Return of the Sorceress (28 page)

“Forgive me, my mistress!” she wailed. She had no idea what she had done to merit Takhisis’ displeasure, and she didn’t care. All Shiriki wanted was to placate the Dark Queen before she visited deadly wrath upon her.

There is no forgiveness for one such as you. You fought in my name during the last great war, but when it became clear that our side was going to lose, both you and your cousin deserted. You told yourselves that you were merely retreating in hope of living to fight another day. But the simple truth is that neither of you wished to die.

Shiriki wanted to deny it, wanted to make excuses, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Takhisis could see the truth in her soul.

“Yes,” she whispered.

At least you show some measure of dignity. But don’t imagine for a moment that it will save you. For deserting my army, I sentence you to eternal life here, in a world inhabited by only the dead. You shall not die of hunger or thirst, nor shall you die of age or even by your own hand. Only I can release you from your eternal torment, and though you beg for mercy until the end of Time itself, I shall never let you die.

Shiriki began to sob, but the sound of her crying was drowned out by Takhisis’ dark laughter. But then she felt a cold hand upon her shoulder. She lifted her head.

Shiriki found herself looking into her cousin’s unblinking eyes. She was back in the room, the one with the paintings, except they were all blank now.

She looked back to Kuruk, wishing he would remove his hand. It felt as if her shoulder were freezing solid.

“What happened?” she asked.

“We were caught in the Gallery’s enchantment,” he said in his cold, flat voice. “But the Gallery recognized me and let us both go.”

Shiriki frowned. “What are you talking about? Recognized you how?”

“We serve the same mistress,” he said.

For some reason, Shiriki didn’t think that he was referring to Takhisis. But before she could ask any more questions, he said, “We must go. If we are to retrieve the Daystar and—”

He stopped speaking and cocked his head, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. He smiled then, but it wasn’t Kuruk’s smile. It was a bloodless smile, a viper’s smile. “And be present during my mistress’ rebirth,” he finished.

Shiriki stepped back from Kuruk, or rather, from the thing that wore his form, for she was now convinced that her cousin was truly dead.

“Go on without me,” she said. “I’ve had enough of—”

His hand shot out fast as a striking serpent and gripped her wrist in an iron band of cold. Shiriki struggled to pull free but his grip was unbreakable. With her free hand, she drew a dagger from her belt and plunged it into the base of his throat. The blade slid into the flesh easily, but no blood welled forth.

“Kuruk” didn’t react to the wound. He continued to hold onto her wrist with one hand as he removed the dagger from his throat and handed it back to her with the other.

“You’d best hold onto this. You’ll have need of it before this night is over.”

And then he headed for the door, pulling Shiriki along after him.

Davyn stood next to the table where Nearra lay sleeping, held down by leather straps over her neck, chest, and legs. He trembled, and not because the air was cool this spring night. He held the Dagger of Ulthus in a nervous, sweaty grip as he listened to Maddoc begin the chant that initiated the Rite of Emergence.

“Herthen, simaris, xanthu, olom, ressik, maganti…”

The words meant nothing to Davyn, but they struck his ears like liquid fire. Maddoc’s face remained impassive as he chanted the words to the spell, but his eyes gleamed in the light from the burning braziers. This was the moment he had worked so many long years for.

Oddvar stood next to the equipment table watching and ready to hand his master whatever instrument he might need. The goblins stood back, weapons drawn in case of trouble. Earlier,
Maddoc had commanded the skeletal griffin to take to the air, and the undead creature now flew above them in slow circles, guarding the tower-top. Maddoc was taking no chances.

“Parthaquon, vermnassis, yuggonda, lydex, oosensha …”

Davyn gripped the crystalline dagger tighter. He wasn’t sure precisely when it would be time for his part in the ritual. He only knew that Maddoc would point at him when he was supposed to act and that it would be soon.

Davyn looked down at Nearra to see if the spell was having any effect on her, but from all appearances, she was sleeping comfortably and completely unaware of what was happening. Davyn was glad for that small mercy. At least she didn’t have to lie there awake and afraid while the rite took place.

Maddoc continued chanting, but he glanced up from his spellbook and looked at Davyn, as if to say,
Get ready.

Davyn nodded and lifted the dagger. This is it, he thought. Paladine guide my hand.

Maddoc’s voice rose in volume and then he stabbed a finger in Davyn’s direction. Davyn raised the dagger high over his head—

“Stop!”

Everyone turned toward the entrance to the stairs. Catriona, Elidor, Sindri, and Ayanti had somehow escaped the Gallery of Despair and, like all good heroes, had arrived at just the right moment.

Maddoc’s face showed surprise and anger, but his chanting didn’t slacken. He pointed to Davyn once more, the gesture’s meaning unmistakable.
Do it now!

Davyn flipped the dagger so that he held it point up, drew his hand back, and hurled the crystal blade toward Maddoc with all this strength. “This is for my birth parents,” he said. The dagger streaked through the air and plunged into Maddoc’s chest.

The chanting stopped and everything was quiet for several long moments. The only sound was the pop and crackle of the brazier fires and the soft flapping of the skeletal griffin’s leather wings.

Then Maddoc did something that Davyn didn’t expect. He laughed. The wizard reached up and plucked the dagger from his chest. The blade was clean—no blood.

“There is no Dagger of Ulthus,” Maddoc said. “It was nothing but an illusion I conjured.” As he spoke these words, the crystalline dagger diffused like fog and faded from existence. “I told you I was going to give you a last chance to prove yourself loyal to me.”

