The Rage (26 page)

Raryn swung his ice-axe and gutted a final white abishai. Pavel shattered a zombie’s bones with his mace. Those cultists still capable of flight bolted through other, smaller openings in the wall, and exchanging his short sword for his warsling, Will started to give chase.

“Let them go,” said Dorn. “It’s a bad idea to chase them through a maze they know and we don’t. Besides, we have what we came for. Who’s hurt?”

“I’ve got nicks on my arm and knee,” said Raryn.

“I took a bang on the back,” panted Will. “I don’t think it’s bad.”

At which point, Taegan noticed something that gave him a pang of alarm. Her jaws and talons crimson, the song dragon stood trembling, seemingly sick or dazed.

“Kara?” he called. No answer. “Kara! Are you all right?” “Yes,” she sighed. “Yes. The blood is stirring the frenzy, but I can control it.”

Her lithe, serpentine body dwindled, the long neck shortening, the wings and tail retracting, until she was a human woman once again. She seized a corner of her cloak and wiped her mouth and hands as if she meant to scrub them raw.

Taegan and the hunters turned their backs on her, giving her the privacy they sensed she needed while Pavel inspected everybody’s cuts and bruises. All the wounds proved to be superficial.

“We were lucky,” said Raryn, and even though they were able fighters all, and had enjoyed the advantages of a sound strategy, a surprise attack, and a dragon battling on their side, Taegan agreed.

“We’ll find out just how lucky,” the maestro said. He hauled the still-groggy Cylla to her feet. “Let’s find someplace cozy and see what this charming lady has to say.”

Under ideal circumstances, Kara would have preferred to depart the catacombs as quickly as possible, and not just because it was remotely conceivable a second group of cultists would turn up to rescue their leader. The very atmosphere of the cellars, tainted as it was with the residue of necromancy, was oppressive to those with the sensitivity to detect it, especially if their souls were troubled. But it seemed more practical to interrogate the Wearer of Purple on site than to march her through the streets and risk attracting the attention of the watch. So the intruders located a crypt their foes had evidently furnished for conversation and relaxation and pushed Cylla into the least comfortable-looking chair. Serving as lookout, Raryn stationed himself by the doorway, while Will and the humans glowered down at the mage.

Kara tried to share in the general mood of righteous satisfaction. It would be better than dwelling on the sickening, enticing taste of human blood that still lingered in her mouth and the shameful, seductive urges it stirred in her head. Better than recalling that, once again, Dorn had seen her teetering on the brink of madness. Even though she doubted his opinion of her could sink any lower, somehow that was the most painful aspect of the whole repulsive incident.

Taegan smiled at Cylla and said, “As I anticipated, you look even more beguiling without your veil.’

Though her brow was split and bloody, and her captors had divested her of her outer robe with its countless hidden pockets for talismans and spell foci, the cultist sneered back with commendable composure.

“You should have returned the tome when I asked for it, Maestro. You may think you’ve won a victory, but it’s an illusion. You and your peculiar assortment of friends are all going to die for your transgressions.”

“But not tonight,” said Will, “which likely means you’ll see the Nine Hells before us. Save me a seat near the ale.”

“If you wanted to murder me,” the cult leader said, “you could have done it back in the conjuration chamber.”

The halfling leered at her and said, “What if Taegan’s idea of a proper revenge is to pull out your fingernails, stick your feet in hot coals, and slit your throat later on?”

Cylla looked at Pavel and replied, “I see a priest. of the Morninglord.” Her eyes shifted to Kara. “And a song dragon. You two won’t tolerate torture, even if these ruffians will.”

“You could be right,” the brown-eyed cleric said, wiping his mace with an oily rag. Blood still glued abishai scales and strands of human or zombie hair to the steel head. “But Lathander wouldn’t mind us turning you over to the queen’s men for hanging, burning, or however they execute traitors and diabolists in these parts.”

“Which brings us to an interesting question,” Taegan drawled. “Which kind of cultist are you, my turtledove? We identified two varieties while quizzing your followers earlier this evening. One was made up of lunatics fanatical enough to die for Sammaster’s creed, but the others were opportunists who served the cult simply in the hope of garnering wealth and power and were pragmatic enough to betray it to save their skins.”

