whiskey. “I … I left. I’m not cut out to be Tormish.”

  Havilar snorted. “I’ll say. Tormites don’t steal whiskey.”

  “They do buy it,” Brin said. “A look of discomfort passed over his features and was gone. “Where’s your village?”

  “Near Tymanther,” Farideh said. “In the Smoking Mountains.”

  “You won’t have heard of it,” Havilar said. “It’s a secret village.”

  Farideh sighed. “Havi.”

  “What?” Havilar said. She took a sip of the whiskey. “Who is he going to tell?” She turned back to Brin. “It’s just a village of people who don’t want to be found.” Farideh stopped herself from sighing again.

  “You mean criminals?” Brin asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

  “She means outcasts,” Farideh said, passing the bottle back to him. “It’s just a village of people who … didn’t belong somewhere else.”

  “Lots of dragonborn,” Havilar said. “It seems like it’s rather easy to get cast out of a clan, if you ask me. And humans who didn’t fit in somewhere.”

  “And tieflings,” Farideh said.

  “Who don’t fit in anywhere,” Havilar said with a giggle. “Also two half-orcs and a dwarf that raises yaks.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Inheritance dispute,” Farideh said, giggling herself. “He says he wanted to quit his clan right.”

  “Don’t ask him about it,” Havilar said, taking the whiskey. “Or you’ll know far too much about his brother-in-law. Far. Too. Much.”

  “If I ever find your secret village,” Brin said, “I’ll make certain I avoid it. Why did you leave? To find your parents?”

  Farideh dropped her eyes and shut her mouth. Havilar took an extra-long swig of whiskey that ended with a gasp and a cough. “Whew!” she cried. “This is strong.”

  Brin was watching them carefully, his eyes skipping from one to the other. The longer they didn’t answer, Farideh thought, the more he’d think of his own reasons, and the more he thought of his own reasons, the more awful those reasons might become. Robbery. Murder. Devil worship.

  Were they worse than binding yourself to a devil you couldn’t say no to?

  “Even outcasts have outcasts,” Farideh said lightly. “We … were involved in some mischief that upset the wrong people. It wasn’t on purpose, but … people were upset.”

  Brin’s eyes lit, as if he knew exactly what she meant, and he nodded. She could sense Havilar beside her, relaxing into the safe blandness of that explanation. They might keep him still. “I have certainly been acquainted with those circumstances,” Brin said.

  “Is that why you had to leave?” Havilar asked, passing Farideh the bottle. “From wherever you’re from?”

  “I didn’t have to leave.” Again, that look of discomfort. It was starting to rattle on Farideh’s nerves, and the whiskey did nothing for it. She wrapped her hands around the top of the bottle, pressing her palms into the glass, and willed the shadows not to gather around her.

  “Truth is, I’m from Cormyr,” he finally said. “I guess … I don’t really fit there. With my family and such. It seemed better that I get out of their way.”

  “ ‘Out of their way’?” Havilar said. “What are they? Rampaging tarrasques?”

  Brin chuckled. “Not quite that bad. More like … rampaging dire bears. But with more rules. They don’t appreciate mischief any more than secret villages do.”

  “I don’t think anyone appreciates having a building blown up,” Havilar said.

  Farideh’s every muscle stiffened. “Havi!”

  Brin’s mouth fell open. “Is … is that what you did?”

  “Sort of,” Havilar said.

  “Why? How?” He was positively goggling.

  “On accident,” Farideh said. It’s not going to make a difference, she thought. He’s already made up his mind. They would have to run. “It was magic gone awry.”

  “It was my fault,” Havilar said quickly, her face as red as Farideh was sure her own was. “I was doing spells that were too powerful. Nobody died. Nobody … really got hurt.” Her hand closed on Farideh’s. “It was our own house.”

  Brin glanced from one to the next and finally shook his head. “Well, you have me beat. The worst thing I’d ever done was run away. Granted,” he added, “I did make a point of doing so regularly enough.”

  Farideh took a swig of whiskey and passed it on, grateful that Havilar had defused the situation, but angry that Havilar again took responsibility. Farideh had taken the pact, she’d made the decision, she hadn’t stumbled into it. It was her doing alone. If anyone was to blame it was Farideh. If anyone got hurt, it was Farideh too.

  Brin frowned. “But why were you doing spells? You’re not a spellcaster.”

  “I can cast a little bit of magic,” Havilar said. “Just not very well. Apparently. I’m better with blades and Fari’s better at magic, that’s all.”

  He turned to Farideh. “You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you? Is the explosion what happened to your eye?”

  Farideh’s cheeks were still burning. “No.”

