She felt the hilt of her rapier, sheathed at her waist, took out her crossbow, and remembered the stiletto in her glove. They were as prepared as they could be.
Unable to shake a twinge of trepidation, Twilight gestured Gargan forward and rose from the shadows herself. The goliath darted into the chamber, sword out, and bore down upon the troll. Twilight came behind, ready to fire.
The gnarled troll gave a roar as Gargan’s acid-sheathed sword hacked into his slim hip. The greenish liquid burned the flesh like parchment.
Twilight fired and the quarrel stabbed into Tlork’s red eye, wrenching another cry of pain. This was going well. She darted toward them, dropping a hand to her rapier. If she could get behind the troll, she and Gargan could make short work—
“Well met,” came a cold rasp, echoing around the chamber. “You’ve arrived just in time for the evening banquet—mine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Twilight’s hand went to the quarrels at her belt, but Gestal’s magic was faster. Dark power blazed from his fingers and struck her full in the stomach. She flinched and her body erupted in pain. The magic forced a spasm that consumed her with agony. Within the span of a heartbeat, her muscles strained and locked, cutting off a squeal of shock. The crossbow clattered to the ground.
Gestal stepped from the shadows, cloaked in tattered gray robes. Rot and corruption spread up the folds of fabric, as though it had never been cleaned. A pair of human hands emerged from the sleeves, wrists scarred and covered in swaths of black flesh that spread like a cancer up the forearms. Madness bled from the gaps in the robe like leaking ink.
“Fox-at-Twilight,” he said, his voice disturbingly hungry. “I’ve been waiting.”
Twilight remained calm. She suppressed a twinge of confusion. Davoren had never shown the power to freeze foes by pain, but he could have hidden it. She had been under spells like this before, and knew it was only a matter of time. All she could do for a few breaths was watch.
Tlork kicked, and Gargan, staggering over the uneven ground, took the troll’s bony foot full in the chest. The goliath hit the broken stone hard but instantly reversed his momentum, rolling back the way he had come. He lunged to avoid Tlork’s elephant leg. Rising behind the troll, Gargan slashed acid across Tlork’s inner thigh, wrenching a fiendish screech from the troll. The goliath had no time for a lethal blow, however, having to duck a whirring warhammer that splintered a long stalactite.
Twilight told herself the pain was only in her head, and the demon power clenched her mind more tightly. This confirmed it, and her mind worked to slip out of the spell. It would take time, though, and it might be time they did not have.
Then she watched Slip materialize and scurry at the cloaked demonist with the grace of a black cat. She paused and gazed at Twilight, perhaps uncertain whether to help her friend or attack her foe.
“Kill … him …” Twilight tried to say. She was freeing herself, she hoped.
As though she had heard, Slip whispered toward Gestal, who was just finishing a chant. Dark, edifying power swirled around the troll. Unhindered, Slip drew her mace and dagger.
Then, in those cowl-shadows Twilight’s eyes could barely pierce, Gestal smiled. His lips were moving. He could cast two spells at once?
“No,” Twilight tried to scream, but she couldn’t hear if she succeeded. “No!”
Then the halfling was upon Gestal, and the demonist turned.
He hissed the last word of his spell, a syllable in Abyssal that wrenched Twilight’s heart and made her ears want to bleed. Vile darkness gathered and flared.
Slip screamed as her eyes exploded in a red spray. The fluid hissed onto Twilight’s leg, where it burned like acid. The eyeless halfling collapsed, sobbing and weeping black. The demonist doubled over and quivered as though the spell’s depravity had sapped his body’s stability.
Then, reeling, Gestal burst into laughter. He could have been doubled over in mirth. “Daltyrex,” he said. He clucked his tongue as though chiding a child.
The earring did not translate, but he could have spoken the a spell for all she knew. Would the earring translate such a thing?
