The Rage (41 page)

Both Taegan and the faerie dragon were staying alive and holding their position. The avariel doubted they could do it for long, but luckily that wasn’t necessary. Some of the Warswords had spotted them. The humans planted their scaling ladders below the length of wall walk their allies had cleared of the enemy, then scrambled upward.

Once he thought that enough men had reached the battlements, Taegan shouted, “The gates!”

Without even glancing to see who besides Jivex was ready to follow, or if folk without wings yet had a clear path on which to descend, he leaped down into the courtyard. Perhaps it was mad to charge on in advance of his comrades yet again, out his blood was up, and it felt right.

When he reached ground level, a werewolf in its four-legged guise pounced at him, and he spitted it on his sword. His blade was still stuck in it when a tawny-haired hobgoblin bellowed and charged him with a spear. He sidestepped the attack and tripped the brutish warrior as it blundered by. It recovered its balance and whirled around just in time to receive a slash to the belly. Clutching the wound to keep its guts from spilling out, it crumpled to its knees. Meanwhile, Jivex dazed a few of its fellows with another puff of sparkling breath.

The attackers scrambled onward toward the massive, asymmetrical stone leaves, the gigantic timber that barred them, and the contrivance of windlasses, chains, pulleys, and counterweights evidently needed to swing them on their hinges. Then, somehow, Taegan abruptly sensed a presence so vile, so overwhelming, that it stopped him in his tracks then dragged him around to face it. Silver-white wings flickering, Jivex also wheeled, prey to the same compulsion.

Trembling, heart pounding, Taegan belatedly recalled how the cultists in Lyrabar had liked their underground crypts. Evidently their counterparts in the forest had dug out their own burrows, where, perhaps, they wove their foulest magic in the perpetual dark. In any case, a ramp leading down into the earth descended into shadow in the middle of the courtyard—maybe it had been there all along, veiled in illusion, or maybe a charm had just then opened it—permitting the dracolich to slither forth into the light. of day.

It stank like carrion, and its withered green hide bore patches of black, wet rot. It was plainly a dead thing, like

the zombies Taegan had fought in Lyrabar, out infinitely more terrible. Where they had lurched and shambled awkwardly, it, for all its hugeness, prowled like a hunting cat. The zombies’ ashen faces had been slack and mindless, but the dracolich’s sunken yellow eyes burned with an intelligence as keen as it was cruel.

Taegan had known since the previous battle that the cult had already created a dracolich, but he’d dared to hope that some of his allies had already engaged and destroyed the thing. No such luck. It had sat out the first minutes of the fight, but evidently it meant to purge the fortress of intruders. Some of the humans on the ramparts moaned or wailed at the sight of it. The hobgoblins and werewolves raised a savage cheer and hurled themselves at the queen’s men with renewed ferocity.

The undead green took a stride toward Taegan. Shouting, he broke through the dread that had unmanned him, not banishing it utterly—for how could anyone look at the dracolich and not know fear?—but at least compressing it into something that didn’t reach into and strangle the part of him that knew how to fight. He came on guard and only then recalled Rangrim’s warning: Don’t meet its gaze, and you’ll be all right.

The memory came back to him too late. He already had looked into its luminous eyes, and he froze once more—but not out of fear. Some supernatural power made his muscles clench and lock. At his side, something thumped on the ground. He couldn’t turn his head to see what, but after a moment, realized it must have been Jivex. The faerie dragon was paralyzed too, and unable to beat his wings, he had fallen from the air.

Taking its time, the dracolich stalked closer.

“Did you actually think you were winning?” it asked. “Nothing you and your humans have done means anything. You could kill every one of my slaves, and it wouldn’t matter. I’m strong enough to wipe out the lot of you, all by myself. I’ll show you just how easily small folk die.”

It reared, evidently preparing to breathe. Werewolves and hobgoblins scrambled, distancing themselves from Taegan and Jivex. Then a shadow swept across the courtyard.

The dracolich looked up and spat its acidic fumes into the air. An instant later, a beam of scarlet light spat down and burned through the creature’s torso. It roared, and Vorasaegha dived out of the sky and plunged her talons into its body.

