The Ruin (14 page)

“Well, this time he tried to manipulate the wrong person, and I’ll make certain he regrets it.”

“You’ll need our help.”

“Don’t be presumptuous. I need no one. I’m first among Auril’s priestesses!”

“Congratulations. But my comrades and I have been investigating this matter for months. We explored the ancient sites, overcame the dangers, unearthed the lore, and conferred with the sages who interpreted it. Glories of the dawn, you wouldn’t even understand what’s happening if it wasn’t for us. You’d be stupid to reject our aid if you can get it. And you can, so long as you treat us decently, because we share a common goal.”

Iyraclea gave a grudging nod. “Perhaps so. I assume you want to see your companions and make certain they’re all right.”

“Yes, but before even that, I’d like my breeches back.”

21-27 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Like the tumbling snowflakes, Zethrindor floated on the wailing wind out of the west. Strangely, despite her avowed determination to conquer Sossal, Iyraclea had yet to take the field, but she had cursed the land with a fierce and premature winter. The assumption was that frigid temperatures and relentless blizzards would hinder and demoralize the defenders far more than it would the invaders from the Great Glacier, who faced such conditions every day of their lives.

Zethrindor was watching a huge white wolf lurking behind a stand of brush on a ridge. The beast scrutinized the string of poorly guarded ox-drawn supply carts slogging along the snow-choked trail below.

Sossal had turned out to be a country possessed of more than its fair share of skinchangers. The druids mastered the art in the course of their training, but apparently certain other folk were simply born with the knack. Zethrindor was reasonably certain the shaggy creature below was one such, a warrior wearing animal form to scout the convoy and evaluate whether his war band ought to attack.

The shapeshifter naturally wouldn’t decide in the affirmative if he detected a dracolich gliding overhead, waiting to pounce when he and his comrades took the bait, but Zethrindor doubted that would be a problem. The night was dark, and just in case it wasn’t black enough, he’d veiled himself in a spell of invisibility.

The wolf howled, and another answered. Then dozens of other lupines, some ghostly white like the scout, others gray, came slinking to join their comrade on the high ground.

In Zethrindor’s estimation, humans in general were weak, stupid, contemptible creatures. Still he had to concede the cleverness of an elite company formed entirely of werewolves. No wonder these particular pests had proved so difficult to hunt down.

The wolves’ bodies heaved and flowed, muzzles retracting, hind legs lengthening, paws melting into hands and feet, fur becoming woolen garments and scale and leather armor. A couple warriors grunted or gasped at the strain of transformation, but so softly even a wyrm’s ears could barely catch it. The humans driving and guarding the carts certainly wouldn’t.

As the warriors strung their bows and laid arrows on the strings, Zethrindor studied them, trying to pick their druid, his chief target, out from the others. Unfortunately, on first inspection, he failed to spot a telltale sickle, sprig of mistletoe, or the like.

Well, the conscripts with the carts were expendable. That was why Zethrindor had chosen them. So, for a moment or two, he’d permit the men of Sossal to attack without interference, in the hope that the druid would cast a spell and so reveal himself.

Arrows arced whistling through the air. Caught utterly by surprise, tribesmen dropped. The survivors clamored, cast wildly about, tried to ready their own weapons, but by then the attackers’ next volley was already in flight. Half the conscripts fell before the rest could even begin to mount any semblance of a defense.

Zethrindor snarled in exasperation. The druid had yet to attempt a spell, and why should he? The assault was going so well, it only made sense to conserve his power.

But if Zethrindor attacked, that would surely elicit a magical response, and if not, he supposed he’d just have to slaughter the entire enemy force. That had always been his ultimate intent anyway.

He furled his wings and dived at the archers. Some, sensing a disturbance in the air, looked up just in time to take a blast of his pearl-white breath in their faces. Coated in rime, they dropped.

By attacking, he forfeited his invisibility, but that was all right. His appearance was a weapon in itself, one that made some of the bowmen drop their weapons and run screaming down the hill, where the men of the Great Glacier, organized at last and furious to take revenge for the devastating surprise attack, met them with flying javelins, stabbing spears, and hacking axes.

