Scream of Stone (20 page)

“Moraahl,” Varnol said, looking up at the firedrake in the rafters. “The ransar is paralyzed. Fly down and summon a priest. I think the naga has fled.”

Pristoleph tried to take a deep breath, but he could draw only enough air to sustain himself. He wanted to warn them that the naga was likely still in the room but simply couldn’t be seen. The firedrake named Moraahl leaped from the rafters and lit at the top of the stairs. It was at that moment that Pristoleph saw the blood on the floor. A drop first, then another, then too many to count. They appeared on the floor as if from nowhere—as if from the gaping wound of an unseen naga.

Moraahl looked at Varnol and opened his crocodile-like jaws to speak when Nevor suddenly rolled over, shook, groaned, and died. The naga appeared next to him, its hand on the dead firedrake’s chest. The wound in the naga’s shoulder was partially closed, but the side of its head was still a mess of bloody pulp. Blood still flowed, but not as much and not as quickly.

Moraahl didn’t get a chance to turn before the naga punched out with its left hand, digging deep into the black scales on Moraahls’s right side, just under his wing. The firedrake gurgled out a gout of acid that succeeded only in further ruining Pristoleph’s floor. The naga yanked back hard and came out with the still-beating, black heart of the firedrake it its clawed fist. Moraahl

had time only to blink and close his mouth before he fell over dead.

Pristoleph began to panic then. The thing was making quick work of his black firedrakes, and he couldn’t move a muscle.

Terrible, isn’t if? the naga asked, invading his mind.

Pristoleph didn’t give it the satisfaction of a reply. Instead he put all his concentration into moving his elbow. All he wanted was to move that one elbow. While the ransar busied himself with that, Varnol charged the naga, his longaxe swinging in arcs before him so fast the weapon became but a silver blur. The air quivered with the sound of its slicing and reversing, slicing and reversing.

The naga backed away from the onslaught and its face twisted in strange, unreadable expressions. Pristoleph got the feeling it was trying to cast some spell or bring to bear some magical ability, but there was no visible effect on the firedrake. A sound from one side of the room stole Pristoleph’s attention from his elbow and he saw a dead-pale hand with nails like sharpened talons fold itself over the hip of a statue. What emerged was an undead thing so hideous Pristoleph had to force himself to look at it. A stench of decay and putrescence filled the room, and Pristoleph cursed the naga anew for leaving him so he Could only breathe through his nose.

The sound of feet dragging on wood revealed that there was at least one more of the creatures—ghouls, Pristoleph decided—in the room with him. The one he could see hissed at the naga then looked Pristoleph in the eye. Its deformed lips twisted into a fang-lined grin, and it shambled forward from behind the statue. Pristoleph couldn’t even begin to imagine where it had come from.

But even as Pristoleph began to consider what it would feel like to be eaten alive, the black firedrake that had lain bleeding at his feet stood in front of him, staggering and almost falling to put himself between his master and the ghoul.

Dlavin, missing a wing and still slowly but surely bleeding to death, surged forward, stumbled again, but met the ghoul near the stairs. The undead creature lunged with its claws extended but never got within reach of the firedrake before a cloud of acidic mist mushroomed in its face.

The ghoul staggered backward, clawing at its face and tearing free great strips of flesh, revealing the bone beneath. It had no skin on its face at all when it finally fell still.

But Dlavin also fell, sprawling on the floor next to it. The black firedrake crawled, ever so weak, to the top of the stairs and let loose a roar that rattled the windows. The sound, was suddenly choked off, though, when the second ghoul landed on the firedrake’s back and began to rip huge bites of flesh out of him in bloody mouthfuls. Dlavin twitched and grunted, trying to shake the thing off, but all he could really do was wait for the one bite that would finally kill him. The ghoul took its time.

The naga screamed when it finally reached the wall, fetched up with its back to one of the triangular windows, and took a bloody slice from Varnol’s longaxe.

At precisely the same moment, Dlavin shuddered once and died; the ghoul spat out the killing bite and fell back with acid dissolving its pale, vein-streaked chest.