The two colossal wyrms grappled, and intertwined, rolled back and forth across the courtyard, tearing at one another with fang and claw. Some of the werewolves, hobgoblins, and cultists failed to scurry out of the way in time, and the dragons crushed them to jelly, perhaps without even noticing they were there. Sometimes the reptiles slammed into one of the walls, and the jolt knocked other folk toppling off the battlements. Taegan wondered how long it would be before the dragons smashed down on top of Jivex and him.

The struggle between the two drakes so pounded at the senses that it took the avariel a few seconds to notice the flying orb, a thing like a disembodied eye, flitting around the periphery of the battle. It seemed to be something Vorasaegha had conjured into existence, for it assaulted the dracolich with one magical effect after another, just as, apparently, it had first discharged the crimson lance of heat. An orange beam spattered the undead green’s flesh with steaming, smoking acid. A yellow one became jagged, crackling lightning, which seemed to do it no harm. A blue beam made it falter for a second—which allowed Vorasaegha to score with a couple deep claw slashes—and sent a grayness rippling through its scales. Then its natural color and agility returned.

As the fight proceeded, both wyrms suffered enormous, ghastly wounds, but perhaps Vorasaegha was faring better than her opponent. She was even huger and presumably stronger, and the floating eye gave her another advantage. She broke free of the dracolich’s coils, slammed it onto its back, and crouched on its torso. Her forefeet pinned it in

place while the hind ones raked away chunks of decaying flesh. She opened her jaws to bite. Then the undead green laughed, and she hesitated, not paralyzed—her wings were still flapping, her hind talons ripping a little—but rattled somehow. Without her will directing it, the hovering orb stopped shooting magic.

I know you,” the dracolich said.

“No,” she said.

But I do, Vorasaegha, and you’re even deader than I am. You no longer belong in this world, and you know it. You feel the wrongness of it in every breath you take.”

return when the elves need me.”

“The elves are no more, your pact is ended, and the quarrels of this latter-day world are none of your affair. Return to your rightful place, spirit. Return to your rest.”

She won’t do it, Taegan thought. She doesn’t have to. The dracolich didn’t throw a spell on her or anything. It just talked to her.

Certainly he had the feeling that Vorasaegha didn’t want to abandon the fight. She shook her head and gripped the undead green’s hide as if to anchor herself to the world of the living. Yet she faded, dwindled, and finally shattered into a drift of dust and chips of bone.

The dracolich rolled to its feet and pivoted toward Taegan.

“Now,” it said, “where were we?”

TWENTY-TWO

16-22 Tarsakh, the Year of Rogue Dragons

As the bells tolled, the water darkened once more, though the blackness wasn’t absolute. Dorn could still see his exhausted, wounded comrades, and in fact, it was easy to spot the ghosts of Northkeep. Stalking from doorways or simply materializing above the layer of silt fouling the courtyard, the spectral men-at-arms glowed with their own pale inner light.

In those first moments, Dorn couldn’t tell how many there were. Dozens, certainly. Maybe hundreds. He turned to Pavel, who, wrapped in his manta ray cloak, his hands shining with red-gold light, was still laboring to resuscitate the torn and mangled Kara. The priest shook his head, signaling that, though Lathander granted his vicars special powers versus the undead, he’d already expended his daily ration in the fight against the skeletal dragons. He had nothing left to repel wraiths.

Glimmering, translucent swords and spears leveled, the phantoms encircled the intruders. Chatulio jerked his head, motioning for his comrades to swim upward. The copper drake evidently meant to cover their retreat.

Even if it would work, it meant abandoning both Chatulio and Kara. And Dorn didn’t think it would work anyway. The ghosts would cut off those who sought to flee. The explorers in their current depleted condition couldn’t hope to stand against so many terrible foes.

Dorn could only think of one thing that seemed worth trying. He gestured for his comrades to stay where they were and do nothing. Then, his hands raised to indicate peaceful intentions, he swam away from his friends and toward the circle of phantoms.

On guard in the manner of living warriors, their figures vague and blurry one moment and more sharply defined the next, several of the wraiths advanced to meet him. They walked as if moving through air instead of water. He wondered how their ghostly blades would feel, shearing into his flesh. His intuition told him they’d be freezing cold.

One of the specters appeared right beside him. Clad in a coat of scale armor and a conical helmet with a nose guard, it lifted its battle-axe for a chop at Dorn’s head.

Reflexes honed over decades of fighting demanded that Dorn strike first, or at least assume a defensive posture. Denying them, he forced himself to remain perfectly still.

