Goruc chopped wildly at the robed figures. But they all stayed precisely out of reach, still watching him from the shadows of their hoods.
“Stay back!” he yelped. “You come any closer and—”
“In due time,” Yvon said. “Who sent you to find the warlock?”
“I have a right no matter what he says,” he said. “She killed me twice.”
The fourth figure chuckled. “Well,” a female voice—Sekata—said, “obviously she needs some practice. A fortunate thing we’ve had plenty of that.”
Goruc started to reply, but behind him, Yvon was quicker. The garrote twisted around the orc’s throat. Yvon smiled as Goruc clutched at the garrote, but he still would not drop the axe. He struggled and gasped, and tried to swing the axe over his head. Yvon released the garrote and jumped out of the way.
Imarella’s whip lashed around Goruc’s right wrist, and yanked that arm backward and the axe away from Yvon. In front of the orc, a robed figure stepped forward and raised a hand.
“Adaestuo,” Lector said. The crackling blast of magic caught Goruc in the center of his chest, knocking him off-balance. Creed stepped forward and cracked a club against the back of Goruc’s knees and he crashed to the ground, flat on his back and staring up at the cold stars through the contorted limbs of the plaguechanged tree.
Goruc started to roll to his feet. Lector slapped an amulet against his cheek. “Maollis.”
The orc convulsed once and his arms and legs went limp and stopped obeying him, long enough, at least for the Ashmadai to hold him down.
Sekata’s stake pierced the wrist of the hand that held the axe so quickly his scream came after the crack of dividing bones. Yvon took one of the iron staples from Creed and helped pin down the orc’s ankles, as Sekata drove another stake through the orc’s off-hand.
“Why?” Goruc screamed. “Why?”
“We protect our own,” Yvon said, his voice still gentle.
NEVERWINTER
13 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)
HAVILAR EDGED DOWN THE HALLWAY, HER RIGHT FOOT LEADING, HER glaive held low. She scooped the edge upward, guiding it with her left hand and driving it forward with the thrust of her hip. Angle down to slice across her imaginary foe’s throat. Sweep across his shins. Then lift, plant the right foot on his knee, and drive the blade home.
There was hardly room inside the temple for her to practice—every room had beds or tables or piles of books in it, and nearly every room had a scowling priest or acolyte giving her disapproving glares for bringing her glaive through the door. Even the library in the basement, where nobody went, still had that horrid little librarian who’d shrieked at her, called her a barbarian, and chased her out.
She thought of his face as she jabbed forward again. Barbarian, indeed. If she didn’t practice, her muscles would go soft, and forget how to control the long, heavy glaive she’d spent so long practicing to wield. If those priests were clever enough to be healing people and archiving books, they should be clever enough to know that much.
It had taken the better part of the day, but at last she’d found the long, wide corridor in the still-damaged part of the temple. Unlike the rest of the temple, no one rushed up and down it. The tapestries still hanging on the walls were thick with old soot and dust, and trimmed with cobwebs. Nobody but spiders to tell her to go elsewhere.
Stupid acolytes, she thought, resetting her grip. They thought she was an idiot or a child with a toy. Even if she wasn’t as smart as Farideh, she wasn’t stupid. Just like Farideh wasn’t a complete waste in a fight, even if Havilar was much better with a blade. It wasn’t as if one of them got everything and left the other one without.
Except sometimes, she thought with a scowl of her own. Everyone they met lately seemed to like Farideh better—that man in the shop, the red-haired nurse. Stupid Lorcan, she added, even though it made her sound even more childish. Brin.
She planted the glaive and rested. Stupid Brin. She didn’t want him under her skin. It was just that he’d rushed her out of there, off to find Farideh. That’s all.
That’s all, she told herself more firmly.
Even though Farideh protested it wasn’t true, she got to be the smart one and the one people trusted, but Lorcan made her the interesting one, too, and the one who might be dangerous. Havilar and Kidney Carver might as well not even exist.
Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, she remembered, and wrinkled her nose. Perhaps Farideh was right. Perhaps that did sound pretentious. She needed a shorter name.
“ ‘Justice,’ ” she said scrutinizing the weapon. “ ‘Cutter.’ ”
Bad and worse.
“Devilslayer,” she said. Everyone would probably appreciate it if she could fight Lorcan to the death. Except Farideh.
Half a year had gone by since Havilar had called down Lorcan, and too much had changed. Farideh had gotten so short with her. Farideh slept fitfully—awake, her mind would just drift off, Havilar could tell by the way she would suddenly be staring at nothing at all, as if all the treasures in the world were somewhere in the middle distance. Farideh might be as private as she could with Lorcan, but Havilar wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way Farideh looked at him. And still, she thought she could tell Havilar what to do.
She made another series of passes down the corridor, and was about to turn around and work her way back, when she heard the murmur of voices a short distance off. The sunlight from the broken windows did not penetrate all the way down the hall, but Havilar padded into the graying shadows, toward the sound, the newly christened Devilslayer at the ready.
Some twenty yards on, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. Havilar peered around the corner. At the opposite end of the hall, a door led into a room which had seen almost as little use as the corridors. Brother Vartan sat in a chair that had been draped with some sort of heavy canvas. Rohini stood beside him, practically vibrating with energy.
Something was odd about the hospitaler, something Havilar couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if she were there … and yet she wasn’t. The nervous energy she exuded seemed almost as if it were shaking the edges of her. It made Havilar’s eyes ache.
“They are perfect,” she was saying.
“And … controlled?” Brother Vartan asked.
“Of course,” Rohini said merrily. “Perfect, as I said.”
“It’s just that I’m concerned. If something should happen—”
“Nothing will happen,” Rohini said. She set a hand on either arm of the chair and leaned forward. “I swear it.” Then she kissed him, hard, on the mouth.
Havilar wrinkled her nose. Was there really nowhere better to tryst than the filthy, dusty room? Maybe Rohini was desperate to keep anyone from finding out. Havilar might not have thought Rohini was all that pretty, but she was sure Rohini could do better than a bore like Brother Vartan.
But Havilar’s eyes fell to the canvas-draped chair, to the place where Rohini gripped the fabric on the armrest. To Rohini’s nails, which had been neatly trimmed and clean, and which were now the color of blood and the length of iron spikes.
And as she watched and as Rohini pulled away from Vartan, her nails shrank back to being neatly trimmed, clean, and pink. Havilar sucked in a breath. Rohini cocked her ear and for a moment, Havilar was certain she’d heard. She gripped Devilslayer, ready to spring into a defensive stance.
But instead, Rohini smiled down at Vartan. “Perfect,” she said once more.
“Perfect,” he agreed.
She opened a door on the other side of the room and ushered in five orcs, armored like the ones Havilar had fought when the caravan had been raided, and painted in the blue, dancing magic of the Chasm. Wafting tentacles of blue fire surrounded one. Another wore gauntlets of the stuff, which wavered and bulged as if they were made of water. A female seemed to be covered in hard blue spikes, like a dire wolf. Havilar could not make out the other two—there was too much magic swirling in that room—but she could
see the taint of the spellplague had marked them all.
And not a one was fighting Rohini as she led them out.
“Here we are,” the hospitaler said. “Five perfect specimens for you to bring to the Sovereignty. Just as you suggested.” She walked down the line of spellscarred orcs. “Your notes were surprisingly accurate. I only lost four.”
Vartan stood, looking over the orcs as if they were weapons fresh from the forge—greedy to make use of them, but well aware if he tried he’d regret it.
“They’re exactly what you imagined,” Rohini said. “Take them to the proxy now, and think about that. They’re perfect for what the Sovereignty needs. You were very clever to come up with them. Tell them you have more where they came from, and other gifts besides if their masters are willing to parlay.”
“They are,” Brother Vartan said, looking confused nevertheless. “I was.”
“Then hurry back and tell me what those disgusting aboleths say. We’re on a timeline now.”