But a number of the skinchangers stood their ground and loosed arrows at Zethrindor. Most missed or glanced off. A couple lodged in his scales, but caused him no distress.

He flung himself to the ground, crushing a warrior beneath his bulk. He raked with his talons and ripped the heart, lungs, and splinters of rib from another man’s chest. A snap of his jaws left a third in pieces, and a flick of a wing hurled a fourth off the hilltop.

Skinchangers scrambled to engage him. Some remained in human form to slash with swords or jab with lances. Others flowed back into lupine shape to bite with their fangs. It didn’t much matter. Zethrindor found he could kill them just about as easily in either guise.

The combat was both exhilarating and useful, but where was the cursed druid? He wondered if he’d already killed the wretch and just didn’t realize it. Then, in a burst of yellow glare and fierce heat, a salamander exploded into existence in front him. Shrouded in crackling flame, somewhat manlike from the waist up but scaly and serpentine below, the elemental spirit slithered forward, stabbing with its trident.

Zethrindor met it with a puff of his breath. The intense cold blew out its corona of flame like a candle, and it collapsed thrashing in agony. He ground it beneath his foot and looked around, trying to locate the human who’d conjured it.

There! Some ten yards away, a stocky human held a scimitar in a seemingly useless overhand grip, as if he could wield it like a dagger. The swordsmith had cast the silver pommel in the form of a unicorn’s head, emblem of the goddess Mielikki. It was evidently a talisman the druid had flourished to cast the summoning spell.

Zethrindor snarled an incantation of his own, and a barrage of ice balls hurtled through the air, to hammer the priest and throw him to the ground. He struggled to rise again, but slowly.

intent on finishing him off before he could recover, the dracolich charged, and the warriors of Sossal, those who were left, scrambled to bar his path. Blades and lupine fangs flashed at him, and he tore his assailants into fragments of gory meat and bone.

It only took a moment. But that was evidently time enough for the druid to collect himself, because, as Zethrindor killed the last of the soldiers, much of his dorsal surface, from his beaked snout to the tips of his ragged, decaying wings, burst into flame. The hot pain balked him for an instant, until his innate resistance to hostile magic extinguished the blaze.

By then, the druid had reached a gnarled, leafless, stunted tree and stretched out his hand to touch it. His body began to fade.

With a surge of frustration, Zethrindor realized what was happening. A spell was about to whisk the priest beyond

his reach, and since his breath weapon hadn’t yet renewed itself, he was probably too far away to do anything about it. He stared, trying to paralyze the human with his gaze, but the druid kept moving. His fingers clasped a branch, and his shape blurred into little more than shadow—

Crimson eyes glowing, a dark reptilian form, smaller than Zethrindor but dragon-sized nonetheless, pounced out of the darkness and caught the druid in his fangs. The newcomer wrenched the human away from the tree and shook him like a dog shaking a rat, likely breaking his neck. He then sucked and slurped at his victim, guzzling his blood before spitting the corpse out onto the ground.

Zethrindor had sensed the undead nature of the stranger as soon as he appeared, and wondered if he too might be a dracolich—but then recognized him for a vampire.

The blood-drinker glided forward. Before his transformation, he’d evidently been a smoke drake, albeit a remarkably large one, and still gave off a harsh smell of combustion. A choker of platinum, ruby, and diamond encircled his neck. Zethrindor wondered just how easy it would be to take the treasure, either through intimidation or combat, then set the notion aside for the moment, anyway. With the conquest of Sossal to complete, he had more important matters to concern him. Such as finding out about powerful new entities popping up unexpectedly in the middle of the disputed territory.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m called Brimstone,” the smoke drake whispered. He glanced about, evidently making sure no potential dangers remained on the ridge. They didn’t. Most of the skinchangers were dead. The others had either run away or lay shrieking and moaning in agony. “I hope I was of some assistance.”

“I didn’t need any,” Zethrindor said. “in fact, I was looking forward to killing the druid myself. Still, I suppose your intentions were good.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Brimstone said. “I’ve spent the past couple nights flying around Sossal, trying to locate

you. It appears the war’s progressing well. What a shame you and the other wyrms will reap such meager benefits from your

victories.”

We’ll see about that, Zethrindor thought, when the time comes. “Why were you seeking me, vampire? What do you want?”

