Brimstone Angels

by Erin M. Evans

  At the sight of the Rohini-orc, those who could took up their weapons. At the sight of Mehen they leaped to their feet and Mehen recognized them—it was the remnants of the same group they’d clashed with on the road. Judging by the biggest one’s bellow, they remembered him too.

  The Rohini-orc said something in a language Mehen didn’t know, and the big orc cut short his war cry. A few more words and he regarded the Rohini-orc cautiously and curiously. The shaman stared openly and eagerly.

  To kill them would be simpler. Clustered like this, if his falchion could reach one, it could reach them all. If they attacked the way they had on the road, there’d be no discipline in the rush—if any of them were archers they’d forgo the bow for the swords and axes that lay at hand, instead of scurrying into the brush. He wondered how hard one could punch an orc before one might kill it.

  The Rohini-orc noticed the shaman’s attentions and chuckled. He turned to her and murmured something. The shaman blushed, and Mehen wished he could snort or roll his eyes.

  The shaman abandoned her fire and took a place beside the Rohini-orc. Two others of the group also rose to stand beside him. The big leader stomped and howled as they did, baring his big tusks and beating the face of his shield with his sword.

  “Now,” the Rohini-orc said in Common, “is where you aid me.”

  The leader lunged forward, and suddenly Mehen found himself standing between the Rohini-orc and the leader’s sword. He brought his falchion up to block. The orc’s rough blade caught against the hilt, and Mehen threw him off.

  Two more orcs stood, one with his arm in a sling, one with a bandage over his forehead, but neither too wounded to defend their commander. The first’s axe clanged against Mehen’s breastplate, knocking his breath from him. The second was a little smarter with his sword—the blade dipped in behind the plate and cut a deep gash under Mehen’s stronger arm.

  The leader roared again, but Mehen slammed his good elbow into the orc’s chin, armor crashing into bone. The orc’s head snapped back and he stumbled. Mehen swung his fist, the falchion’s grip still in it, forward and into another’s sternum, then swept the blade of the weapon across the third, shearing through the hide armor and into his belly. That one probably wouldn’t make it.

  The world shifted again and once more he was between the Rohini-orc and another blade, but this time the attacker moved too fast and the blade slid up toward Mehen’s face, cutting a line across his cheek and ear frill. Mehen roared in sudden pain, but his exhalation came with a burst of lightning.

  The lighting leaped from the attacking orc, to a pair of wounded seated on the ground, and up to the orc he’d attacked before. The two wounded collapsed, as did the orc he’d first attacked. He hoped they weren’t dead. Rohini would be displeased.

  The only orc still standing was the one with the sword who’d stabbed Mehen behind his breastplate—a wound which was steadily bleeding and making it harder and harder to hold his heavy falchion.

  Mehen dropped the blade and pulled a pair of daggers from his belt. The swordsman grinned—with those little blades, Mehen would have to get right up close to do any damage.

  “Come on then,” Mehen growled.

  With a bellow the orc pulled his sword up and swung it down, aiming for—no doubt—the gap in Mehen’s pauldron. Instead, Mehen threw up his arm and stepped into the strike.

  The swordsman’s blade came down hard on Mehen’s wrist guard, and the impact shook the dagger from his hand and rattled his arm all the way to the shoulder. But Mehen kept his focus: for that split second, the swordsman’s focus was on his victory and not on protecting himself. Mehen’s off-hand dagger darted in and plunged up to the hilt in the swordsman’s ribs, with the soft hiss of a punctured lung. The orc goggled at Mehen, and then slid to his knees. Mehen wrenched the blade free, and sliced it across the orc’s neck—a quick death for a quick warrior, he thought.

  “Three dead,” the Rohini-orc said. Even as an orc, his voice was musical. “I expected better.” He shook his head. “I hope for your sake, Mehen, that they take well to the Chasm.”

  “Your forgiveness,” he said. Why was he apologizing? He shook his head. Pain radiated up his arm and across his chest.

  This wasn’t a dream. “My wrist is broken,” he said, regarding the awkward angle in a dazed sort of way. His breastplate was full of blood too.