The naga smashed out the window behind it. Pristoleph could only watch as the naga grabbed the windowsill and fell backward out into the open air. Varnol tried to cut off its fingers with his axe, but the naga was too fast. It climbed up the stonework exterior of the tower, and Pristoleph, unable to tip his head up, could only see it pass over one of the skylights.

The firedrake that had burned the ghoul leaped up out of the stairwell, making way for another of its kind. Both held longaxes.

“This way!” Varnol shouted. “It’s on the roof!”

The two firedrakes glanced at Pristoleph as if awaiting

further instructions, but then surged ahead to the broken window.

“Zevok,” Varnol said to one of the firedrakes, “the ransar has been paralyzed. Stay with him.”

Zevok, one of the black firedrakes Pristoleph didn’t remember ever meeting—he hadn’t personally introduced himself to all of them—crossed the room to stand next to his ransar, his longaxe held ready in front of his chest. He scanned the carnage in the room with concern but no fear.

Varnol and the other firedrake shifted into their true forms—it was a process Pristoleph never quite got used to—and leaped out of the window in pursuit of the naga.

All at once Pristoleph’s neck moved. His head tipped up. Then he could bend his elbow, but just a little. He tried to take a deep breath. Though what he managed couldn’t have been described as “deep,” he did draw in more than the slightest bit of air.

He looked up at the fight on the roof and saw the firedrakes harrying the naga, which clung to the flagpole. The pole began to bend under the creature’s considerable weight, and it took a few painful rakes of the firedrake’s claws. The orange pennant—sixteen feet long, Pristoleph remembered—made getting closer to the naga difficult for the two firedrakes, but they pressed on, trying to bleed dry their foe while at the same time not allowing themselves to become tangled in the flag.

Pristoleph took a step forward and opened his mouth just a little. He managed a small sound, not quite a word, and Zevok leaned in closer to hear.

Still looking up, Pristoleph watched as a shimmering glow appeared in the air next to the naga, and a portion of the blue sky for all appearances in the shape of a door, opened onto what looked like a roiling thunderstorm. Pristoleph got only the vaguest glimpse of fast-moving gray-black clouds and a flash of lightning that briefly lit the naga a shocking yellow. Then the serpent creature fell sideways into the space.

The two firedrakes flexed their wings to follow, but the door in the sky slammed shut and they flew instead through empty air and followed each other in a long, swooping circle around the tower.

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26Eleint, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) The Canal Site

Surero’s hands shook and his hair stood on end. The black firedrake’s grip on his arm was more than firm, but it wasn’t painful—not yet. He stood still, holding his hands away from his body as he was instructed. He tried to ignore the smell of acid that drifted from the dark-skinned guard. Surero knew that smell, and the fact that it was coming from the man’s breath was, for the alchemist, more frightening than the gleam of his razor-sharp axe.

He looked at Ivar Devorast, who stood at the edge of the trench, so far north they were only a few miles from the banks of the Nagaflow. Devorast was flanked by two of the black-clad guards. He looked back at Surero and the way he tipped his head and widened his eyes said, Just be quiet and don’t resist… until we know we have to.

It had taken a very, very long time before he was able to read Devorast that well.

Three more of the black firedrakes stood a few yards away, their vicious longaxes held at the ready, scanning the growing crowd of workers that had come to see what all the fuss was about. The men kept a respectful distance, but Surero could feel a rising tension in the air. The men liked Devorast, and everyone was suspicious of the black firedrakes.

One of the firedrakes looked up into the overcast sky and blinked a few times. Surero couldn’t tell if he was listening to something or smelling the air. After a brief

moment he looked at Devorast and said, “Kneel to receive the ransar.”

Devorast didn’t have a chance to bend his knee before the two black firedrakes pushed him to the muddy ground. Surero was likewise forced down.

There was a blur of violet-blue light and a prickling in the air. Surero squinted, ready to close his eyes tightly should something explode or … he didn’t know what else.

Pristoleph stepped out of the light, emerging from the air itself, and the uncomfortable feeling was gone.

The black firedrakes stiffened to attention while the ransar walked past them in a straight line to Devorast. The moment he was within reach, Pristoleph slapped Devorast so hard across the face, he was knocked out of the grip of one of the firedrakes. There was a moment of confusion while the guards struggled to get Devorast back to his knees. Pristoleph stepped back, shaking his hand and rubbing his wrist. Blood oozed from the side of Devorast’s lip.

