So that’s how it would be. Well, she could play this game. Twilight was adept at eliciting attention. “A maze?” She scowled.
As though shaken, Liet looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad experiences,” she said, drawing his attention. “What do you find in mazes?”
“Ah,” said Liet. “Twists and turns? Lots of dead ends?”
Twilight shook her head.
“Treasure at the center?”
“Minotaurs. And depending on the local wildlife, often ravenous ones.”
“Oh. That.” Liet’s eyes were far away. It hadn’t worked. “Just staying optimistic.”
Twilight growled. “What?” she asked. “Are you all so stunned that you can’t even hide to stay alive? Come on!”
No effect.
As though he heard and understood, Gargan thrust the sword through his belt and stepped to her side. The weapon shimmered in the torchlight. A row of emeralds met carvings of wind and flame along the back of the blade. The golden hilt depicted a coiled serpentine creature—its profile resembled a black dragon. Too lovely for a grimlock anvil, Twilight thought distantly. It must have been stolen.
The goliath rummaged through his rucksack and pulled forth a skull with two broken horns.
“That’s a good sign—I guess others must have gotten here first.” She ran her fingers across the skull. “Unless, of course, minotaurs eat their mates after season.”
Liet gaped at her. “Th-that was a jest, aye?” he asked, trembling.
Twilight grinned at him.
“Ah.” Liet’s face scrunched. “’tisn’t a matter I’d thought of—ah—overmuch.”
Slip cast a final healing spell upon Taslin. The priestess coughed and awoke. Acid had eaten holes in her mail, ruined her boots, and burned red marks across her cheeks. The sizzling fluid had not ruined her fine features, but the scars remained apparent. Her sword had incurred the most damage—its blade broken and the crescent moon symbol pitted and scorched. Twilight hoped it was still usable.
“There, lass,” the halfling said to the moaning priestess. “You’re safe now.”
If any of us are safe, Twilight thought.
The priestess said nothing, but looked at Slip in confusion, anguish, and thanks. Then her eyes fell on the warlock, and her face turned to anger. Slowly, she climbed to her knees, then with the aid of the halfling, to her feet.
An awkward silence fell.
“Now then,” Davoren said to her, out of his dark hood. The wounds on his face had faded entirely, it seemed, his skin once again sallow and smooth. “Feel free to thank me for saving your life. I might even look upon you with favor—assuming, of course, sufficient groveling transpires.”
Taslin’s lips narrowed.
“Yes?” the warlock asked. “Did you want to say something?” He did not give her a chance to speak. “It was rather foolish of you to take such a risk. Your wounds were unnecessary and your weapon was destroyed. We could have easily escaped without either loss, and now we must waste healing. I hope your idiocy is a source of pride.”
Silence hung. Twilight almost drew her rapier and ran the warlock through. The only thing stopping her was doubt; she was fairly certain that they would need the warlock’s magic to survive, let alone escape.
Taslin had no such considerations to stop her.
Ruined sword gripped in both hands, the priestess lunged at Davoren, angry tears streaking her cheeks. “Monster!” she screamed. “You will pay for what you’ve done!”
Twilight stepped between the cleric and the warlock, but it was Taslin she restrained, twisting an arm back and wrenching the blade free. Davoren assumed his wicked smile, but the intrusion of Gargan’s massive form kept him from saying anything else. The goliath made no move, but his thick hand was not far from his sword hilt.
“Now is not the time,” Twilight hissed in Elvish.
“Away, child,” growled Taslin. Then, outside the tongue of the People, she rounded on the warlock. “He murdered my Asson! He’ll murder us all!”
“Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t,” Davoren sneered. “Who’s to stop me? You? Without your pet cripple?”
Twilight and Liet both blanched. Slip sobbed. Even Gargan scowled.
A hoarse, despairing cry came from Taslin’s lips. “I know it was you! I know it!” She squirmed. “Let me go, Twilight—let me go!”
“We need him!” snapped Twilight. “Control yourself!”
Taslin struggled for a few tense heartbeats, but finally relented. She relaxed against Twilight, shuddering, and stared daggers at Davoren.