“To offer some genuine assistance, or, at the very least, information. First, I suppose I ought to provide some context. In my humble way, I’m like you: Sammaster turned me undead long ago, during the course of his early experiments. Unfortunately, after he moved on to making dracoliches, he ceased to pay me the deference which was my due. Our association ended badly.”

Zethrindor snorted. “No true wyrm tolerates disrespect from any human, magicians included.”

“Is that why you take orders from him, and how he could loan you to Iyraclea as if you were some sort of indentured

servant?”

Anger brought Zethrindor’s breath weapon welling up to chill his throat and the back of mouth, for all that it would be of minimal efficacy against another undead. “Have a care how you speak to me!”

Brimstone lowered his head. “Pardon me, High Lord. I meant no offense. I’m simply trying to explain why it is that for centuries, I’ve nursed a grudge against Sammaster, trying, to wreck his schemes, and those of the cult he founded, whenever I could. Earlier this year, I learned he’s become obsessed with an ancient shrine or mystic’s stronghold—some sort of place of power at any rate—located somewhere in the northlands.”

“Why?”

“That, I can’t tell you. But haven’t you suspected there’s more to his schemes than he’s letting on? Does it really make sense that he’d toil to change the face of the world, only to play a subordinate role in the Faerűn to come? Isn’t it more likely he intends to set himself above you dracoliches and reign supreme, to continue controlling you as—if you’ll

forgive my bluntness—he’s sought to manipulate you all along?”

“Sammaster is secretive, and naturally, I don’t entirely trust him. But he has his uses.”

“Obviously. Yet if his covert designs proceed unchecked, if they go too far for anyone to stop them… Let me continue my tale. I resolved to find and investigate the wizard’s hidden lair. To that end, I reluctantly allied myself with the sort of folk you and I would normally destroy. A priest of Lathander. A song dragon. Wyrm hunters. Because they too had resolved to fight Sammaster, and guided by my hatred, I believed that was all that mattered.”

A warrior with a shredded belly and legs gave a piercing scream. Irritated by the noise, Zethrindor pulped him with a ground-shaking lash of his tail. “You speak as if your attitude has changed.”

“I loathe Sammaster,” Brimstone said, “but events have reminded me he’s not the only detestable thing in the world, nor is vengeance the only good. No matter how many times I helped them, my miserable allies, vermin unworthy even to speak my name, showed me only scorn. Now their own stupidity has ended their potential usefulness. Indeed, it has turned them into yet another difficulty.

“Meanwhile,” the smoke drake continued, “dracoliches proliferate, even as the Rage spreads chaos and devastation, preparing the way for your eventual conquest. I realize now, I can’t stop it. Nothing can. The best I can hope for is to be granted an important position in the Faerűn that will be.”

Zethrindor tossed his wings in a shrug. “You’re not a dracolich.”

“And only they will reign. Except that’s Sammaster’s stipulation, not yours, and brings us back to the question of who will really make the decisions.”

“Well, I suppose that if you proved exceptionally useful, you might find a role as a king’s most trusted officer, or even the master of some small principality all your own.” But not, Zethrindor thought, if he had anything to say about it.

Brimstone impressed him as far too wily and ambitious to trust in such a role. Still, why not feign willingness to consider such a concession, and find out what the vampire had to offer in return?

“Thank you, High Lord, that’s all I desire. I mentioned that my worthless companions had come to grief. In fact, their current predicament came about as a direct result of Iyraclea’s covenant with Sammaster. In exchange for your services, she promised to kill any strangers found wandering on the Great Glacier. It was the wizard’s ploy to keep his enemies away from the ruin he’d discovered, a site somewhere in the Novularond Mountains.”

Zethrindor cocked his head. “Sammaster underestimated Iyraclea if he imagined she’d keep such a pledge without trying to find out why it mattered to him.”

“How true. But as you’ve surely noticed, he is deranged, and such folk, no matter how clever, inevitably make mistakes. At any rate, instead of killing my allies, Iyraclea captured them and put them to the question. Soon enough, they broke and divulged what they knew, with the result that the ice Queen herself now seeks Sammaster’s hidden lair in hopes of mastering the power there.