“Did you send it to kill me?” Pristoleph said, his voice grinding with anger. “Or did it decide on its own?”

Devorast jerked his arm away from one of the firedrakes to wipe the blood from his face. The guard was about to hit him, but Pristoleph waved him off.

“Let him up,” the ransar said.

Devorast stood and the black firedrakes didn’t hold him, but stayed close enough to kill him in the blink of an eye should the ransar order it.

“Speak,” Pristoleph demanded.

“I didn’t send anyone to kill anyone,” Devorast said.

“You said they were under control,” Pristoleph seethed.

Devorast just looked at him with a question in his eyes,

“The nagas,” Pristoleph said.

“We are the embodiments of the ideal, genasi,” a voice at once resonant and sibilant said from behind Surero.

The black firedrake that held Surero released him to hold his axe in both hands. The guards surrounded the ransar, whose strange orange hair seemed to blaze on his head like fire.

Genasi, Surero thought. That explained a lot.

“We are under no monkey’s ‘control,’” Svayyah said as she slithered just close enough to make the black firedrakes nervous, but not feel as though they had to attack. “What is the meaning of this?”

Pristoleph’s eyes widened and Surero got the unmistakable feeling that the ransar recognized the naga. “There you are.”

“Here we are,” the naga returned, raising the ridge over one eye where, if she had any hair at all, an eyebrow would have been.

“This naga,” Pristoleph said, glancing from Svayyah to Devorast, “attacked me in my home. It killed a number of my guards and nearly killed me, too.”

“This naga,” Svayyah spit back, “did no such thing.”

“I have found that Svayyah is as honest as she is direct,” Devorast said.

“It was injured…” Pristoleph said, examining the water naga with narrowed eyes. “We took its right ear.”

With a wicked little smile, Svayyah turned her head so that Pristoleph could see she was uninjured.

“It wasn’t Svayyah,” Devorast said. “Our agreement with the water nagas still stands.”

Svayyah drew herself up to her full height, her chin held even higher in the air.

“These creatures,” Pristoleph said, “all look the same.”

A dark looked passed across Svayyah’s humanlike face, but passed quickly when they could all see that Pristoleph was thinking—that he wasn’t sure, that he was beginning to think he’d been fooled.

He looked Devorast in the eye and said, “Give me your word that the water nagas will honor their agreement. Look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t her.”

Devorast looked him in the eye and said, “The water nagas will honor their agreement. It wasn’t her.”

Svayyah laughed and Pristoleph shot her a dangerous look.

“Release them,” the ransar said to the firedrakes, who instantly obeyed.

Surero couldn’t help but notice a strange, knowing look pass between two of the black firedrakes, one he couldn’t hope to unravel himself. He stayed on his knees until the ransar and his black firedrakes had gone back into the thin air from whence they’d come.

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26 Eleint, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) The Land of One Hundred and Thirteen

Insithryllax turned in a tight circle, a hundred feet above the top of Marek’s tower. The wailing of the maurezhi demon tore through the dense air, and though the black dragon had heard screams before, of fear mostly but also pain, the sound of those particular cries made his heart quiver in his scaled chest. A demon shouldn’t scream like that, and no human—even a Red Wizard—should be able to make one scream at all.

The dragon leaned into an easy descent, holding to his orbit of the tower. He dipped just below the roof line and passed the highest open window. As he flew by, the agonized screams of the demon rattled his ears and chilled his blood.

“… your failure!” Marek Rymiit hollered from the same room—a chamber that comprised the entire top level of the tower.

The demon shrieked anew.

Insithryllax wheeled around the tower, the tip of his left wing almost grazing the rough-cut stone blocks. Movement from the right caught his attention—a fury’s eel breaking

the surface of the lake, one of its bulbous, fishlike eyes scanning the tower.

Even the eels can feel it, the great wyrm thought.

He passed the open window again.

“… to fail me like this?” Marek taunted.

The demon panted, and as Insithryllax turned again around the other side of the tower, it began to whimper.

The dragon was impressed on some level that the Thayan had the power to torture a tanar’ri, but the ice in his veins was something else.