The Temple of Yellow Skulls (23 page)

Raid blinked and looked up at the dragon. Lack of air made his vision swim with shadows, then the dark patches cleared and it was as if he was seeing the dragon—Vestapalk—for the first time.

Glory shone around Vestapalk, an aura of crystalline red streaked with silver. Where his taloned feet touched the ground, dirt and stone shifted and flowed. Where his wings stroked the air, color swirled like blood in water. The sky darkened behind Vestapalk and it seemed to Raid that he could smell smoke and hear screams. He didn’t feel afraid, though. He breathed the smoke and hungered. He listened to the screams and smiled. Voices pleaded, and he knew that he held the power of life or death over them.

The Elemental Eye swirled above Vestapalk, and when the Chained God spoke again, Raid knew that the dragon heard the voice as well. “Your destiny”—the god’s distant voice paused, as if savoring the moment—“is at hand.”

Knowledge stabbed into Raid’s mind, wrenching a gasp from him. His eyes squeezed shut against the agony of the Chained God’s touch.

When he opened them again, the vision had vanished. Vestapalk still pressed him to the ground, silhouetted by nothing more than fading sunlight. Something had changed in his gaze, though. His eyes were narrow, cautiously judging.
He hesitated for a moment, then lifted his foot, giving Raid his freedom. His gaze stayed on him.

Breath rushed into Raid’s lungs, and it was tempting to remain on the ground as he drank in the air. He didn’t. The instructions of the Elemental Eye echoed inside him. Raid stood and shifted back toward the bag of skulls. He didn’t turn his back on Vestapalk—he refused to appear weak. For his part, Vestapalk held his ground. The dragon was watching him, Raid realized, waiting to see what he would do.

His leg bumped the bag. Without looking, he reached down and felt for the neck of it. The knotted red thong fell open at his touch, a simple and convenient magic. Raid groped inside. His hands closed on the cold weight of a golden skull.

When Raid drew the skull from the bag, sound came with it. The dry whispers that had filled the underground chamber rose to spill through the courtyard. The sound should have been lost in the open air, but if anything it seemed more intense. There was madness in it, and hatred. The power of the skulls flowed out of the bag like anger flowed from a blind warrior waving his sword in the middle of battle—ready to strike at anything that came within reach.

Uldane wanted to clap his hands over his ears to block it out, but he felt frozen with shock and horror. The dragon who had killed his friends and the man who had almost killed him were working together? Had Raid been working with Vestapalk the whole time? No, he couldn’t have been. When Vestapalk had pounced on Raid, Uldane had felt certain for a moment that he was about to bite off Raid’s head. That wasn’t the greeting of allies.

But dragon and hunter had just stared at each other, then Vestapalk had let Raid go.

And Raid was offering the dragon one of the temple’s golden skulls. Uldane saw Vestapalk’s eyes flicker. His neck stretched out and his nostrils flared as he sniffed at the skull. The rage of the whispers grew.

Vestapalk smiled. His body relaxed, wings folding in against his sides. Raid raised the skull from the bag a little higher. A note of fear and uncertainty seemed to enter the whispers.

The dragon’s mouth narrowed into a thin gap and his chest expanded as he drew a long, slow breath.

One of the whispers broke and rose into a terrified, muffled scream. Uldane stared as a shimmering radiance—faint at first, then stronger—streamed from the skull into Vestapalk’s mouth. The screaming climbed higher and higher.

Vestapalk’s eyelids drooped and he released his breath with a little sigh. He sagged back like a fat man after a meal. The scream ended suddenly. The whispering voices fell silent. Some of the luster had faded from the skull in Raid’s hand. Uldane thought that he could even hear a faint whimper coming from it. For a moment it was the only sound in the courtyard.

Until Vestapalk hissed and stiffened. He shuddered, then suddenly roared and collapsed to the ground, thrashing as if fighting some internal battle.

The rakshasa prince, Raid had said, stripped the demons of their vital essences, binding the mighty beings to an eternity of servitude. And Vestapalk had drawn some of that essence
into
himself.

Uldane stared at the writhing dragon. And at Raid, who had leaped cleared of Vestapalk’s thrashing and stood with
his back to Uldane’s perch. The halfling was abruptly aware of the weight of the almost-forgotten knife in his hand. Raid was still too far to kill with a single cast, but not so far that a throw couldn’t cripple. He could take Raid down while he was distracted, finish him, then maybe take on Vestapalk while he fought whatever he’d consumed. If he could stay on the dragon’s back and climb up his neck to his head, a dagger driven deep into an eye socket would—

Movement in the corner of his eye broke the spell of fascination. Uldane twisted around.

A kobold stood on the stairs leading up to his perch. No, Uldane realized, not just any kobold. The wyrmpriest who served Vestapalk.

Some kind of green energy already seethed around the end of his fetish-decorated staff. His surprise attack foiled, the kobold’s eyes narrowed. “Spy!” he hissed and thrust the staff at Uldane.

Thoughts of revenge on Raid and Vestapalk vanished from Uldane’s mind. The wyrmpriest stood on lower stairs. Uldane jumped up and twisted, bouncing off the wall to slam into the kobold with both feet.

At least that was the plan. The wyrmpriest was quick. His staff flicked as it thrust, tracking Uldane’s movements. The green energy leaped from the staff, gathering itself into a ball that spattered like spit across Uldane’s torso. New pain bit through his bandaged wound. His tumbling bounce from the wall was feeble and awkward. The wyrmpriest darted aside, and Uldane’s soaring kick met nothing but empty space as he sailed past and over the edge of the stairs. The side of a column swatted him out of the air. Uldane tried to clutch at it, to break his fall, but the wyrmpriest’s magic burned through his
wound. He landed heavily and felt another burst of agony as his ankle turned under him.

