The Ruin (38 page)

Soon, his generalship started to make a difference, but he saw no reason to leave it at that. Though he couldn’t conjure thunderbolts and the like without revealing himself, he had plenty of subtler spells in his repertoire. Magic that wouldn’t burn telltale trails through the air.

He took a mouse’s femur from one of pockets, whispered a charm, and snapped it in two. A huge bronze floundered in flight as some of its own bones shattered. A pyroclastic dived to blast the metallic with its blazing, bellowing breath.

Another incantation turned a youngish silver to lifeless stone, and it plummeted toward the ground. Unfortunately, Nexus saw the danger, translated himself through space, and caught the shield drake in time to keep it from crashing down and shattering. He then restored it with a counterspell. But at least while he was busy attending to that, he wasn’t hurling attacks at Sammaster’s forces.

A third charm poisoned a copper wyrm’s own magic, and when it attempted to cast a curse of sluggishness on an abyssal drake, the lethargy manifested in its own mind and body. The abyssal drake wheeled, seeking an advantageous position from which to attack, and the copper struggled uselessly to compensate.

Sammaster smiled, then noticed the half-golem warrior loosing an arrow. The shaft drove deep into the juncture of a howling dragon’s wing and shoulder, precisely where it needed to hit to cripple the reptile’s ability to fly. No longer able to flap the spasming pinion properly or extend it fully, the howling wyrm struggled to glide safely down to the ground. A brass swooped to intercept it.

In a battle like this, it was generally sensible to ignore mere archers and swordsmen as the least of the threats on the opposing side. But Sammaster had more than once noticed this particular warrior striking to considerable effect. Why allow the pest to persist when it would be so easy to neutralize him? The lich peered at the black expanse of the sky, crisscrossed with multicolored flares of dragon breath and arcane energy, seeking the proper tool for the job.

Wheeling around her blurry, constantly altering opponent. and the illusory duplicates it had conjured, Havarlan murmured a charm, then beat her wings and hurled herself at the chaos drake. She’d hoped the sudden action would take it by surprise, but it tilted its wings and veered off. Its phantom twins did the same, aping its motions precisely.

Well, if she couldn’t catch it napping, she’d simply have to outmaneuver it. She whipped herself around, and the chaos dragon was in front of her again. She spat her breath weapon.

Infused with the countermagic she’d just invoked, the plume of glittering vapor obliterated the illusory wyrms, aura of blur, and, she hoped, any other mystical defenses the chaos dragon might have in place. It stiffened the creature’s muscles into rigidity, too, and unable to beat its pinions or shift its tail for balance, it tumbled.

She doubted her breath would paralyze the hardy chaos dragon for any length of time. in Havarlan’s experience, Lady Luck favored the bold and clever, but rarely was she so generous as that. But the attack had rendered the otherworldly reptile helpless for a moment, and that was all the time a Talon of Justice needed to streak in and bury her claws in its body.

They fell together, she raked and bit at the chaos dragon, and once it recovered its mobility, it struck back. The very taste of its constantly shifting flesh and blood altered in her mouth, but somehow, always managed to be vile.

Her probing, digging talons grazed a beating heart, then lost it again, as if the chaos wyrm’s constant transformations shifted even its internal organs around. She groped, found the pulsing, leathery mass once more, gripped it in her claws, and squeezed hard enough to shatter oak.

That finished the chaos dragon. She writhed free of the corpse’s convulsing coils, leaped away from it, and unfurled her wings just in time to keep from crashing to earth along with it.

She skimmed along the ground, then climbed. Had she just emerged victorious from a single combat, she might have roared in exultation. But this was a clash of armies, from what she could observe, a victory for her side as a whole was anything but certain, and the truly irksome, disquieting thing was that she couldn’t tell why.

Perhaps the human wizards, priests, and warriors knew,

since they weren’t so much in the thick of it as she had been. She spotted a knot of them on the ground, near a huge, derelict stone battering ram left over from the siege millennia before, and spiraled down to land beside them.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “The enemy has the edge again, and I don’t understand why.”

“Sammaster,” Brimstone whispered. She turned to discover that the vampire had slipped up behind her. Blood caked his jaws, and it was likely he’d been drinking it, for his wounds were squirming and puckering shut.