Brother Vartan nodded thoughtfully. “How … do I bring them?”
Rohini smiled, and it sent shivers down Havilar’s back. “They’ll follow you,” she said. “They’re very pleased with the current state of events. Aren’t you, my pets?”
“We will fight for the Sovereignty,” the tentacled one said in his low, growling accent. He slapped his shield with the flat of his sword. “We will spill the blood of their enemies and those who flee will mark us all as a threat.”
“Yes, wait until they ask.”
Whatever the Sovereignty was, whatever an aboleth was, these things had nothing to do with the running of a hospital, Havilar was sure. Spellscarred orcs had nothing to do with a hospital.
And Rohini—
Rohini opened the door she’d led the orcs in from, and herded them and Brother Vartan back out. As she turned, she looked out into the hall, directly at Havilar. She laid a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.
As she did, the fingernail became again a weapon and Rohini’s eyes flared red and fearsome.
Havilar took a step backward, afraid to look away from Rohini and find her suddenly near and testing Havilar’s glaive’s new moniker. Rohini didn’t look away either, and it wasn’t until Havilar had backed into the shadows of the hallway that she turned and ran.
She had to find Farideh. Farideh would know what to do with a devil who changed shape. Havilar raced back to the room she’d left her sister in on the other side of the temple.
Farideh was not there. She wasn’t in any of the rooms they’d been set to clean. She wasn’t in the wardroom where the acolytes lingered. She wasn’t in the little bedroom they shared with several ancient wardrobes.
Worse, her rod and sword lay on the bed. Her cloak was missing.
“Oh gods,” Havilar whispered. She leaned her glaive against the wall and picked up the rod. It was weighted like a mace, toward the tip, but not as heavy. A terrible, taut feeling seized her stomach. Surely Farideh wouldn’t have gone out without a weapon—but where was she if she hadn’t left? What if Rohini.…
She clutched the rod to her chest. “Oh Fari.”
The surrounding rooms had more old furniture or books or were locked tight. She pushed open the second to last in the hallway, dread pooling in her heart. The room was dark—the broken windows had been boarded over and only cracks of light shone through. Someone moved within. Someone big.
“Mehen?” She moved toward the shadow. The person was rocking on his heels, ever so slightly. She held the rod tighter, and hoped Farideh didn’t mind if she had to brain someone with it.
The shadow shuffled into the light from the corridor and Havilar made out russet scales and familiar armor. She cried out in relief and threw her arms around Mehen’s neck.
“Gods, I thought I’d never find anyone!” Mehen didn’t answer, so she kept talking. “We have a problem—a big problem. Rohini is a devil, and you’re the only one I can find! We have to get out of here, but I don’t know where Fari or Brin or anyone is. I’m afraid Rohini has them.”
Mehen said nothing. Didn’t even chastise her for being overexcited. He stood, rocking on his heels.
“Mehen?” Havilar asked. “Mehen, are you all right?”
“He’s fine.”
Havilar felt a hand—small but strong—close on her shoulder.
“Pity,” Rohini said, “Lorcan’s not here to help you this time.”
And something alien seeped into Havilar’s mind before she could point out Lorcan had never really helped her.
To kill the orc took until well after the sun had gone down, but the longer the sacrifice took, the more intense the power it created, and by the time he no longer screamed but made small hissing whimpers, Yvon was still wide awake and flush with the power of the sacrifice.
“The final stroke,” Sekata intoned. She pulled back her robe so the orc—had he eyes still—could see her angled, elf face. She pointed the ritual knife point down, and glanced around at her confederates.
“Take off your hood,” Yvon whispered to Creed.
“This is perfectly ridiculous,” Creed said, but he did as he was bade, revealing his own solid black eyes and pointed horns.
“It is part of the ritual,” Lector said.
“It’s a stupid part,” Creed said. “He can’t see us.”
“The entire ritual is critical,” Imarella whispered, her tail lashing in annoyance. “Or do you want our offering to the Supreme Lord to be for naught?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Creed said. “I—”
“Shut it!” Lector said. “You’re lucky we even asked you back.”