Spurred on by outrage, Twilight’s wriggling mind finally slipped the spell’s shackles. She leaped to shaking feet. She took a running step, only to be thrown to the floor when the world shuddered at Gestal’s cry. A great tremor ripped through the cavern, tearing it asunder. Stalactites rained and moonlight from the desert above streamed down from a broken ceiling fifty feet up. The stars hid behind a cloud of dust. Gestal’s mad laughter boomed across the screaming stone.
Twilight grit her teeth. How could he cast so quickly? Spells seemed to flow through him at random, all without pause, all deadly.
The quake dug a wide furrow between the combatants and the demonist. Twilight realized she could not jump it, even with the boots. As Slip collapsed into a moaning heap, the demonist smirked in the depths of his cowl and began another spell.
Twilight bit her lip. She couldn’t give in to fear. She had to end this, and end it quickly. She shook off the last of her pain, extended Betrayal, and ran.
“Gargan!” she screamed as she barreled toward his back.
Gargan glanced and nodded. He hacked at the troll, driving it back, and whirled even as she jumped, tossing his axe in the air. His trailing hand caught Twilight’s arm and heaved her over the crevasse. Her leap became a flying lunge. Then he spun back to the troll and caught his axe as it fell, just in time to block the troll’s hammer with both weapons, the force driving him back toward the pit.
As she flew toward the shivering, chanting demonist, Twilight screamed with as much wrath and hatred as she could muster. All the tears that she’d shed for fallen comrades, her heartache at not knowing if Liet lived, and her crushing fear rose out of her in a roar.
Gestal turned and threw back his hood.
At the scream, Gargan rolled between the troll’s mismatched legs and glanced after the elf. Gestal had drawn a blade—a cleaverlike dagger—and he used it to parry her lunge aside. She landed, staggered, and dropped her rapier.
“No,” she said. She looked as though she were choking. “It can’t be!”
Gargan knew the time had come to run.
Using instincts and reflexes honed against giants, the goliath eluded Tlork’s claws and dodged the crushing hammer by a hand’s breadth. With a mighty roar, the goliath dropped his axe and swung his huge sword down in two hands. The acid-laden edge slashed Tlork’s thin arm in two, and the great hammer did not rise.
The troll staggered, but the goliath turned. His chance had come for a deathblow, but he ran for the chasm instead, hoping he would make it to Foxdaughter in time.
Twilight struck the waiting cleaver, but it would not budge. The blades screamed and she tumbled over the demonist’s head, landing flat on her back. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her. Betrayal clattered to the stone and slid against the wall.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice husky. “Do you not recognize me?”
Gestal dropped his blade and threw off his cloak, revealing his bare arms and chest. Grotesque scars crisscrossed the black, scaly flesh over his biceps and forearms, stopping at his shoulders and hands. As she watched, rapt, blackness rippled across his body, painting the bronzed flesh with inky corruption. In a heartbeat, it spread to all parts of him, half shrouding his face in putrid sores. Clean on one side, oozing on the other, it was as though he had two faces.
As the scaly, festering skin covered his left cheek, a scorching brand depicting a two-headed snake wrapped around a serrated blade lit upon his right face—a face that remained hideously recognizable.
“No …” said Twilight. “It—it can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it can,” said Liet in a perverse rasp, “my love.”
Then his distorted arms extended like putty and clawed at her, one hand glowing with blood, the other with ink.
Twilight could not bring herself to dodge.
&nb
sp; Gargan ran for the crevasse lip, pushing his legs as he had in races with his clan brothers and sisters. Tlork swung his claws wildly and Gargan’s shoulder opened in its wake. He realized his axe was gone, but it was irrelevant. He hit the edge and jumped, his mighty legs pulsing. A weightless heartbeat later, he slammed down on the other side.
His weight and the strength of his jump were too much for the brittle edge, however. The stone broke under his feet, and he began a groaning, inevitable slide into the jagged abyss.
Gargan leaped again and again, dancing across falling stones toward Gestal. The priest wore the face of Liet, but the goliath ignored the implications. He saw only the Foxdaughter, frozen in terror, and the demon priest’s impossibly long arms reaching for her. He also saw Slip, seeping pits of black and red where her eyes had once been, crawling feebly away.