“What about Sammaster?” asked Will, gore—not his own, fortunately—spattering his brigandine, warsling dangling in his hand.

“He’s here,” the vampire said, “directing his troops and casting the occasional spell. I’m certain of it.”

“Could he hide himself so well,” Havarlan asked, “that even dragons wouldn’t detect him?”

Will grinned. “No offense, lady, but I’m no lich, and even I can do that when I have to.”

“If he is here,” Havarlan said, “we must find and attack him.”

“And do something else, too,” panted Pavel. At some point, he’d lost his helmet, and sweat plastered his blond hair to his brow. “Some of us need to enter the citadel, find the heart of the Rage, and destroy it, while the rest keep Sammaster and his wyrms from pursuing. I suggest we ‘small folk’ go in, because you metallics fight better than we do, and also because I wouldn’t be surprised if the ancient elves built the interior of the place in such a way as to make it difficult for dragons to move around.”

Havarlan grunted. “I don’t like dividing our strength. You humans may not feel as mighty as dragons, but you’re making a contribution. If you withdraw from the fight, Sammaster’s forces may well overwhelm those of us who remain.”

“They might do that anyway,” said Scattercloak in his bland, androgynous voice. “But if we ruin the lich’s plans first, then we still prevail.”

“All right,” Havarlan said, “but be careful. You may well encounter additional traps and guardians.”

“Celedon and I,” said Will, “can handle trip wires, false flooring, and the like, while the wizards turn the squamous spewers and such into cider and cheese. So let’s get to it.”

All the small folk who’d happened to be standing close enough to hear the plan—which was to say, Pavel, Will, Celedon, Drigor, Darvin, Scattercloak, Sureene, and Firefingers—scurried toward the mouth of the barbican. For a moment, Havarlan wanted to call them back, but resisted the impulse.

Instead, she rounded on Brimstone. “Of us all,” she said, “you’re the only one who actually knows Sammaster, and you’re also a scrier. Can you pinpoint his location, or must we pull Nexus out of the fight’?”

“I’ll find him,” whispered Brimstone, eyes smoldering, jeweled collar catching the ambient silver glow.

“Tell me when you do.” She lashed her wings and soared upward, toward a pair of hell wyrms attacking one of her followers.

Dorn and his comrades were fighting what Kara said was an abyssal drake, a hybrid of red dragon, wyvern, and demon. Singing, wings sweeping up and down, she wheeled around it, staying beyond the range of its breath while hammering it with spells, many of them lightning in one form or another. Since abyssal drakes apparently lacked the intellect to master sorcery, it couldn’t retaliate in kind.

Meanwhile, her allies assailed the otherworldly reptile from the ground. Dorn and Raryn loosed arrows. Baerimel and Jannatha blasted it with magic.

The abyssal drake dived at the humans and dwarf. Its long neck swelled and cocked, and its jaws opened. Dorn and his companions scrambled to avail themselves of what little cover existed.

The abyssal drake changed from black to red-black as it swooped into the field of silvery light. Its head whipped forward, but no stream of hellfire erupted from its mouth. Kara had evidently cast a charm to choke off its breath weapon.

It looked startled, and the bard blasted it with a dazzling, sizzling flare of her own breath. The attack charred one of its pinions, and it plummeted, jolting the earth as it slammed down.

It rolled to its feet and charged the nearest human target, who happened to be Baerimel. The temple mage froze.

Dorn dropped his bow, grabbed his hand-and-a-half sword, and lunged, interposing himself between the drake and its prey. It might run right over him, but if so, it would do it with his outstretched blade buried in its throat.

It recognized the threat, and stopped short to snap at him. He sidestepped, tore its snout with a backhand blow of his knuckle-spikes, and came back on guard. Its tail whipped around its body in a stroke that was just a blur at the periphery of his vision.

He tried to dodge, but also twisted to present the iron half of his body to the attack. The poisonous stinger struck his shoulder with a clang. It didn’t breach the armor, but it staggered him.

By that time, though, Raryn had started chopping the drake’s flank with his axe. Jannatha and Baerimel aimed wands at it, the former, assailing it with darts of yellow light, the latter, with a barrage of ice. The punishment kept it from pressing the attack against Dorn, and Kara plunged down on top of it, driving her claws deep into its back. She struck at its neck with her fangs.