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it—” The Rohini-orc stopped as Mehen hefted his falchion once more and pointed it at him.

  “What is this?” Mehen demanded. “Where am I?”

  The orc clucked his tongue. “Don’t you remember?” he said, and suddenly it wasn’t an orc standing there but Arjhani.

  It’s not Arjhani, his mind insisted. You haven’t seen Arjhani in years.

  But all the same his heart knew no one else could be standing in front of him, giving him that wry look he knew all too well. No one else had those brassy scales. No one else made Mehen’s heart collapse with the words, “I thought you were helping me. Have you changed your mind?”

  “No,” he murmured, as the dream took hold again. “Never.”

  Sairché had to wonder if Lorcan had noticed her trick yet, as often as she’d been using it. Invisible, she slipped in behind Rohini and watched as the succubus threatened her brother. She settled down on the same chest of drawers and waited as Rohini left and Lorcan picked himself off the ground and started swearing at the mirror again.

  Neverwinter, she thought. Interesting. She hoped the warlock Rohini was so furious about and Lorcan was still swearing at was the same one she wanted. Neverwinter made an excellent smoke screen.

  The only trouble was that Lorcan wasn’t leaving. She waited longer than she liked for him to step away from the mirror, before she dropped her invisibility. “Do you need some assistance?”

  Lorcan looked up, scowled, and hurled a bolt of magic at her. Sairché ducked and it hit the living wall with a faint squeal. “Stay out of it,” he snapped.

  “Mother’s coming,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for something. I passed her on my way. You may want to consider scarpering off.”

  Lorcan’s scowl didn’t shift. Only when the thunder of Invadiah’s hooves approached, did he reach for the charm on his shoulder. With a ripple of magic, her brother vanished.

  Inelegant, Sairché thought, resuming her own invisibility. But more interesting.

  Invadiah burst through the door a moment later. The still-active scrying mirror caught her attention, and she froze, scanning the room in a slow sweep. As her gaze passed Sairché, the cambion plucked one of the gold coins from the pile beside her and flung it at her brother.

  The coin hit Lorcan right across the knuckles. He cried out and let go of the charm. Invadiah whirled on him.

  “What,” she growled, “are you doing in my treasure room?”

  Lorcan shook his wounded hand. “Looking for you?”

  “Get out.”

  “Of course, Mother. But before I do, you might want—”

  Invadiah seized him by one arm and hurled him bodily from the chamber. Sairché covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Too perfect indeed. Invadiah pulled a great urn of some sort out of one of the larger piles and stormed from the room.

  She had hardly passed the threshold, but Sairché was up and dragging a heavy battle-axe from the corner. As the door shut behind Invadiah, Sairché threw the latch and felt the handle move beneath her hand as Lorcan tried to turn it.

  Sairché heaved the battle-axe up and jammed the upper edge of one blade into the soft floor, so that it lay across the door, its haft wedged against the bony corner of the entry. The handle shook as Lorcan tried to open the door, but the axe and the lock held.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” she called.

  In the mirror, the tiefling warlock sat beside a fountain, looking around as if she were waiting for something. People swarmed all around her, but Sairché was ready for that. She’d pulled her wings down around her shoulders and dra
ped her cloak over them, tying it shut. With the hood up, she’d pass well enough as a tiefling, as long as no one looked closely.

  And if anyone looked closely, it was no skin off Sairché’s nose to vanish right then and there.

  The Needle dropped her in an alleyway, half blocked by stacks of cut stone tiles, out of sight but not too far from the wyvern fountain. She crossed the street with a determination she knew would keep people from looking to closely, and planted herself in front of the tiefling girl.

  “Well met,” she said. The girl looked up with those odd eyes, startled. She searched Sairché’s face and seemed to recognize her. The cambion grinned.

  “I’m Sairché,” she said, “although I’m certain Lorcan’s already told you all about me.”

  The girl regarded her with a stoniness that Sairché had to admire. She was wise enough to be afraid, and wiser still to hide it. Skilled too—if Sairché had been a mortal, she might have thought the girl wasn’t cowed.

