Brimstone Angels

by Erin M. Evans

  “I see you’ve been experimenting,” Lorcan said dryly. He winced, pushed the arrow through, and examined the bloodied tip. “Though, thankfully, not with the poison. Get your blades ready.”

  “What for?” Goruc said. “You want to fight me? I could take you. I will take you.” He threw down the bow and reached for his axe.

  “Heavens and Hells—no.” Why did he always pick the excitable ones? “Your quarry is near. They’re about an hour’s ride from here, right off the road. Go now, and you’ll catch them in the dark.”

  “I’ve been running after them all day long,” Goruc said. “I need to sleep.”

  Lorcan smiled. “But you and I both know you can’t rest while the wyssin is flogging your mind. Might as well take care of things now.”

  Goruc blinked at him rapidly—Lorcan was only half-mortal, and he knew well how the wyssin made his thoughts race. Someone like Goruc’s mind was likely to come apart if Lorcan gave him too much to think about.

  “Go north. Along the road. Give yourself a little more of the devilweed and you should have no problems finding the boy and the dragonborn.” He smiled. “I’ll check in on you once you’re finished.” He’d come through the portal near their camp in an hour or so. The boy would be dead, so would Mehen. He’d convince Farideh to come away from the Ashmadai and Rohini, and she’d trust him even more because she’d have to.

  Goruc sneered. “Check on me? I’ll give him something to check on.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lorcan said, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t forget your blades.”

  Goruc sneered at him, tensed as if he were about to attack anyway. He opened the vial and carefully dripped a line of the viscous liquid along his axe blade. A fringe of steam rose off the metal where the poison landed and dried almost instantly. He carefully slipped the weapon into its holster and repeated the process on the tips of each of his arrows.

  Finally, Goruc pulled out his dagger with a trembling hand. Before poisoning it, he dragged the tip down his face from forehead to chin, skimming lightly over the eyelid. Blood ran down his face and into his eye.

  “What in the Hells are you doing?” Lorcan asked.

  “Mourning scar,” Goruc grunted. “The blood washes the weakness from my sight. The pain reminds me of my dead.” He scowled at Lorcan. “The ones your witch killed.”

  Lorcan smiled and opened the portal of the Needle of the Crossroads. “Let that one go. She’s very well-armed these days.”

  There was a moment—only a moment—when Farideh woke, where her mind was empty, her thoughts still, when she might be anyone but herself. An elf in the woods, a sailor on the Sea of Fallen Stars, a genasi general, or just a regular human girl stirring in a regular bed in Waterdeep. When she might not know Lorcan or Havilar or Mehen or anyone else whose raw and jagged feelings were turned against her.

  But then she blinked, the world solidified, and she was who she was.

  And Havilar was nudging her ungently with one boot.

  “ ’S your watch,” she hissed. “Get up.”

  “I’m awake,” Farideh said, sitting up and throwing off her cloak. The fire still crackled low in the pit. The dark shapes of Mehen, Brin, and Tam, still fast asleep on the ground, made a sort of broken wall around the site.

  “I was shaking you forever,” Havilar said, tromping back to the tree she’d been standing watch beside and retrieving her glaive. “You have to take your turn you know.”

  “I’m up!” Farideh pulled her leather jack on. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Me? Nothing. I’m surprised you care all of the sudden.”

  Farideh picked up the rod Lorcan had given her and turned it over in her hands. It didn’t feel like anything other than a stick of polished wood—except for the way it made it seem so much simpler to grasp the powers that fueled her spells—but considering the source it might be a gift she would always be grateful for or it might be a curse she’d spend all her life wishing she hadn’t accepted.

  “Gods, Havi, you were scared for all of a few minutes. Let it lie.”

  “You could have been dead.”

  “Even if that were so, I’m the one who was lost in the godsdamned woods.”

  Havilar shook out her blanket and laid it on the ground beside the fire with excessive care. “You weren’t even sorry,” she muttered, after she’d smoothed it out, “You’re never sorry.”