A second ghost lifted its hand. That one wore a surcoat embroidered with a double-headed eagle, the image spoiled by the bloodstained tear in the center, and he had the look of a knight or captain. Heeding the silent forbiddance, the wraith with the axe didn’t swing after all, though it still held the weapon ready. The leader stepped forward and stared into Dorn’s eyes. For a moment, the phantom’s lean, melancholy face flickered into the fleshless visage of a naked skull, then, wavering, put on something of the appearance of life once more.

That’s right, thought Dorn, look at me. Read my thoughts if you can. I’m not like the others who came before me. I don’t want to loot your bodies and homes. I’m only here to learn. Your city holds a secret I need to protect other folk, as you defended your families and neighbors in your time. As you defend them still in their final rest.

Ghosts glided forward, surrounding him, their weapons poised to strike. The sickly, oozing sheen of them made him feel cold and ill.

He was certain he was a fool. It couldn’t possibly work. Even if they heard his silent pleas, they wouldn’t believe them, because they wouldn’t take him for human. With his ugly, freakish iron limbs and metal profile, he surely resembled one of the ogres or trolls that had helped to destroy Northkeep.

Yet he continued standing as he was, allowing them to draw as close as they wished, affording them every opportunity to strike him down if that was what they wanted. It was too late for anything else.

Look at me, he begged. Look past the iron. I’m the same as you. I want what you wanted when you were alive.

The knight gestured, and his men stepped back a pace. The bells stopped their clanging, and the ghosts faded from view. The shadow melted out of the water, permitting sunlight to filter down once more.

Dorn slumped with relief, felt a presence behind him, and , turned. Kara had swum after him. Pavel hadn’t succeeded in healing all her wounds, but he had saved her life and restored her to consciousness.

Dorn realized he was glad, even if she was a dragon. He gave her an awkward pat on the side of her neck. She pressed gently back as a cat might lean into a caress, and feeling strange, he snatched his hand away.

He waved for the rest of their companions to join them. Apparently the ghosts had decided to let them explore as they would, provided they didn’t despoil Northkeep—he prayed Will could resist the temptation to fill his pockets—but that

didn’t mean it was going to be easy. The place was big and ruinous, sections of it collapsed, buried in muck, or otherwise impassable, and he wondered just how long the search would take.

Taegan lurched off balance as the rigidity left his muscles. Vorasaegha had occupied the dracolich just long enough for the supernatural paralysis to lose its grip on him.

The undead green flapped its wings and pounced. The charm of quickness no longer accelerating his reactions— alas, that too had run its course—Taegan simultaneously scooped up the fallen Jivex and rattled off another spell.

The magic instantly transported him partway across the courtyard. The dracolich slammed down on the spot he’d just vacated with an earthshaking jolt. Underneath his arm, Jivex squirmed as he too shook off his immobility. Taegan released the faerie dragon, who then took flight.

The avariel assumed Jivex would flee for his life. If Taegan had any sense, he’d do the same. But somebody had to try to slay the dracolich, he was in the proper position to attempt it, and it was conceivable that the undead wyrm was actually vulnerable. Vorasaegha had nearly torn it limb from limb. That didn’t appear to have slowed it down any, but still, it seemed remotely possible that a swordsman might be able to finish it off.

Taegan lunged and drove his blade into the dracolich’s hind leg. Jivex streaked alongside him, lit on the undead dragon’s haunch, and clawed away scales. Meanwhile, the magical eye floated uselessly overhead.

Snarling, the dracolich wheeled, and Taegan sprinted along with it, trying to keep away from the head and forefeet— attempting to stay in close, too, despite the constant threat of being trampled or rolled on—even though his comrades had warned him that the mere fleeting brush of an undead drake’s flesh could freeze him in place. He hoped that if he

hovered near to his enormous foe, the creature would find it more awkward to strike at him.

Jivex whirled up into the air. The dracolich’s serpentine head twisted toward him, and a haze of bright golden sparks appeared around the dead thing’s head. Jivex had evidently conjured the glittering mist to blind the behemoth, and perhaps it had. But a wyrm’s every sense was keen, and the dracolich nonetheless blasted forth a plume of its roiling yellow-green breath. A chance shift of one of its wings blocked Taegan’s view a split second later, and he couldn’t see whether his small ally managed to avoid the toxic jet or not.