Sekata cleared her throat. “The final stroke!” She plunged the blade down into the erratically beating heart of the orc.
A sudden swell of black and silver energy swelled over the hilt of the blade, spitting and crackling.
Then abruptly, it coalesced and shot skyward, a missile of death. Sekata leaped backward. Creed covered his face. Imarella was so startled she backed into one of the tree’s root-branches. Yvon and Lector stared up at the sky as the crackling bolt faded out of sight.
“That,” Creed said, “is not part of the ritual.”
Again, Lorcan threw himself shoulder-first into the door. Again, it flexed and shivered, but did not budge. He stretched his jaw, the joint popping back into place after being so long clenched. Bloody Sairché.
She’d had time enough now to activate the Needle, to find Farideh—he didn’t doubt Sairché would seize the opportunity and damn the consequences. If she hadn’t simply appeared in the middle of all those people, she’d at least walked right up to Farideh and … and what? Would Sairché be so incautious as to kidnap his warlock?
He leaped at the door again. Again it didn’t move. Lorcan roared and kicked the portal hard enough to make it ooze.
An imp popped into existence beside him. “Are you Lorcan?”
“Not now!”
“Soul of yours is in dispute,” the imp said. “It was named Goruc Darkeyes?”
Lorcan fought the urge to kick the imp down the hallway, and kicked the door instead. If someone else wanted Goruc, they could have him. “Well, if there’s a prior claim, I cede,” he said.
“No,” the imp said. “A subsequent one. The Supreme Lord’s barbezu are claiming primacy. Starting trouble down by the Styx. The archduchess’s barbezu are spoiling for a fight and I think they might just tear the soul apart so—”
“He’s dead?” Lorcan cried. A number of curses fought their way out of his mouth, but none seemed quite graphic enough to capture his fury.
He channeled all of it into a blast of magic so intense it made the door scream. It charred half the portal to the bone and burned the jamb away with a smell revolting enough to make the imp behind him gag. He slammed against the weakened door again and it gave under his rage, knocking over the heavy axe that Sairché had shoved up against it.
The imp flapped in behind him. “If you wish to dispute the claim—”
/> “Tell His Supremacy to keep the shitting orc!” Lorcan snarled. “And you get out of my sight.”
There in the mirror, Sairché was walking beside Farideh, who had a stony expression that said she clearly knew Sairché was trouble. He’d seen that look enough.
“Good girl.” He waved the ring before the surface. The mirror had no trouble pinpointing Goruc, or at least what was left of him, spread-eagled on the ground in the mud of his own blood. Over him, twisting branches of a strange tree filtered down the moonlight. The axe still lay clutched in his dead fist.
Holding the image of the twisted grove in his mind and spitting a steady stream of curses, Lorcan activated the Needle. He wasn’t taking chances on who found Goruc’s body. He’d drag that sorry orc back from the grave if it meant stitching his body back together himself. Asmodeus could claim him after.
When Yvon bent to help the others take up the body, something gleamed at the edge of his vision.
“Hold.” He leaned over the corpse of the orc, peering at the viscera as if there were a secret message scribed upon them. He felt his cheeks flush, and his pupils open as he searched for the faint traces of diabolic magic. Something was definitely there. Someone or something had definitely made a claim on this orc.
Which meant someone in the Hells must have sent him after the warlock girl.
He looked at Lector and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.
“This one is marked.”
“He’s one of us?” Lector demanded.
Yvon peered at the orc a moment more. The twisting marks of the Hells were faint and hard to divine. Beyond sight, beyond touch, beyond any sense—and yet somehow with all of them, after long years of practice, he could perceive those identifying traces. These were particularly odd. But certainly not of Asmodeus or his legion of followers.
“No. Someone else’s.”
“A warlock?” Sekata said.
He shook his head. A warlock’s brand was much stronger, much more tightly connected to the Hells, even if it wasn’t so easy to sense where that connection lay. This was more like a net around the orc’s soul than a lead.
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