Gripping his sword with both hands, Dorn cut repeatedly. His comrades attacked just as relentlessly, until finally, its scales a patchwork of burns and gory wounds, loops of gut hanging from a rent in its belly, the abyssal wyrm expired.

Dorn looked to Kara, crouching on top of the kill. He had to make sure she was all right, and though their adversary had scratched and bitten her, it appeared she essentially was.

She gave him what he’d come to recognize as a dragon’s smile, reflecting both love and a gentle mockery of his concern.

Then her head twisted, orienting on something new, something that, until that moment, no one had perceived. “Look out!” she cried.

Pivoting toward the threat, Dorn assumed his fighting stance, iron arm extended in front of him, sword cocked behind. A dragon swooped at him. It looked like one of the shield dragons might if some disease dulled, crusted, and pitted its silvery scales with the appearance of corrosion.

It spewed a haze of fine reddish droplets. The assault had no effect on Dorn’s human parts, but his artificial arm crumbled into particles of rust. His iron leg gave way beneath him, and he fell.

His natural skills buttressed with almost every bladesinger charm in his repertoire—enhancements to strength and speed, tricks to befuddle the eye and aim of an opponent Taegan flew a zigzag course toward a pyroclastic dragon. At the moment, the creature was focused on Wardancer, but that could change in an instant.

“Now?” asked Jivex, or rather, his disembodied voice. He remained invisible as much as possible, only popping into view when he actually made an attack.

“Now,” Taegan said.

Tamarand seemed to leap forth from his own veil of concealment, or perhaps a charm of teleportation, on the pyroclastic’s left. The hell wyrm twisted toward the illusion, and it was even more open on the right. Taegan flew along its flank, stabbing with Rilitar’s sword. The slender blade plunged deep into the reptile’s flesh.

The pyroclastic twisted back in his direction, and lashing his pinions, he sought to fling himself clear. To dodge to a position that would make it awkward for the drake to strike at him.

It spat its breath weapon anyway, a blast compounded of red-hot ash and a hammering roar. The assault seared, jolted, and nearly deafened him, but he evaded all but the very fringe of it, and Jivex, vanishing once more, dodged it entirely.

Wardancer swooped over the pyroclastic and ripped with talons glimmering with enchantment. Perhaps the charm enhanced their sharpness, for the bronze’s entire forefoot seemed to plunge into the hell wyrm’s body, and yanked out several bloody vertebrae as she streaked on past.

Crippled, unable to flap its wings or do much of anything else, the pyroclastic plummeted. It screeched as it hurtled toward the earth.

Though plainly injured—portions of her body had a crooked look, as though bones were broken—Wardancer turned and flew in search of another combat. Taegan started to follow, then noticed what was happening on the ground. Will, Pavel, Celedon, Drigor, and several of the Thentians were running into the castle barbican.

He realized their departure from the battlefield made sense. The point of this enterprise was to extinguish the Rage. They needed to make sure they accomplished that, whatever

else might happen.

The question was, should he and Jivex join the seekers, or continue fighting here? Where would they be more useful? For a heartbeat, he couldn’t decide, then a howling dragon decided for him.

Skinny and purple-black, the clusters of spines on its shoulders and at the top of its neck bristling, the creature furled its narrow wings and plunged toward the courtyard

at the far end of the tunnel-like gate. If it attacked the people caught in the passage by surprise, the close quarters would make it all but impossible for them to avoid its breath or magic.

Taegan extended his arm. “Grab hold!” Jivex’s invisible claws clamped down on the limb, and he rattled off a spell to shift them both through space.

Scrying was commonly a lengthy process undertaken in peaceful surroundings and through the employment of a specially prepared crystal orb, mirror, or pool of water. Brimstone had only a brief time, or else success was likely to arrive too late to do any good. He needed to focus despite the distraction of the battle with all its flashes of flame and vitriol, cacophony of noise, and the nagging anxiety that one or another of the enemy would decide to attack him while he was helpless in his trance. He had only a section of weathered, dirty white castle wall to serve as his speculum.