  “It’s polite,” Sairché said, sitting down beside her on the edge of the fountain, “to give your name as well.”

  “Is it?” she said.

  “Yes. Especially”—Sairché gestured at the people around them, particularly at a knot of tiefling children racing back and forth trying to grab at the leader’s tail—“when in unfamiliar company?” She drew a bead of magic, the beginnings of a spell, to her fingertips. “You don’t want to insult me, do you?”

  The girl hesitated. “Farideh.”

  “Well met, Farideh,” Sairché said. “Waiting for Lorcan?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you like being his warlock? I imagine he’s rather tiresome. All flash and temper.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve no one to compare to. Why are you here?”

  “To get to know you better, of course.” Maybe give you someone to compare to.” Sairché leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “He’s never mentioned,” she asked, “why you?”

  Farideh shook her head. “I said yes?”

  Sairché smirked. Such a foolish answer. “Anyone can say yes. But a warlock is a bit of a burden, isn’t it? You don’t want just anyone.”

  Farideh watched the street and didn’t respond.

  “There are essentially two kinds of devils who pact with warlocks,” Sairché said. “Harvesters and collectors.”

  “Those sound the same.”

  “Only because you don’t know what they mean. Harvesters are after souls. That’s the price of the pact, or sometimes they spend their efforts corrupting their charges.” She shrugged. “They find it amusing. But the result is that their warlocks are not meant to be in the world long, especially if they’re not corrupting anyone new. Collectors”—and she gave Farideh a long, appraising look—“are after sets. They want warlocks that match. Certain traits. Certain bloodlines. Certain circumstances. Gets them a little prestige in certain circles.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Lorcan has what’s called a Toril Thirteen. Thirteen warlocks descended from the original thirteen tieflings who made the Pact Infernal with Asmodeus himself. It’s a tricky set, as you can imagine.”

  Farideh plucked at her cloak. “He has twelve other warlocks?”

  Sairché grinned. Poor little lamb. “Indeed. But he seems to spend an awful lot of time around you. I wonder why that is? I’m not an idiot,” she said gently. “You’re not his paramour. The fact that he thought I’d believe that means either he’s an idiot … or he’s desperate.” She leaned in closer to Farideh. “I have a guess,” she whispered.

  “Oh?”

  “I think he’s desperate to hide you,” Sairché said. “There’s a very rare heir among a Toril Thirteen. The descendent of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel herself. Only three other devils have collected Kakistos heirs. Lorcan must have one. I think it’s you.”

  “And?”

  Sairché chuckled. “And if that’s you, you have quite a little bargaining chip my brother’s been keeping from you. There are collectors scattered across the Nine Hells who would do … well, anything you wanted to be sure, to gain an heir of Bryseis Kakistos. Lorcan is no one. Whatever he can give you, he’s already done—and that was begged, borrowed, or stolen.”

  The girl searched Sairché’s face, as if she were trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Oh, Lorcan had her good—but he had counted on her never finding out about Bryseis Kakistos, Sairché wagered. On no one ever offering Farideh something better.

  Farideh pursed her lips and looked away, off toward the north. “Four,” she finally said. “There are four of … us?”

  Another good reason not to keep warlocks, Sairché thought. Mortals focused on the damnedest things. “Three and yourself. You have some long-lost cousins out there, I suppose. Is that it?”

  Farideh shook her head. “It’s not as many as I would have thought. There must be lots of devils looking out for … that sort of heir. A Brimstone Angel.”

  “Loads,” Sairché promised.

  “Is there any way to block their eyes?” She swallowed. “I mean, if you didn’t want to be overwhelmed by collectors.”

  “Possibly,” Sairché said. “But I don’t see why you should. There are plenty more suitable options for you. Why not consider them all?”

  “I’ll think about it.” She stood as if to go.

  “What’s there to think about?” Sairché said. “The sorts of devils that want a Kakistos heir include the peers of archdevils.” She stood too, and looked down her nose at Farideh. “Unless … you have other reasons for staying.”

  Farideh shook her head, her expression distant. Perhaps Sairché had read her wrong. “It simply isn’t the sort of thing I intend to jump into again. Good day.”