“I’ve said it before,” said Twilight, “but I’ll repeat. If any of us plans to make it out of here alive, we need to work together.” Then she added, so only Taslin would hear and understand: “We don’t know if any of us helped or harmed Asson. Have your suspicions if you will, but don’t let them jeopardize us all.”
“As you say,” Taslin said. She turned to Davoren. “But as soon as we leave this place, human, I shall cut out your heart for this. Upon Corellon’s bloody tears—”
“No!” Twilight hissed, trying to stop the cleric, but it was too late.
“—you will not see another sunrise,” Taslin finished. “This I swear.”
Twilight fought to stop a scowl. A blood oath was never taken lightly by either party. She knew then that the two might work side by side, but their mutual hatred would leave a crack in the band. And their survival relied upon cooperation.
The warlock only smiled. In his eyes was a bitter promise—he would see Taslin dead, for no other reason than because he could.
Twilight knew what she had to do—weakened thought she might be.
She handed Taslin over to the goliath. “Go,” she said slowly and levelly to the others. “Follow Gargan. Skirt the labyrinth, find the sewers, set camp. Leave markings.” She turned back and looked upon the warlock, who smiled. “Davoren and I shall join you presently.”
“But ’Light, ah—” Liet started.
“No argument,” she said. “Davoren and I have some words to share. Lead them, Gargan.” She nodded to Liet without looking at him. “We shall join you.”
Liet nodded slowly and began walking. Taslin kept her eyes on the warlock, but let Slip tug her along.
Gargan stared at Twilight hard, and she flicked a gaze to him. She was reminded once again of the keen intuition behind those emerald eyes. Without words, they conversed, and Gargan understood entirely what Twilight intended. He made her an offer, but she declined. She had to do this alone. He nodded and turned.
As the goliath joined the others, disappearing into the darkness, Twilight let a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she relaxed, and flashed Davoren a winsome look.
“Is anyone watching?” asked Davoren, flexing his fingers, around which little sparks danced.
“I think not,” replied Twilight, hand on her rapier hilt. The shadows came to her.
Davoren’s lip curled. “Good.”
Twilight’s rapier scraped out of its scabbard and she lunged, just as the warlock threw ruby flames at her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Twilight twisted in mid-dive and the blast scorched across her back. Only her ring’s protective magic kept her skin intact. She landed lightly and kicked out. Davoren scowled and threw himself aside just in time to avoid the blow.
Feeling rather than seeing the miss, Twilight wasted no time reversing her momentum, spinning, and slamming an elbow into the warlock’s chest. Davoren recoiled and fell back a step, but his eyes were already blazing with ruby light. The warlock snarled an infernal oath and jerked his hands apart.
“Damn and burn,” Twilight snapped, throwing herself back, trusting instinct.
The elf maid somersaulted back as a fan of ruby fire cut over her chest. She flipped completely over, landing on her feet in a crouch. She rose halfway into a combat stance, keeping her eyes on Davoren. The man had backed away and was holding u
p burning, clawed hands, one forward, one at his ear.
“Come, fiend-spawn.” Twilight hissed as she dipped and wove. “You can do better than that, eh?”
The warlock grinned as they both circled. “You think you can elude my power, do you?” he said. “You await a strike, thinking you will dodge and I will be open, eh?”
“How clever.” Twilight never took her eyes off him. “And your solution?”
Davoren lifted his left arm. The diabolic face molded into his leather bracer chuckled for an instant. The air rippled and a chittering giggle floated forth that matched the gauntlet’s mirth. A tiny winged creature with night black flesh—an imp, Twilight realized—appeared a few paces at her back, laughing and hissing.
Summoned aid, Twilight thought. How original.
Davoren threw his blasts of flame past her, and she understood. With a curse, she sprinted toward the warlock.
The flames consumed the imp before it had the chance to move or even squeak in protest, then the heat arced from its ashen remains to strike Twilight in the back, blowing her out of her charge and slamming her body against the wall.