Cylla studied him then said, “Somehow I doubt that even if I answer your questions, you’ll actually feel inclined to set me free.”

“Because it would cheat me of my vengeance?” asked the avariel, arching an eyebrow. “You have a point. I would prefer to thrust my sword through your alabaster bosom and watch your exquisite but lifeless body crumple to the floor. But happily for you, I owe my companions a great deal, and your information is important to them. Besides, I’m not offering to forfeit every iota of satisfaction. We don’t promise immunity, merely a head start. The paladins will hear of your treachery in due course, and by then, you’d better have made yourself scarce. You’d better keep running and looking over your shoulder all the days of your life. Never again will you see your friends and family. Nor enjoy the comforts and honors of the life you enjoyed in Lyrabar, an existence that would have contented any person possessed of decency or sense.”

“What do you know about it?” she spat back. “Evidently you’ve picked up a few tricks, but I assure you, you comprehend nothing of genuine magic. I’m a true wizard. The powers we master through intellect and hard study overshadow all others accessible to men. Yet in Impiltur, I must curtsey to those who are lords merely by an accident of birth, or because they babble prayers with the proper servility. I—” She caught herself, and smiled bitterly. “Pardon me, Maestro. You touched on a subject close to my heart, but I suppose we should stick to the matter at hand. Give me a moment to consider your offer.”

‘While you’re pondering,” said Will, “think about this. You may imagine you can lie to us, but Pavel, stupid as he looks and generally is, will babble a prayer that enables him to tell. You may think we don’t really want to snitch to the authorities. After all, we didn’t bring them along tonight. But before, they might not have believed what a notorious fencing teacher and a band of outlanders had to say. Now we can show them the catacombs to back up our story. You may believe that if the paladins questioned you, you could bluff your way through. But I’m guessing they can sense lies, too, and even if they can’t, I promise you, you’ve left proof of your involvement lying around down here somewhere. Finally, remember that, now that you’ve let us ruin your operation here in the city and are going to tattle to us, the Cult of the Dragon will hunt you, too. So you really do have to tell, and you truly do need to disappear.”

“Enough persuasion,” growled Dorn. He lifted his iron fist—like Pavers mace, it was still filthy with gore—and shoved it in Cylla’s face. “Some of my partners may be squeamish about torturing and killing helpless prisoners, but I’m not. So talk. Otherwise I smash your skull and splash your brains on the wall.”

All right,” Cylla sighed. “What do you want to know?”

Pavel murmured an invocation and swept his medallion through a complex figure, leaving a trail of golden luminescence. The floating sigil glowed for a moment, then faded.

“Explain all of it,” Kara said. She no longer felt sick or ashamed. She was too eager to find some answers at last. “What’s Sammaster’s grand strategy? Why did he have your cabal procuring gems and precious metals in such quantities? What do you know about the Rage?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know.” Cylla smiled a malicious little smile and continued, “It won’t allow you to stop what’s coming. Most likely it will only break your hearts.”

9 Uktar, the Year of Wild Magic

Even in autumn, with their leaves fallen to make a dry, rustling carpet on the ground, the branches of the ancient trees of the Gray Forest tangled so thickly they blocked the sun and shrouded the spaces below in cool shadow. As a result, brush had a hard time growing, and hiking was easy. Sammaster liked the enormous wood as he tended to like all wild places. They were the uncorrupted corners of the world and would endure in their present form even when so much else was scoured away.

His companions, however, failed to share his appreciation. Sweating, eyes wide, they jumped at every little noise and peered nervously about. They had some inkling what the resounding hisses and bellows of the Sacred Ones portended, and even though they worshiped the creatures, the danger still frightened them. But at least they were doing

better than the pack mules. The animals had refused to enter the forest at all. Their masters had had no choice but to leave them tied up and carry the sacks full of coin, ivory, amber, wine, and other gifts themselves.

Cylla Morieth quickened her step to reach the head of the column and walk alongside her master.

“Are the dragons already in frenzy?” she asked.