  Farideh’s annoyance boiled over and it took all of her effort to keep her voice low. “Fine,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got lost. I’m sorry I got chased by an owlbear and didn’t wait for you to kill it. I’m sorry Lorcan finally showed up and practically scared the piss out of Brin. I’m sorry I didn’t stay lost so you could tear your hair and beat your breast and wail on and on about how upset you are—oh wait, no.” She gestured at her sister with the rod. “You seem to be quite capable of that one. You think I’m never sorry? I’m sorry every godsdamned day, so let this one stupid thing go. You got scared.”

  “That’s not all of it and you know it,” Havilar shot back. “First you took Lorcan and now you’re taking Brin.”

  “Taking Brin? He’s not a pet—he can make his own decisions.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You think we were off having a tryst? I’m not even fond of him,” Farideh said. Then sense overcame her temper, and she looked at Havilar with new eyes. “Oh. Are you fond of him?”

  “No!”

  Farideh swallowed. “Are you fond of Lorcan?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it, Havi? I can’t read your mind.”

  Havilar crossed her arms. “You’re just …” she started. She turned away and tried again. “You’re going off with all these boys just because they give you things and talk to you, and you leave me behind with Mehen like something you don’t even want around anymore. I’m your sister. Doesn’t that matter?”

  Farideh took a deep breath to calm herself. Concentrate every one of their arguments, and at the core, it was all about Havilar. It was always about Havilar.

  “First, two people is not ‘all these boys.’ Second, you ran off without me the other night so how is it different? Third—”

  But she never got to her third point.

  A horrible, hollow sound interrupted her. Havilar cried out and fell back a step, clutching her midsection. Again the sound came, and Havilar started to fall, the shafts of arrows protruding from her stomach and ribs.

  Farideh screamed—her sister’s name or just an animal howl? She couldn’t tell. Her senses were too full of the blackness of Havilar’s blood welling through her fingers, the whimpered pants Havilar made as Farideh caught her and slowed her fall. The uninterrupted dark beyond the campfire where the arrows had come from. The powers of the Hells beating her pulse for her, pouring their venom and flame and miasmas through her and into the etched rod she couldn’t loosen her fingers from.

  A branch rustled and Farideh thrust the rod toward it. A blast of bruised light lit the forest beyond, sizzling with a sickly perfume. It lit the face of an orc for a moment before it struck him. Heavy brows. Deliberate scars on his forehead. A bow and an ugly notched axe. His eyes were hungry and fierce when he looked back at Farideh.

  Him, she thought, not knowing where she knew the orc from, but knowing, certain, she had to kill him. He would kill Havi if she didn’t. He would kill Farideh if she didn’t.

  She swept the rod forward and released a fiery bolt of magic toward the figure. The rod made the flame brighter, closer, hotter. It seared the orc as he approached and sent him scampering back.

  Behind her, Mehen and Tam and Brin were awake and on their feet. She dimly heard Mehen’s bellowed orders, Tam’s clanking chain. The orc was charging at her through the brush. Let him, she thought, the pulse of the Hells whispering to her of vengeance, of protection.

  There was hardly a need to pull—the powers were simply there, ready and waiting. She could see the lines of her veins, black and bulgi
ng, as the engines of Malbolge fed her. A storm of brimstone rained out of the air and shattered in sparks all around the orc. She saw in the flash of the spell, the priest leap backward to avoid the rain.

  Mehen was shouting at her to stop, to let them pass, but she paid him no heed. It was her and the orc. She slashed the rod across her, and a wave of rotten-smelling heat roiled away and toward her prey.

  The orc rolled under it, and came up much closer than Farideh expected. So close she could see the red line of poison dripping down the edge of his axe. Mehen shouted and she could hear him running toward her. Someone was praying loudly—Tam.

  Farideh raised the rod, hoping to loose another fire bolt at him before the axe could fall.

  Instead, a whole wall of fire exploded outward. It caught the orc as he started to swing the axe and flung him away like a rag doll into the pitch-dark night. Mehen and Tam barreled past her into the darkness of the forest.

  Farideh shouted. She dropped the rod in surprise.

  “M’henish,” she swore hoarsely. What in the Hells had that been? There was no answer—only the crashing of Mehen and Tam barreling through the forest and the crackle of smoldering brush where the flames had passed.