“It was another test,” Davyn said bitterly.

“Of course it was. And you failed. If you’d stabbed Nearra, nothing would’ve happened to her, but I would’ve known you were truly my son.” A note of sadness crept into the wizard’s voice. “But you aren’t, are you? You’re nothing by an ungrateful brat who’s going to die alongside his pathetic friends.”

“You can’t complete the rite now,” Davyn said, ignoring how much Maddoc’s words hurt. “The spell was interrupted, and you can’t start it again until you memorize the beginning again.”

“That would be true,” Maddoc allowed,”
if
I had actually begun the Rite of Emergence. What you heard me chanting was nothing more than a minor spell for afflicting an enemy with foot fungus. I’ll begin the actual rite now, while my servants slay you all. Farewell, Davyn. Go to your grave knowing that you lost and Nearra’s body will soon belong to Asvoria and thereafter Asvoria will belong to me.”

Maddoc turned to Oddvar. “Kill them,” he ordered.

“Attack!” Oddvar shouted. The Theiwar drew a poison-coated dagger and ran toward Davyn while the three goblin mercenaries went after the others.

Maddoc flipped to another section of his spellbook and began chanting.

“Reggus, candanta, tremulkulon, morr…”

Davyn kept one eye on the approaching dwarf as he grabbed Nearra’s shoulders and shook her.

“Wake up!” he shouted in her ear. “You have to wake up
now!”

But before he could tell whether or not he’d succeeded, Oddvar was upon him, and Davyn—weaponless—turned to meet the dark dwarf’s attack.

    N
earra opened her eyes and saw stars. She started to smile in appreciation of the lovely night when the harsh sounds of battle—sounds she’d become all too accustomed to in the last year—registered on her consciousness. Alarmed, she came fully awake and tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move. She was bound to a table by leather straps. She wasn’t completely immobilized, though. She could move her head and turned to see what was happening.

Only a few feet away, Davyn was doing his best to keep out of range as Oddvar slashed at him with a poison-coated dagger. Davyn’s hands were empty. It appeared he had no weapons. Farther away, Catriona, Elidor, and Ayanti were fighting Drefan, Fyren, and Gifre. Sindri sat upon the centaur’s back, holding onto her waist as she fought.

Along with the battle-sounds of clashing steel and harsh breathing, Nearra heard chanting in an alien tongue. She turned her head the other way and saw Maddoc positioned before an open book resting atop a wooden stand. As he chanted, Nearra could feel the power in the words reaching toward her, flowing over her, engulfing her, suffusing not just her body but her very
essence. With a stab of horror, she realized what was happening. Maddoc was conducting the spell that would finally give Asvoria control of her body. Nearra didn’t want to lose her body, didn’t want to become nothing but a spirit unable to affect or interact with the physical world.

But more than that, she didn’t want Maddoc to gain control of Asvoria and use the sorceress’ knowledge of ancient magic to increase his own power. She had to do something, anything to disrupt the ceremony.

She pushed against her restraints, but they didn’t give so much as an inch. She wasn’t going to be able to escape that way.

“Maddoc!” she shouted. “You can’t do this! Asvoria’s too powerful—you’ll never be able to control her!”

But Maddoc ignored her. He continued chanting and reached out toward a table full of strange objects. He picked up a small tuning fork and tapped it against his hand three times fast, three times slow, then put it back down. He lifted a piece of knotted silk rope and slowly untied the knot as he continued to chant.

Nearra looked away from the black-robed mage. He was too involved in the ritual for her to stop him by yelling. She looked to her friends for aid, but they were all too busy fighting to help her. All save Sindri.

“Sindri! Help me!”

The kender turned his head in her direction acknowledging her. He continued holding onto Ayanti’s waist with one hand while he lifted the other and stretched it toward Nearra. She expected him to attempt to use his telekinesis to undo the straps, but she was surprised to see multicolored tendrils of mist emanate from his fingers. What in Paladine’s name were those things?

But before the tendrils had reached halfway to her, Kuruk and Shiriki burst through the doorway to the stairs. What were they doing here?

Kuruk released his cousin and moved with a stiff, awkward gait toward Sindri.

“Look out!” Nearra cried, but before the kender could do anything, Kuruk grabbed hold of Sindri and yanked him from Ayanti’s back. The tendrils of mystic energy winked out as the elf slammed Sindri to the tower roof and began rummaging around in the kender’s cape. Shiriki just stood and watched with an expression of disgust and fear.

Nearra saw Kuruk stand and hold up a sun-shaped medallion in triumph. Nearra felt her lips tingle, and then her mouth began to speak, but what came out weren’t her words.

“Ophion, do you see it?” the sorceress whispered.

Nearra heard a tiny voice respond close to her ear.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Get it and bring it to me.”

“At once, Mistress.”

Nearra felt something small, like an insect, crawl along her cheek. It stopped, and then jumped into the air, growing and changing shape as it flew. When it landed, the creature had assumed the form of a large gray wolf with piercing blue eyes.

Ophion bounded toward Kuruk and leaped. Ophion closed his lupine jaws around the medallion and tore it from the elf’s hands. The impact of Ophion slamming into Kuruk knocked the elf down, but Ophion landed with animal grace. The shapeshifter whirled about and came running back toward Nearra.

Maddoc’s chanting stopped and the wizard shouted, “Kill the wolf!”