Brimstone Angels (47 page)

“No,” Yvon said. “It was a pair of Glasyans. It was the Sixth Layer.”

The man snorted. “Those dandies? We had it from your leader’s mouth: four spellscarred orcs and a tiefling warlock claiming the blood of Ashmadai for the Sovereignty.”

“Lector?” In his mind’s eye, Yvon recalled the the crunch of bone, the empty wheeze of breath leaving his comrade’s body. The golden-eyed one had broken something in his skull with that strike. His eyes had been dead before he hit the floor … hadn’t they? “Where is he?”

The guard shook his head. “Gave his report and then died, unfortunately. As you will soon if you don’t give those wounds a rest.”

“There were no orcs,” Yvon said. “The orcs … those were earlier. Elsewhere.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “So you were all struck down by a single warlock?”

Yvon shook his head. “No. A pair of warlocks … or perhaps a warlock and something else.”

“Aye, there’s killing blows enough to mark at least a caster and a blademaster.” He shifted. “Or a warlock leading a pack of orcs.”

“The Raging Fiend take you!” Yvon cried. “I know what I saw.”

“Bring it to someone who cares, brother. Only wait until after the burning.” The guard grinned. “You marked, did you, the warlock wore the robes of the House of Knowledge?” He leaned down close to Yvon and whispered, “It burns tonight.”

Yvon stared at the man a moment, woozy with the loss of blood. None of this was right—the girl who entered had not spoken, she had come alone, but Farideh had aided her and they had killed ten Ashmadai with their own hands and nearly killed Yvon as well. There were no orcs. There was no claim of any “Sovereignty.”

And now his fellow cultists were coming together to punish … who? Yvon had noted the connection between the Sixth Layer cult and the hospitalers of the House of Knowledge. But burning down the entire temple—one of the largest buildings still standing in Neverwinter—to kill two girls … that was too much. It would draw the notice of every eye in Neverwinter, and news would spread far and wide. Much as he was sorry to agree with poor, dead Sekata, it did not benefit the Ashmadai to unmask themselves so abruptly.

Especially without determining if the girls were even within.

The guard peeked out the doorway. “Ah, there we are. That’s the signal. I’m afraid it’s time to go.”

“Go?” Yvon said. “Where?”

“Anyplace but here,” the guard said. “This many bodies, Mordai Vell wants the building burned to the ground. The guard’s been paid off and the streets are cleared. Time to get the bier going.”

Yvon stumbled out into the rain and watched as the guard and his signaler splashed accelerant on the walls of his shop. The fire went up quick and hotter than he would have imagined with the rain coming down. The guard again urged him to leave, but when Yvon wouldn’t move, he cursed and went on his way.

The fire roared higher, consuming Yvon’s life, his friends, his comrades. He listened to the sounds of bottles exploding with the heat and passed Lector’s amulet from palm to palm. This wasn’t how the faithful of the Raging Fiend were meant to fall.

“Give me the strength to strike down Your enemies,” Yvon murmured, though Asmodeus was not known for such charity. “Give me the insight to hunt them to the ground.”

The sign caught with a great
whoosh
of flames, swallowing up the secret sigil of the Ashmadai. Inauspicious, he thought.

But as Yvon stood, his joints aching from cold and blood loss, the smack of running feet approached. Yvon watched, stunned, as the runner barreled past him, stopping short of the flames: it was the golden-eyed tiefling, Farideh’s sister, the one who’d murdered them all.

“You are most gracious, Lord,” Yvon said, and he swore her sacrifice would be drawn out even longer than the orc’s.

I am going to fix this, Havilar thought as she ran down the street, outpacing Brin by blocks at a time. She slowed and watched him catch her up, bouncing with nervous energy.

She would get the potion for Mehen. She would show Brin she wasn’t a coward and prove to Farideh she
wasn’t
the delicate one. She’d stop getting the horrible bursts of panic that kept surging up into her chest, and nobody would possess her or tamper with her again. They’d get out of this awful city and things would go back to the way they were. The way they were supposed to be.

Brin caught up to her and she started running again. Everything can go back to the way it was, she told herself again. I am going to fix this. She spotted the turn that led to the shop.

“Havi!” Brin shouted. She’d gotten ahead of him again.

“This way,” she called, and she headed up the street. She’d get the potion and
karshoj
to those Ashmadai. She wasn’t afraid.

She passed several people running in the opposite direction. The street was getting much brighter, as if a bonfire.… She slowed and stopped.

Where the shop had been, a giant fire blazed.

Havilar stood, staring at the inferno, fighting down her alarm. If she couldn’t get the potion, then she couldn’t save Mehen, and everything was still a mess. She watched the flames. A little wouldn’t hurt her, maybe if she—

A sudden sharp pain caught her across the base of her throat, yanking her off her feet.

She got her fingers around the garrote as she slipped, and she pulled hard. The wire cut her fingers, but the shorter person holding it slammed into her back. She twisted, bringing her elbow hard into his ribs and nearly hitting his throat instead. He coughed and his grip on the wire loosened enough for Havilar to roll free.

The shopkeeper they’d met on their first day in Neverwinter came to his feet a little unsteadily. He had a mad look in his eye and dried blood all down his crimson robes. He shoved the garrote into his pocket and drew a black-handled dagger instead. “Blessings of the Raging Fiend upon you.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling that peculiar panic start to smother her nerves. “You’re one of those cultists.”

“Foremost,” the shopkeeper said. “The one you couldn’t kill.”

“That wasn’t me.” She reached back slowly to unhook her glaive from its harness. “You have the wrong one.”