  “It’s always been like that,” Havilar said quickly. “Mehen says it happens sometimes. It happens a lot more in dogs. It just surprises some people because, well, silver and gold look strange to humans—”

  “Havi,” Farideh said, and her sister stopped. She looked at Brin hard. “It’s just an eye.”

  “All right,” he said. “I really didn’t mean any offense. I suppose you
hear that a lot?”

  “I do hear that a lot,” she said after a moment. “It doesn’t take much for some people to be superstitious.”

  “They don’t know any better,” Brin said, with a wave of his hand that Farideh had to remind herself wasn’t supposed to be dismissive. Even if it felt like it. Even if it made her anger squeeze tight around her chest.

  “I thought you might be a wizard at first, but you don’t have a spellbook.”

  “Or,” she said lightly, “a lot of patience. Sorry I snapped.”

  He grinned. “Here”—he handed her back the bottle of whiskey—“friends?”

  For now, Farideh thought gloomily, but she took the whiskey from him. “Friends,” she said, and she raised the bottle before taking a sip and passing it on to Havilar.

  “To winning!” she said, before taking her own turn. She giggled. “I don’t care what Mehen says, I think all seven orcs count.”

  “To Neverwinter,” Brin said, “and new beginnings.”

  “What will you do in Neverwinter?” Farideh asked. Though it had been a little cruel of Havilar to point it out, he wasn’t cut out to build houses and haul rock.

  Brin shrugged. “Whatever someone will pay me for. I’ll save it up and …” He trailed off and took another, bolder sip of the whiskey. “And do something I want to do.”

  “Why Neverwinter?” Havilar asked. “It’s up at the edge of the world. And it’s fallen down. I heard anyway. D’you have a lady friend up there?”

  Brin chuckled. “No. I don’t know anyone in Neverwinter, truth be told. It …” He hesitated a moment. “Look … I’m not a refugee really. No one in my family’s from Neverwinter. But I think I could pass. Start a life of some sort. New beginnings, as I said.”

  “So long as your house hasn’t already fallen down,” Havilar said with mock solemnity. “I hear, too, that it’s teeming—teeming—with monsters. And volcanoes.”

  “And orcs,” Brin said. “And warlocks.”

  Farideh froze. “Warlocks?”

  “Right. The … Hellish sort. That’s what they say, anyway.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I read … somewhere … some devil tried to take Neverwinter over once. Maybe even an archdevil. Ages ago though. Before the Spellplague. So maybe that’s why they all go there. But it’s probably nonsense. People say all sorts of things. I mean, do you know how many stories people tell about how the city got its name?”

  Farideh nodded, not really hearing Brin. If Neverwinter were full of warlocks, there had to be at least one among them who knew how to keep a devil in hand. It stood to reason—didn’t it?—that Farideh could not be the only warlock in Toril who didn’t start down the path with the intention of being wicked. And she couldn’t be the only one with a devil who wouldn’t leave her alone.

  If she went to Neverwinter, she might find someone who could show her a way to at least give Lorcan pause. Perhaps someone to show her how to leash him. If she could keep him from turning up so often, if she could keep him from needling at her brand, if she could keep him at armslength …

  Then what? He might strip away her powers, just to show he could. He might do something to punish her. He might hurt Mehen or Havilar.

  He might leave her entirely.

  “Here,” Havilar said, pressing the whiskey bottle into her hand. “Catch up, worrywart.”

  Mehen didn’t bother with his own dinner. The food he’d eaten that morning still sat heavy in his belly. No need to add to it. Better to stay sharp than to keep a human’s eating habits for the sake of plenty.

  The caravans had been a waste of time. Nobody knew anything or anybody. Nobody had seen the woman from the leaflet, or a woman who looked like her, or any human woman ever for that matter.

  “M’henish,” he grunted to himself. Three days would get them back to Waterdeep and maybe that was best. Maybe there was some other caravan in need of guards, or some other bounty he could catch and leave the girls out of it. Maybe they should just get lost in the City of Splendors and hope no one ever noticed.

  The priest’s offer still weighed on his mind. The coins he’d handed over for a room and food for his girls had lightened their purse significantly. A few more and they could head north enough to catch up with this blasted bounty.

  To the Hells and back, he thought. What was he doing considering the offer of a silverstar with a chain that might as well be a third arm, he used it with such casualness? He’d tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth repeatedly, but there was no taste in the air to suggest the priest was a threat beyond what he’d seen with his own eyes. He’d kept tapping out of nerves.

  He imagined Farideh, stiff and swaddled in her cloak as long as the priest was around, and sighed. What was he going to do with her? He’d been so sure she’d been keeping that devil away, and all the while they were creeping around behind briars. At least she wouldn’t dare let the bastard come around while Havilar was with her—he was sure of that. Havilar kept a secret like a sieve kept water.