  “Fari,” Havilar whimpered.

  “Oh gods,” Farideh cried, and she dropped to her knees beside her sister.

  The arrows had buried themselves deeply in Havilar’s gut.

  Fatal, she thought, Mehen’s voice lecturing them about caring for wounds. Fatal, always fatal without healing.

  Farideh reached for her belt, but the healing potion was missing. She grasped at the belt, it had to be there—then remembered, no, she’d given it to someone else’s sister to save someone else from an arrow wound.

  “Mehen!” she screamed. “Mehen!” But there was nothing for Mehen to do. Tam could do something. Tam could do healing. “Tam!”

  Havilar raised a hand and grasped at her own belt. Havilar had a healing potion too, Farideh remembered. She clutched alongside Havilar’s hands, trying to find it in the dark, among the pouches and buckles and blood. Their four hands closed on it, pried it loose. Farideh took it, but her fingers slipped on the cap—why couldn’t she grab it?

  Brin was there, kneeling beside her. Where had he come from? Where had he been? She kept twisting at the cap, but Brin took the vial from her, and only then did Farideh notice her hands were slippery with Havilar’s blood.

  Brin cracked the vial and poured half over Havilar’s wound, and half down her throat. She coughed and bits of the yellowish potion came back up, as well as a gout of her blood. Her eyes were terrified, and she clutched Farideh’s shaking hands in her own.

  The wounds started to heal, the blood slowed … but it didn’t stop. No magic pushed the arrows back from Havilar’s ruined gut. The healing wasn’t working.

  “Poisoned,” Brin said. “We have to get the arrows out. Do you know how to do that?”

  “She’ll bleed to death,” Farideh said, the words coming out in a rush. “You don’t take the arrows out because she’ll bleed to death.”

  “No,” Brin said, “I promise she won’t. Just get the arrows out.”

  Farideh blinked back tears and nodded. Please be right, she thought. Please don’t let the last thing I said to Havilar be such a stupid, pothac argument. She crawled to her haversack and took out her knife, hoping it was sharp enough.

  Havilar’s eyes were wild with pain and terror and shock. Brin held one hand behind her head, telling her to stay awake, to hold on.

  Farideh could not look at her sister as she sliced into Havilar’s belly. Short strokes, small cuts, just enough to loosen the barb and pry out the arrow. The blood was gushing up now, over skin and yellow fat. She’d avoided the gushing vessels, but there was so much blood still and it was all over her. Still, she cut and wept, while Havilar whimpered.

  She pulled the arrows out one by one and cast them as far as she could into the darkness. Brin was talking, but all she heard was a droning and the sound of her own thoughts: Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

  Havilar was so pale, nearly gray. The last arrow came free, and Brin clapped his hands over Havilar’s belly, over the fountain of blood that welled up there, through his fingers.

  “Loyal Fury,” he said, his voice shaking, “aid this servant of your justice.”

  The air between hand and skin glowed with a sudden golden light. The hairs on Farideh’s nape stood on end and the light intensified. Havilar screamed again, but something strange and sharp, like the ringing of a sword being sharpened overlaid the sound. Farideh squeezed her sister’s hand hard as the light became blinding and the ring of the sword and Havilar’s scream twined into one sound … then faded.

  Havilar lay still, her eyes shut.

  “Havi!” Farideh cried, and she tapped her cheek. “Havi, no, Havi, wake up!”

  Havilar twitched away from her sister’s hand by the second tap and flinched. She groaned and her eyes fluttered open. “Am I dead yet?”

  Farideh burst into tears and threw her arms around her sister’s neck. “No, gods. No. You’re fine. You’re fine. Brin, oh gods, thank you! Thank you!”

  Havilar reached up and hugged Farideh back. She was sorry. They were both sorry. Neither needed to say anything. It would be all right.

  “Brin?” Havilar said, sounding dazed and weak. Farideh let her go.

  “I’m here,” he said, leaning closer.

  “I didn’t know you could do a priest’s magic.”