The distance between them was slowly increasing, so he couldn’t reach them both. But he could save one of them, perhaps. Slip, his friend, or … He might have cried out, but it would do no good, he sensed. He just had to get there in time.
In time, horribly, to watch Gestal jab a red-glowing hand into the elf’s breast while his black hand went for her face. She arched and screamed, blood and vomit gushing from her mouth. Horrid as her reaction was, it probably saved her from a worse fate. The black hand only brushed her shoulder instead of her cheek.
The world froze for an instant and reality shifted. Gargan thought he heard a faint mirthful sound, as of a mocking wind. It unnerved him. He had heard tales of travelers wandering leagues in the desert, following just such whispers.
Then the world flowed as normal, and Twilight went white as a corpse. She collapsed to the ground, limp as an empty cloak.
Gargan made no sound, but Gestal sensed him anyway and spun, bringing up his burning claws. The hunter plied his training against giants, with their exceptional reach, and rolled under the deadly claws, still arrowing straight for the limp elf.
Unlike the arms of any real creature, however, Gestal’s hands twisted back, still bearing down on the goliath. Gargan thought himself lost.
The priest had miscalculated, though, and the elongated arms jerked to a halt, a finger’s breadth from Gargan’s foot. Both priest and goliath looked in the same instant, only to find Gestal’s distorted arms hooked at the elbows. The priest cursed foully and snapped a word of pure chaos. Gargan felt power flare, but his soul went unscathed. Was this why the sharn had chosen them? Gestal’s magic seemed to have little effect on the goliath.
Gargan dived for his prize: the still form beside the sputtering demonist. He stooped over her and his hands went to her feet. At his touch, the elf made a gurgling, gasping noise. Gestal was in the midst of another spell and the goliath knew his time was short. He had one boot off, then the other, and yanked them on.
Sure enough, they fit him perfectly, as their magic allowed. Another goliath might have thought this witchcraft, but Gargan had seen enough of the world to know good from evil.
He stood over Twilight then, clad in her boots, and hefted her limp form under one arm. In the other hand, he raised the giant sword and turned to face his attacker.
“No escape!” screamed Gestal, and fanned out his hand, from which sprang five darts of blackness—darts that had been his fingers. Somehow, the goliath ducked all but two, which wriggled and tore, locking his muscles and freezing his flesh.
Then the demonist charged him, his remaining fingers glowing green.
The eyeless Slip whimpered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Her eyes flicked open. The tent was silent. The air tasted rough and dry, like bone worn hollow by the wind. And flowers—she smelled something sweet. An herbal tang.
Twilight looked around. Vertical black hides bounded her dry world, and leather tapestries adorned with reds, greens, and blues. Skulls and various bones hung around the tent, on chains that would have clattered had there been a breeze.
She lay on a heap of soft animal skins, most of which still had fur on one side. Twilight ran her fingers slowly through the coarse hair and wondered, dimly, what could make her think rothé hide soft. She also wondered if she had always existed, in this place of supreme comfort. She had the sense that something terrible had happened, but her memory seemed more a series of dreams, not events.
Just about the time she became thirsty, Twilight noticed a clay bowl on the sandy floor beside her, containing what she soon found to be the most delicious water she had ever tasted. She drank it all without pause. Her stomach felt hollow and tight.
She stood from the bed and a chill breeze raised gooseflesh over her back. Only then did she notice her nakedness. For warmth more than modesty, she found a blanket of sackcloth and drew it over her shoulders before she pushed her way out of the tent flap.
Twilight emerged in a land that was mercilessly bright, but discomfort was far away. She stopped, and her eyes fell to the cliff edge just under her bare toes. Flecks of sand hissed down through empty air, falling what seemed a league. She vaguely noticed a circle of runes drawn in salt below the sole of her foot, smudged by her movement.
Her tent stood on the edge of a plateau that rose out of a gray-white desert like a graveyard. She looked out over the vastness of dusty death before her. Then, drawn by sounds from behind, she looked the other way, across the plateau.