  Sairché hooked her arm into Farideh’s before the girl could stop her. “I’ll see you home. We can talk on the way, as you must have a hundred questions for me. You’re staying in that old temple that Rohini’s holed up in, correct?”

  “How did you—”

  “The best thing about temples,” Sairché said, her voice low and gossipy, “is that the scrying glass my brother’s so fond of doesn’t work so well through the blessings. You’ll be safe inside.”

  “I’m …” She looked down at Sairché’s arm. “I have some errands to run before I return there.”

  If she thought to flee with such a pitiful excuse, she was mistaken. Sairché had only a short time before Lorcan found a way to Neverwinter, and she’d better have his warlock set on leaving before then. Sairché squeezed Farideh’s arm more tightly. “Then I’ll come along with you.”

  “Just a little farther,” Yvon called back to the orc, who’d told him rather brusquely he was called Goruc. He looked up at the sky, gauging the passage of time: they would be early. He smiled to himself and wondered if Goruc would take that as a comfort or a threat. The path widened into a little grove, and Yvon gestured broadly at the empty space. “And here we are.”

  The “grove” Yvon brought Goruc to was no such thing: it was a single pine tree. In the center, the oldest trunk rose up, so thick three men together could not stretch their arms around it. From that trunk, snaking branches, warped by spellplague and themselves as thick as birch trunks, had become roots, plunging back down into the needle-strewn ground, and giving birth to new trunks that sent out new root-branches.

  Yvon found himself a seat on one of the low-slung trunks and watched as Goruc spent several moments winding his way around the spellscarred pine, his eyes tracing connections between branch and trunk as complex as any cavern map.

  He came around the main trunk and his gaze dropped to the level of his face. Yvon smirked to himself. There was a symbol burned into the tree, overlapped by fresh branches. Goruc reached out and pushed aside enough of them to show … three triangles arranged to form a larger triangle. He frowned and ran a finger over the charred wood.

  There was a rustling from the other side of the grove. Yvon kept watching the orc.
<
br />   Goruc went completely still. He gripped the axe in both hands and edged his way around the thick trunk, scanning the shadowy wood. “What was that?”

  Yvon shrugged. “A squirrel? How is it you know the tieflings?”

  Goruc’s eyes kept moving over the trees and the shadows created by the low sun. “Got a mutual acquaintance.”

  A branch moved behind him.

  Goruc spun. Yvon kept watching him.

  “Your friends coming soon?” the orc asked.

  “Soon,” Yvon said. “What sort of mutual acquaintance?”

  “A patron,” Goruc said. He whipped his head around at another rustle of movement. “If you’re trying to trick me with all this, I’ll make certain you regret it.”

  A flash of red between those two trunks. Like a bit of cloth waving behind a person as they ducked behind a larger tree. Goruc bared his teeth and leaped toward it.

  He bared his teeth. “Show yourself!” Goruc bellowed. “Come out or I’ll kill the shopkeeper.”

  Nothing.

  “You’re awfully stirred up,” Yvon said. “I thought you wanted our help.”

  Four figures, draped in bloodred robes, stepped from the shadows. Loose hoods obscured their faces, and each one wore a sash emblazoned with the same sign: three triangles forming a larger one, surrounded by a figure with nine sides.

  “These are your friends?” Goruc demanded, still holding his axe high.

  “Yes,” Yvon said, standing and finding his place in the circle. “Mine and the tiefling’s you seek.” He shook his head sadly. “But I don’t think they’re yours.”

  “That’s a very nice axe,” the figure standing on his left said. “Wherever did you get it?”

  “A gift,” Goruc said. “What are you playing at?”

  “Really?” the largest figure—unmistakeably Creed—said. “A very generous gift. One might even say it was quite the steal.”

  “Where are the tieflings?” Goruc shouted.

  “Yes, that,” Yvon said. “With a bare axe in your hand and, pardon the expression, that beastly demeanor of yours, I don’t think we’ll be pointing you in her direction. Your patron shouldn’t be toying with the disciples of the Raging Fiend.”