  SOUTH OF NEVERWINTER

  12 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)

  FARIDEH STARED AT BRIN’S BLOODIED HANDS, HAVILAR’S WORDS bringing her back to her senses like a slap to the face.

  I didn’t know you could do a priest’s magic.

  It had been divine magic. There was no disguising it, no excusing it. The prayer to Torm. The flash of light. The sound of the sword on the whetstone.

  Brin’s face was pale, and he was holding his breath. His eyes watched Farideh’s, flickering like candle flames as he tried to discern something—anything—in her gaze.

  “You lied,” she said.

  “Yes,” he admitted. Then, with a nervous smile, “Well, no. You didn’t ask if I knew any divine magic.”

  “I didn’t think I had to.” All this time she’d been afraid of Tam finding out, and she’d revealed Lorcan to not only a priest, but a priest of Torm—in all the Heavens, there wasn’t another god so opposed to the path she’d taken as the god of duty and law.

  “I’m not …” he started to say. “I’m … certainly not the sort … to …” He sighed. “What is it? What are you afraid of?”

  She blinked at Brin. It couldn’t be true. “The caravan. You didn’t use it on the caravan.”

  “Look, I know what it seems like. But I’m not—truly—I’m not a priest. I’m not even a paladin, and I … I had lessons, with holy champions. They taught me some things. But not everything.”

  “But this.” She looked down at Havilar, at the wound that was only a scratch and the drying pools of her sister’s blood. “They taught you to heal.”

  Brin squirmed. “Sort of.”

  “Did you use it on the caravan?” She shook her head. Tam didn’t know. He mustn’t have done anything.

  “It … doesn’t always work,” he said. “I told you before. I’m not cut out to be Tormish.”

  “But you didn’t even try. ”

  “I would have been in the way. I would have—”

  “You didn’t even try,” Farideh said. The shadow-smoke swirled around her as she surged to her feet. “You guess at my virtue, and look down on my choices, when you lie about everything, because …? Because you didn’t want your tutors tracking you down? Is that it?”

  “You kept your secrets!” Brin said, raising his voice. “And I kept mine.”

  “No one died because I kept my secrets,” Farideh said.

  “And you don’t know anyone died for mine,” Brin said. “Besides, if I’d
told you I knew a little divine magic, you wouldn’t even have spoken to me! You made that very clear in the woods.”

  “I said I never met a priest who gave me a reason to trust them,” Farideh said, “and you’re just proving me right.”

  “I’m not a priest!”

  “Could you both just shut up?” Havilar said, still a little dazed. She pushed herself up. “I’m not dead. Who cares if he’s a priest?”

  “Mehen, to start with,” Farideh said. “Lie down. You’re not dead, but you’re still hurt.”

  “Mehen’s not going to care,” Havilar said. “Probably. I mean, he let Tam come along. Tam’s more of a priest than Brin.”

  “Lie down!” Farideh said. “Gods, please, lie down before you rip what’s left of your wound open.”

  She did so, but added, “Is this what you meant when you said I was getting upset because I was scared? I think you’re doing the same thing.” Havilar lifted her head, her speech a little surer, her eyes a little more focused. “If this is a lesson, you’re still a henish and I get it. You win.”

  Farideh nearly shrieked in annoyance, “No one’s winning anything here,” but she gritted her teeth instead and covered her face with her still-bloody hands. They were shaking and her breath was uneven. She wanted more than anything to throw up, as if doing so would rid her body of the fear and the shock, and the virulent magic that churned through her, boiling up, looking for an outlet—

  With a great, infernal shout, she flung her hands toward the woods, away from Havilar and Brin, away from where the archer had flown. The air cracked and a great gout of roiling flames streamed from her into the night.

  She turned on her sister and Brin, panting. They were both staring at her.

  “Fine,” she said. “Havi, you’re right. I was frightened. Watching you nearly die, almost being killed myself, and then having to cut arrows out of my sister’s bleeding gut is exactly the same as you feeling left out. I’m sorry. And you,” she said to Brin, “I’m still angry at you. You can say a hundred times you’re not a priest, but when Torm just handed you a miracle, I don’t believe it.”