Davoren laughed uproariously. “Fool!” he said. “You think you can outwit Hellsheart?” He fell into the grip of fiendish power once again.
Fighting against the pain that ripped through her, Twilight struggled to her feet. Little trails of smoke rose from her back. The ring’s magic had absorbed much of the blast, but not all. Limping, she extended the rapier toward Davoren and bent low.
Davoren’s right gauntlet shimmered with magic. A second imp, identical to the first, appeared at her back. Wonderful.
Twilight didn’t give Davoren the chance. She straightened, pulling her rapier back to throw, and ran toward him. She might not cover the five or six paces between them in time, but her blade would. The warlock’s eyes went wide and he shot flame at her. Had he blasted the imp, it would not have arced to Twilight in time.
Even in panic, though, he had not abandoned all aim. The ruby ray struck her rapier’s hilt, superheating it in an instant and unleashing a tremor upon her hand with the kind of force that would have shattered bone had she not released the weapon to fly over her shoulder.
Cursing in pain and consternation, the shadowdancer watched as Betrayal skittered along the ground behind her. A thumb’s breadth lower, and his blast would have destroyed her hand to the wrist. Davoren cursed his missed blast and danced back, power flickering in his eyes as he invoked his lord’s gifts again.
“I will destroy you, whore!” Davoren sneered.
Always insults about my lovelife—or my profession, she mused as he threw fire that consumed his imp. It darted for Twilight.
This time, the elf managed to dodge, but only by leaping onto Davoren. The flames jetted over her head and slammed into the wall, sending chips of stone flying. The elf and the warlock went down in a heap of bodies, kicking and scrabbling.
Davoren slammed Twilight to the ground, but she hit his stomach with her knee. The warlock reeled, rolling away, and Twilight seized the chance to pounce atop him, hands going for his throat. He caught her wrist in both hands and pried at her grip.
They locked, pitting wiry muscles against each other. She had his throat in her right hand. Her left slapped her belt, searching for some weapon. She knew she didn’t have the strength to choke the life from him or shatter his neck. One of her lockpicks would do; a quick thrust to the eye or temple would put the warlock down.
Then a thin blade appeared in Davoren’s hand, snatched from a sheath inside one of his demon bracers, and it darted for Twilight’s face. Her hand shot out and caught Davoren’s wrist. The warlock spit and slavered, straining against Twilight, the point of his stiletto just a hair’s breadth from her jugular.
The tip scratched her neck and a bright spot of blood welled up.
“Almost, filliken.” Davoren hissed through clenched teeth. “Almost.”
“Almost nothing,” she said.
Twilight squeezed the tendon in his wrist just so, and Davoren squealed in pain. She slammed his hand against the ground once, twice, knocking the blade free. The warlock, to his credit, kicked Twilight off him, but she was already extricating herself. She rolled free, over the fallen stiletto, and went for Betrayal where it lay.
Davoren struggled up, aimed his fingers at her back, and spat dark words, taking his time to articulate the brutish syllables.
In mid-roll, Twilight reversed direction and came up in a crouch, her hand crossbow pointing at the warlock’s face. Moving for the rapier had just been a distraction, meant to keep the warlock’s eye on the steel while he ignored the real threat.
By the time he saw the crossbow, the bolt was streaking for his face. Davoren wasn’t quick enough to flinch.
Or perhaps he had no reason to fear.
The crossbow bolt skipped off Davoren’s cheek, causing less damage than it would have to a mountainside.
“Sand,” Twilight swore. She had forgotten Davoren’s fiendish skin.
The failed attack allowed Davoren to complete his invocation, and a curtain of black-laced fire appeared around Twilight, trapping her in a circle that measured no more than five paces across. Discarding the crossbow in favor of the rapier she had collected, she growled at her foolishness.
“Davoren!” she snapped. “Face me, coward! I have steel in hand. Face me!”
The only response she received was the roar of the infernal flames, growling and laughing around her.