  Not for the first time, he cursed the path that had led him here, mucking around in the wilds of Faerûn, chasing down petty criminals and trying to find two coins to rub together while keeping the twins alive. But it was a path he had made on his own, and given a second chance, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have made every choice exactly the same way a second time. He scratched the piercing holes again as he came into the taproom.

  And if he hadn’t made those decisions, where would Farideh and Havilar be? They were smart, resourceful girls—but were they such because he had raised them up that way, or because it beat in their blood? And resourceful, smart, or utter fools, they would never have made it out of the village that day after the snow had fallen so heavy. He might have been denied his own offspring, but the twins were his legacy.

  The taproom had filled up with merchants and mercenaries, refugees to and from the North. He stood in the entryway a moment, sizing up the room with an old soldier’s eye. For the better part of Clanless Mehen’s life—when he had been Verthisathurgiesh Mehen, son of Pandjed, and even after—he’d trained himself to be ready for a fight, just in case.

  Three men playing cards on his right. Them first—they were mercenaries. That armor was too nice, and yet mismatched—as if they’d bought a pauldron here, a chain shirt there, as the coin came in. They’d be the most dangerous, if only because they were the most unpredictable.

  Dagger in the close one’s back, crack the bottle on the second, the third would be up and drawing his own weapon, but that one was drunk enough, Mehen would have time to flip the dagger into him, and pull his falchion from his back.

  The woman standing on his left, waiting for her partner or employer, would be on him quick then with her double swords. Drop to the floor—she’d expect him to use his size like a brute—cut her with a swing from behind. Finish with the dagger.

  He walked to the bar, straight and steady—but his mind was full of quick, dancing slashes and dodges. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at him as he approached.

  The barkeep would be a quick thing—not a real threat. The worst that could happen was for him to be a caster with a wand back there, and Mehen doubted that.

  Still: aggressive attack, up over the bar, falchion across the front of him.

  “Well met,” Mehen said. “I’m looking for someone.”

  The barkeep looked him up and down, as he wiped down bottles of wine. “This isn’t Waterdeep,” he said. “Don’t have your sort.”

  Mehen growled. He doubted even Waterdeep could boast that variety. He pulled the leaflet free and smoothed it out on the table. “This one,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

  The barkeep gave the posting a cursory glance. “Nah. What are you drinking?”

  “I’m not. You get a lot of caravans through here?”

  “You’re in my tavern, you’re drinking.” The barkeep set a glass down in front of Mehen and started to pour something golden from a bottle beading with moisture. Mehen’s hand shot out and grasped t
he bottle, halting its tilt.

  “You pour that, you’ll be wasting your coin and both of our times. I don’t drink in anybody’s tavern.” He let go of the bottle. “Do you get a lot of caravans through here?”

  The man set the bottle down and gave Mehen a stony glare. “Some.”

  “One a tenday? Two?”

  “Two or three every few days. Sometimes more. Never seen your bounty though.”

  “Anybody here come in off one of those caravans?”

  “Fair well everybody. Ask who you like, but don’t you start a fight you can’t clean up.”

  Mehen drummed his thick nails against the counter. They needed to find this wretched bounty or get themselves another, easier one. Or both, he thought.

  “What about orcs?” he said.

  The barkeep looked at him as if he were mad. “Don’t get too many in here. The sorts of things Many-Arrows brews either go foul too fast or burn right through a cask before I can sell it all.”

  “No. What about bounties on orcs? We took a troop out that attacked a caravan south of here. Anyone paying bounties for them?”

  The barkeep shook his head. “I’m certainly not. Swarms of the buggers. Nothing to be done.”

  Mehen fought the urge to remind the barkeep he ought to be more deferential. You have no clan to back you, he reminded that angry young voice that told him to pull his daggers out and make his point with steel.

  “Anybody paying any bounties along here?” Mehen asked. “Or you just live in an easy little world where no one’s any trouble.”

  “Try Neverwinter,” the barkeep said. “Full of all the criminals too lazy to make it to Luskan, too weak to survive Luskan, and too scared to try Luskan. And the Lord Protector is wealthy enough and foolish enough to pay people to remedy something as unfixable as that.”

  The words, Mehen thought, of a man who had never been to a place. He left the bar and tried his luck with a smattering of patrons: the bored woman, the mercenaries in the corner, a merchant here and there. No one knew the woman from the bounty poster.

  “M’henish,” he grunted to himself as he tromped back upstairs. The priest’s offer was looking better and better. He pushed open the door.