Atop the crags, life bloomed like a garden. Tents of many colors stood before her, and muscular forms moved amongst them, fleshed in tones of grays and browns, oranges and purples. These were shades of stone, both exotic and mundane. The figures wore almost no clothing—the better to reveal the zigzagging patterns of color that crisscrossed their stony skin. Goliaths, she realized.
Parents and children worked in the shade of tents and boulders, while brawny youths carved arrows and spears for hunting. The tiny community bustled with daily business, yet a certain serenity enveloped all. Incomprehensible jests and bawdy laughs echoed from below, where males and females alike engaged in work and sport. She saw feats of strength, comparisons of skill at archery or rock flinging, and even a singing contest that was foreign to her elf’s ears—deep and rhythmic and powerful. Other elves might have disdained it, but she found the music beautiful.
Below her, on mounds and spires of stone that rose up from a shallow, mist-filled depression in the plateau, a score or so young goliaths leaped and danced, hooted and jeered. They played some game, hurling what looked like a stuffed camel’s hump back and forth. Occasionally, one of the goliaths would knock over an opposing player who was trying to make a catch, or the ball itself would lay one out. The downed goliath would sometimes sprawl onto the stone and sometimes fall off the mound, into the mists. This frightened Twilight the first time it occurred, but soon after, the goliath stood up and growled in their thick tongue. She didn’t understand—she wore no earring to translate.
The simple peace of the goliath village set her at ease, and the sight of the game gave her an overwhelming sense of vibrancy. When had she forgotten the simple pleasure of breathing? Watching the young, muscular goliaths at their play reminded her of the sanctity and power of life. In that moment, the world seemed complete.
Complete except …
Twilight looked around for her companions. She didn’t remember their names, but she knew there had been others.
Then she recognized one of them—seated alone not far from her own tent. He was markedly different: where the others wore simple tunics or loincloths, he wore a black cloak that hid his gray skin and red markings. And where they laughed and jeered one another, brimming over with vitality, he merely sat, a cold statue.
Gargan—that was his name.
Twilight wondered why he was not with the others—why they seemed not to notice him. Were they cruel, these goliaths? She opened her mouth to call out.
Then she felt something tingling in the back of her mind, as though a gentle lover were kissing the back of her neck, though no one was there. She stood, eyes half-shut, relaxing in the peace,
and allowed the phantom fingers to trace down her neck, along her bare back, down, down … to the starburst mark at the base of her spine.
It was only a thought in her head, but it sounded like words. Lover.
“Liet?” she asked, her heart fluttering.
Perhaps, came the mental reply. But not just now.
Then she saw demons emerging out of the corners of her world, and she pressed her palms against her temples. Maniacal laughter filled her, consumed her, and she screamed her way down into darkness.
Gargan stood amid pots bubbling over fires. He watched the elf writhe, claw, and moan in the sick tent.
Her neck and face stood taut beyond reason, veins bulging all along her body. Blood seeped from her mouth and nose, and her eyes rolled in their sockets. She wore nothing but sweat, her tangled hair, and staining poultices where her ivory skin had broken open under the pressure of muscles spasms.
It took three goliaths to hold Foxdaughter still enough for Mehvenne Starseeker Kalgatan, the clan druid, to administer healing magic and balms, all to no avail. Blood stained her fingers from wrists, throat, and face, and from those who restrained her now.
“There is a demon,” the withered crone said. She reached to one of the simmering pots and drew out the long wooden spoon with a substantial helping of the ruddy orange mixture. “A demon inside. She has brought evil into our camp.”
Gargan nodded. By necessity, he knew, that was the closest she would come to addressing him. He wanted to assuage the fears of the goliaths, and tell them of Foxdaughter’s strength, but they would hear and not listen. It was forbidden.
The elf screamed and babbled incoherently. He could tell the depth of her agony, from her tone. Delirious, she delivered stunning kicks and cruel gouges to those who held her, fighting them off as though they were attackers rather than healers.
Depths of Madness Page 26