Twilight realized that he could be preparing any number of deaths for her, so she switched tactics. “Why not face me, warlock?” she asked. “I stand here, shaking, and you hesitate? Surely you do not fear me—a weakling wench like myself, eh? You don’t have the sand, perhaps—or maybe the sword?”
Davoren laughed derisively, a sound much louder than the fires. “Ah yes, the courageous Fox-at-Twilight, always so witty, always so much better than others,” he said. “Is that why you chose us, I wonder, because you think yourself superior?”
Ducking below the smoke that was filling the chamber, Twilight opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of that, but he was already rattling on.
“I wonder if Telketh and Arandon ever knew how little you thought of them. Or perhaps they were too distracted, having shared your bed. They were so eager to give their lives for you. I wonder if they ever realized you meant them as little more than monster feed. I wonder about Quelin, the sniveling paladin, or even that bitch Galandra. Did you seduce her too, I wonder?”
His voice came from all sides, as though he were stalking about her fiery prison. She loathed evil monologues, but they were a typical consequence of an assault on a spellslinger’s pride.
“You disappoint me, Davoren,” Twilight said. Without any stealth—knowing that he couldn’t see her beyond the flames or through magic—she reached back with the warlock’s stiletto and slid it, point-first, into a flask at her belt. “I would have thought one such as yourself would recognize the value of ruthlessness.”
“Nevertheless,” Davoren growled, but said no more. Twilight was grateful.
“I thought I was hiring a spellslinger worth a dozen gold a day in Westgate,” she called, “but I see now you’re nothing but a pathetic worm. You’re too afraid to confront—what did you call me on the way to this expedition?—a ‘two-copper trollop with a flimsy metal twig she calls a sword’?”
“I’m sure I was more imaginative, whore,” came the warlock’s reply. “But I wasn’t far off the mark. Your meager skills and your pathetic powers are nothing compared to mine. Your sniveling changeling god is as nothing against the might of the Lord of Baator.”
“Why not stand and face me, and show me this supposed might?” Twilight asked. “If you are truly as great as you claim, there is little a poor lass like me can do to defeat you.” She stretched her back and grinned. “Unless, of course—you aren’t.”
Davoren strode through the flames, dark power licking at the fringe of his robe. Hi
s eyes pulsed with ruby energy and his face contorted with rage. Fire leaked from his fists as he bore down upon Twilight.
“Insolent, mongrel bitch!” he growled. “I shall see you beg!”
“Many have spoken thus,” said Twilight. “All are dead.”
“You’ll join them!” Davoren lunged, power streaming from his hands and eyes.
Twilight put out the dusky rapier and dropped, a low stop thrust that would have spitted any sword-dancer foolish enough to charge thus. Davoren, however, merely sent the sword clattering aside with a pulse of his power and loomed over Twilight. She spun with the blow and buried the stiletto in his side.
The darkness abated and the wall of flames flickered out, leaving an eerie, vile smoke hanging at the edges of their vision.
Davoren, shaking off his surprise, gave her a mocking grin. He looked down at the little trickle of blood making its way down the stiletto’s edge. “Not cold iron this time, eh?” the warlock asked. “I hardly feel it.”
“Not the blade.” Twilight smiled. “The poison.”
The warlock blinked in confusion—once, then a second time slowly, then a third time, in which he fought to move his eyelids. He felt it then, a subtle chill that flowed through his veins. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened, but he could not move.
Twilight glared in his face. “My nar’talas venom. Locklimb, humans call it,” she said. “Brewed from the juice of a rare breed of centipede native to Evermeet. Causes mild euphoria when inhaled and instant paralysis when introduced to the blood.”
She yanked the dagger free. Davoren didn’t flinch—couldn’t, Twilight thought—and wiped it clean on the warlock’s robe.
“Only a little bit flows in your veins, enough to keep you frozen a few moments—enough to silence your spit hole while I make a few things perfectly clear. Understand?”
She knew Davoren could not reply. His outraged eyes, though, said enough.
“Before we get to business, while I’ve got you transfixed, perhaps you can help me understand something I’ve always wondered about.” She paused. “If you’re the descendent of demons, how is it you serve Asmodeus?”
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