He fell into a crouch, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankle—and another blast of green magic burst against the column just above his head. Droplets of the stuff hit his skin, puffing into threads of smoke that stung his nostrils. His head, already aching from the burn in his side, swam with the smell. Poison. Uldane looked back over his shoulder. The wyrmpriest was still on the stairs. He had the high ground now and from the way new magic spun around his staff, he meant to use it to his advantage. His eyes burned as brightly as the vile energy he summoned. Nausea gripped Uldane. He fumbled for a knife to hurl, but when he tried to focus on the kobold, his vision blurred and doubled. His aim wavered between two wyrmpriests, both of them leering at him.

Out of sight in the courtyard, Vestapalk let loose another roar, this one thick with pain—but also with unmistakable victory. The kobold twitched around. “Master?”

Uldane chose his target and threw.

The knife clanged off stone, but it didn’t matter. Uldane was already running, dodging between tumbled stones and broken columns. Another ball of poison struck over his head, then nothing. Vestapalk was still roaring. Uldane prayed that the wyrmpriest would rather go to his master than keep up the pursuit. He could feel the poison working its way through his system. Was it lethal? He hoped it wasn’t. The wounds Raid had dealt him were bad enough. He refused to die from a kobold’s poison.

Focus, Uldane told himself. Focus and you’ll get through this.

The edge of the ruins was just ahead, with wooded hills beyond. Fixing an image of Fallcrest in his spinning mind, he sprinted for cover.

The halfling vanished among the ruins. Tiktag hesitated, considering whether to go after him. Then Vestapalk roared again and the wyrmpriest made his decision. Uldane was wounded—he wouldn’t get far. Tiktag could hunt him down later, but first his master needed him. He hastened down the stairs and back to the courtyard.

He found Vestapalk on the ground, his sides heaving with great panting breaths. The big human stood beside him with a curious golden skull in one hand and an excited, almost lustful expression on his face. Rage swept over Tiktag. “You! Human!” he screamed. “What have you done to him?”

He charged, intent on putting himself between the man and his master. To his surprise, the human whirled on him, scooped up a wicked-looking axe that lay in the dirt, and stepped protectively in front of Vestapalk. The excitement in his eyes became ferocity. Tiktag slid to a stop and brought up his staff, a glint of poison already gathering on its tip. “What have you done—”

“He has delivered power to Vestapalk.” The dragon rolled over and rose to his feet. The liquid red crystal that shimmered between his scales glowed brighter than before, almost seeming to run like blood. His eyes were sharper and more intense than Tiktag had ever seen them. His motions were fluid and strong. Even the strange double quality of his voice—one part roar, one part unworldly crystal ringing—was more pronounced.

There was a majesty about him, too, a sense of presence that made Tiktag want to flinch. The big human turned to stare and took a step backward from what he saw. Vestapalk sat back on his haunches and looked down at the human. “The
voice of the Elemental Eye spoke through this one. It named you Hakken Raid.”

The human’s back stiffened as if in offense. A twitch from Vestapalk seemed to make him think twice. He bent his head. “That is the name I was given. I serve—” A strange, distant expression came over his face as if someone had whispered something in his ear. “I serve you,” he said slowly.

“Yes.” The word stretched out into a hiss on Vestapalk’s tongue. His eyelids slid half closed. “Step forward, Hakken Raid. You have already served Vestapalk well. You will be blessed.”

The big man moved like someone asleep, feet shuffling, eyes focused on something that wasn’t there. Tiktag’s stomach rose to choke him. He pushed in front of the human. “Master! I’m your servant. Give me your blessing.”

Vestapalk’s half-lidded eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not make demands of Vestapalk, wyrmpriest.”

Instinct urged the kobold to submit, but anger pushed at him. “Haven’t I served you well?” Tiktag demanded. “Didn’t I care for you?” He pointed at the broken niche where he’d chased off Uldane. “When you commanded that you weren’t to be interrupted, I fought—”

“You serve at Vestapalk’s will,” growled the dragon. “You are this one’s talon. One does not bless a talon.”

Tiktag’s mouth opened and closed as conflicting emotions battled within him. It was an honor that Vestapalk considered him an extension of his will—of himself. But at the same time, shock stole his voice. He wasn’t worthy of being granted the same blessing as a human or even the kobolds he had gathered to look after Vestapalk while the dragon lay injured. Devotion clashed with disappointment.

The wyrmpriest bit back the information about Uldane’s presence. Let his master find the spy on his own, he decided.

But Vestapalk didn’t even wait for a response. Looking back to the human, he said, “Stand forward, Hakken Raid, and raise your eyes to your master.”

Hakken Raid stepped past Tiktag and tipped his head back. Vestapalk stretched his neck down. Just as it had when he’d bestowed his blessing on the other kobolds, silver-red venom dripped along his jaws.

Something was different, though. When Vestapalk had blessed the kobolds, it had come as naturally as breathing. This time, the dragon’s face was taut with concentration. His chest and sides tightened, inflated, and tightened again. The red stuff that showed between his scales flared brighter each time, and Tiktag could see that in places it really did ooze like blood from a wound. Vestapalk’s eyes flickered, as if he was in pain. Maybe he was. Tiktag felt a heat radiating from him.

The venom that ran along Vestapalk’s jaw slowed. His long tongue licked out, gathering it in. His muzzle wrinkled. Pursed. Opened.