Sammaster smiled at her with the visage he’d worn in life, the comforting illusory mask he used to conceal the shriveled skull-face of a lich, and said, “Essentially, but they’re still congregating to form a proper flight. That’s why they need to call out to one another. Are you frightened?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be,” she replied with a wry smile, “since I’m with you.”

“Indeed you are. Though ultimately you’ll have to get used to dealing with wyrms by yourself. In the world to come, you, as their trusted lieutenant, will find yourself consulting with them all the time. You may even—” An ear-splitting screech sounded off to their right—”Ah. Somebody caught our scent or heard us coming.” Sammaster peered back at the column of followers straggling out behind him and said, “Stay close, as I instructed you. Your Wearer of Purple and I can’t protect you otherwise.”

Three wyrms, two greens and a black, burst into view, snarled at their intended prey, and charged. Despite Sammaster’s orders, some of Cylla’s people couldn’t bear the terror of the onslaught, shrieked, and bolted. One of the greens veered off to run them down.

Sammaster gritted his teeth, annoyed. The fools would die, and he couldn’t do anything more to prevent it. He had to direct all his efforts at the two dragons still racing directly at him. Otherwise, their vast strengths might overwhelm even the one wizard so formidable his arcane might had roused the jealousy and fear of Mystra herself.

The green with her proud spiky crest sucked in a deep breath, preparing to puff out a jet of corrosive vapor. The black just kept charging, apparently consumed by a bloodlust

that only rending flesh with fang and claw could satisfy. Sammaster recited words of power and made the proper pass, tossing glittering powder into the air.

Before he’d perceived the discontent eating at Cylla’s soul and offered her a place in his cabal, she’d been merely a teacher of minor magic devised to aid and safeguard ships at sea. Under his tutelage, she’d learned a good deal since but still lacked the innate power to cast the enchantment he’d just created. Fortunately, he’d procured her a scroll containing the same spell, and containing her dread of the huge, onrushing wyrms, she read the trigger phrase with scarcely a quaver in her voice. Together, the twin wards encompassed enough area to protect everyone who still huddled close to the wizards.

Yellow-green fumes poured from the jade-colored dragon’s maw, fanning outward to engulf all the humans gathered so temptingly before her. The exhalation would have rotted their lungs, had it not failed to penetrate the domes of invisible force the mages had created. An instant later, the black drake smashed into Sammaster’s effort, rebounded, then launched himself forward once more, clawing furiously but futilely at the obstruction.

Some of the cultists were unable to bear the proximity of the immense, savage creatures ripping and snapping mere inches away—the deafening roars were terrifying in and of themselves—and tried to flee. Luckily for them, they couldn’t get out of the invisible shields any more than the Sacred Ones could get in. They’d be all right if they didn’t crush, trample, or otherwise mangle one another in their efforts to escape.

Perhaps Sammaster could have calmed them, but he deemed it wiser to keep an eye on the wyrms, because they were warlocks in their own right. Certain spells existed that would breach or bypass the domes, and he had to be ready to react if the Sacred Ones tried to cast them.

Though confident of his ability to defend himself, he didn’t want to hurt the drakes, so he was glad it didn’t come to that. Either they didn’t know the appropriate countermeasures

or were unable to call them to mind in their current. addled state. The green merely conjured a barrage of jagged ice and followed it. up with a blast of shadow. The black attempted the most elementary dismissal. When sorcery failed them, they went back to assaulting the barriers with brute force. The ebony-scaled skull wyrm took to flapping up into the air then dropping on top of Sammaster’s shelter, trying to smash through with his weight and momentum and no doubt risking bruises and perhaps even broken bones in the process.

The First-Speaker of the Cult of the Dragon let the gigantic reptiles continue for a while, demonstrating the futility of their aggression as a father might permit a toddler in the throes of a tantrum to rage helplessly in his grip, just to make a point about who was actually in control. It was a paradox, he supposed. He truly did revere drakes. Yet he’d also found that their pride, justifiable as it was, could make them perversely willful and short-sighted. For all their wisdom and cunning, they could be like children, and he often had to guide and even discipline them as would a loving parent if they were to mature into the omnipotent overlords of Maglas’s prophecy.