“I have the blessing of Asmodeus himself,” the shopkeeper said. “I recognize you. I remember now—the eyes.” He tapped the tip of his dagger below one eye. “Let’s see how well your armor suits you now.”

He dived at her blade-first. She gave up on her glaive and stepped toward him hands up to catch his wrist and stop the wicked blade. The sort of clumsy attack she’d learned to block when she still had her milk teeth, for heavens’ sakes. She started to turn his wrist under her,
to throw him off his feet and break his grip on the blade, when his other hand ripped something else out of his pocket and something small and cold and metal pressed against her neck.

“
Maollis.
”

The air went out of her. All the muscles of her arms and legs went loose. Havilar landed flat on her back, staring up at the cloudy sky, her body from tip to toe screaming in pain. She could not even fight the shopkeeper off as he wound cords around her wrists and ankles and bound her with complex loops around the hips and shoulders. As the spell started to fade, he shoved a rag in her mouth and bound that there too.

“That’s more appropriate,” he said, wiping the dagger on his filthy robes. He grabbed hold of the ropes.

“You have them quite fooled,” the shopkeeper panted. “Quite fooled indeed. They’ve gone right after your ‘Sovereignty.’ ” He jerked the rope, dragging Havilar another few feet. “But not me. I don’t know how you did it, but it didn’t work on me, Glasyan. I know it was you. I know it was your mistress’s orders.

“And all the world will know exactly that, once I’ve cut you into pieces and siphoned off your soul for the Raging Fiend himself. In front of everyone as they prepare to march on that hospital—oh yes! We’ve figured your confederates out! They’ll see it is all the Sixth Layer’s plot.” He trailed off in a mad sort of giggle.

Havilar spied Brin, sword drawn, his eyes darting from Havilar to the shopkeeper as if gauging the danger. For once, Havilar nearly blessed his caution—if the bald man had gotten the better of her with that stupid amulet, he’d surely take Brin down too if he wasn’t careful.

He might take Brin regardless, and then no one would know where she was.

She blinked at him, and rolled her head back the way they’d come—he needed to get help. If the shopkeeper wasn’t a complete fool he’d keep her tied up the entire time he.… The thought made her momentarily dizzy.

Brin either caught her meaning or came to the same conclusion. Though he looked reluctant to leave her to the shopkeeper, he faded back into the shadows to make a different route, leaving Havilar to try her best not to panic.

T
HE BLADE OF THE GODS WILL SEVER THE CORD OF THE MOON
SHIT
, bloody shit!” Rohini strained against the bindings that held her to the heavy chair and the curling madness that held tight to her mind. Arrayed around her, Vartan, the quartet of spellscarred orcs, and a trio of abolethic servitors dripping clear slime watched her.

“Why did you come?” they asked, again and again. “Why did you seek us out?”

The questions were more puzzled than angry, as if they only wanted her to see the error of her ways. She wondered why they hadn’t just fed her to the aboleths in the Chasm, but as soon as she thought it, the corruption agent in her set her giggling. She was a useful tool after all—the Sovereignty knew so, the Hells knew so.

“You piss-swilling apes can
the last of the anchors hides in the city of crowns, and the shadow will extinguish the light therein.
” Rohini screeched in frustration.

Give in, the part of her swallowed by the corrupting light crooned. The voices, the prophetic words, the abrupt changes to her senses—at some point after the contents of the cask had overwhelmed her, Rohini had lost control long enough for Vartan to tie her to the chair and fetch these servitors.

Rohini made her shape shift in subtle ways, gave herself limpid eyes and heaving breasts. She looked up at Vartan, her lower lip trembling.

But he was too far gone to be such an easy target. He regarded her as a trophy now, or a curiosity. Something for the Sovereignty to claim dominion over. Just like him.

With a roar of rage, Rohini’s shape flowed again into a hulking bugbear’s, straining against the bindings. Vartan stepped back, but the servitors merely watched her.

“Why did you come, devil?” one asked. “Why have you aided this one?”

“What benefits us, benefits Asmodeus.” She sneered. “And what benefits Asmodeus
the daughter will claim
—” She shut her mouth resolutely against the bubbling prophecy. Better they kill her than know her mission.

They’ll know soon enough, the crooning voice said. Embrace it. After all, Glasya isn’t here to save you. She doesn’t care what happens to you now.

“Her plan was always that I died in the process,” she said aloud, startling herself.

“The process of what?” Vartan asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said. She threw her head backward against the chair, studying the ceiling as if the lines of the stone and the ancient stains left behind by collecting water, persisting beyond the shifting colors that clouded her vision, would anchor her. She had to find a way out.

She locked her eyes on one particular stain—the size and shape of a grown man’s liver—and smiled. She knew this room—and what lay near it.

She lowered her head and with all her effort hurled her charm like a net over Vartan. He stilled, sensing the change and not understanding it. Good, she thought, ignoring the splintering lights that filled her vision. “I’ll tell you all about it, if you do something for me.”

“Of course,” he said.

She nodded at the back of the room. “Open the door.”

Vartan started to do as she bid. One of the servitors, a tall, lanky man, caught him by the wrist. “That is unwise.”

But Rohini’s charm held firm, and Vartan shook off the servitor and pulled open the door.

“Mehen!” Rohini screamed. “Mehen, help!”

The dragonborn was faster than she’d expected, and more agile, despite her magic dragging against his reserves for the past two days.
Clever her for leaving him his weapons—the wide blade that hacked at the orc nearest the door and sent a slash of blood and slime spraying across the stone. The servitors were quicker and avoided the dragonborn’s next swing.