The Rage (9 page)

He scowled and said, “If I want moral instruction, I have a priest who can dish it up to order. Good morning to you, maid.”

“Please,” she said, “don’t walk away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. I simply want to be your friend.”

“Why? Because you feel sorry for me? Don’t bother.” “Because I like you.”

“Don’t bother about that, either,” he said.

“You’re right about me,” she said. “I do have secrets I mustn’t share. But I’ll tell you this: I’m terrified, and I see something in you. I’d just like your companionship is all.”

Spurn her, he told himself. Otherwise, you might grow fond of her and say so. Then you’ll have to endure her replying that yes, she likes you, too, but not in the way a maid fancies a man.

Will shouted from the top of the mast, “Those huts on the beach! Can anybody else make them out?”

“Barely,” said Dorn, squinting. “What about them?”

“I’d like Raryn to climb up here and take a look at them. Captain, maybe you could lend him your spyglass.”

The master of the vessel, a squat man with sigils of good fortune and fair weather tattooed above his eyes, frowned, for the brass instrument was valuable. Still, something in Will’s tone must have persuaded him that important matters were afoot, because he handed it over.

“Be careful with it,” he said.

“I promise.”

The dwarf stowed the telescope in his belt pouch, then clambered upward.

He studied the specks on the shore for half a minute, then said, “Will’s right.”

“Right about what?” demanded Dorn.

“The village is dead, torn apart. Dragons killed it. At least three of them. I see the tracks”

Dorn tried to wrap his mind around the idea. It was possible the wyrms of the Flooded Forest had laid waste to the tiny hamlet, without the hunters or mariners noticing the creatures making their way south, but it seemed unlikely.

The alternative, however, would appear to be two dragon flights occurring simultaneously, and if that was the case, might there be even more? The flights were rare events, but history told of calamities rarer still, seasons of madness when all the wyrms in Faerűn ran amok at once. Such Rages, as they were called, could result in the slaughter of countless thousands, annihilate entire kingdoms, and scar the world for generations to come.

The prospect was horrifying, yet likewise filled Dorn with a guilty sort of eagerness. Naturally he didn’t want folk to die, but the thought of all the dragons in the world rushing recklessly forth into reach of his arrows and sword…

He gave his head a shake and told himself to rein in his imagination. Even if the Rages were something more than a myth, it didn’t mean one was happening without so much as a comet or some other portent to herald it. Surely there was another explanation.

He glanced at Kara. As she stared at the ravaged village, tears slid from her lavender eyes. She’d seemed so bold and cool-headed during the fracas in Ylraphon that the open display of sorrow rather surprised him. But evidently she had a tender nature, and no compunction about indulging it when she wasn’t fighting for her life.

Dorn resented her weeping, because somehow it meant he couldn’t rebuff her after all. It condemned him to be her friend. He awkwardly put his human hand on her shoulder.

FIVE

8 Alturiak, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Nervous as on the night he’d stolen the emerald, Gorstag skulked through the chilly, torchlit catacombs. He had been given free run of the entire complex ever since he’d accompanied Speaker into Queen Sambryl’s castle. But the spellcasters were performing a necromantic ritual, their chanting echoing through the tunnels, and the Wearer of Purple expected everyone who wasn’t busy elsewhere to attend. It wouldn’t do for Gorstag to be caught skipping. Someone might suspect correctly—that he was up to no good.

He’d learned a great deal during the past couple of tendays, from both Speaker himself and the cabal’s lesser officers, who assumed that if the great man had seen fit to trust him, he must be all right. Yet he still feared he didn’t know enough. He had some notion of what was happening, but not how to stop it, if indeed that was possible. He didn’t even have any proof of what he’d discovered, and wondered if his employer would believe such a wild tale without it.

So he lingered to find some. The cult kept him so busy aiding in various jewel thefts that it would have been difficult to disappear in any case. But how he wanted to! From the first, he’d known the brothers were dangerous men, but at least it had been easy to dismiss their beliefs as mad delusions. He’d come to fear that the nightmarish tomorrow of their ambitions might truly come to pass unless he himself prevented it. At times he felt as if the responsibility would crush his mind into a lunacy as profound as theirs.

Since Gorstag had discovered who the wizard actually Was, the worst moments were those he spent in Speaker’s company. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the cult leader would have absolutely no trouble reading an underling’s thoughts if it simply occurred to him to make the effort. In which case, he’d find it equally easy to destroy a spy a heartbeat later, or more likely, incapacitate him for interrogation and torture.

The day had started particularly bad, not because anything special had happened, but simply because Gorstag’s nerves were fraying fast. He’d been certain he was on the verge of making a slip and giving himself away. Then he’d learned Speaker had set forth on another journey. The mage seemed to like Lyrabar but spent only a fraction of his time there. He had affairs to manage in cult enclaves across Faerűn.

Gorstag decided his chance had come. He’d search Speaker’s quarters to see what he could find, and whether he turned up anything or not, flee the city to make his long overdue report to his employer.

It seemed as good a plan as he was likely to hit upon, but when he reached Speaker’s chamber, he hesitated. As far as he could tell, the spacious crypt with the tunnel-vaulted ceiling harbored no threats, simply the ornately carved cherry desk, chairs, bookshelves, and tapestries the brothers had fetched down into the tunnels to furnish it. But as everybody knew, spellcasters liked to set magical snares to catch intruders. Gorstag might summon a devil or set himself on fire simply by stepping across the threshold.

But maybe not. Speaker was busy, and regarding himself as the wisest and noblest of leaders, clearly assumed his followers shared his opinion. It seemed likely he simply counted on their awe and devotion to protect his privacy.

In any case, Gorstag wasn’t making himself any safer or less scared by hovering at the entrance worrying about it. He took a deep breath, calming himself as Maestro Taegan had taught him, then he stepped through the basket arch.

Nothing happened. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned and peered about. The shelves were full of tomes, loose documents, and rolled-up sheets of parchment, so many the smell of old paper threatened to make him sneeze. He was going to need luck to find what he needed in a reasonable amount of time. He just hoped he’d recognize it when he saw it.

Then he spotted a volume with the flame-and-claws sigil of the cult stamped in gold leaf on the spine standing in the middle of a shelf. The sickly greenish light of the ever-burning torch in the wall sconce made it difficult to distinguish color, but the rich purple of the leather binding was unmistakable.

The book was the Tome of the Dragon, the compendium of arcane secrets and apocalyptic prophecies that had guided the conspiracy since its inception. Steal that—

And Gorstag realized, he would accomplish relatively little. The Harpers and their allies had waged war against the cult for centuries. Surely somebody had seized a copy of the Tome already. Besides, the spy had learned that several months back, when Speaker first revealed his current plan, it had come as a surprise even to Lyrabar’s Wearer of Purple. That plainly meant the book didn’t cover the scheme.

Gorstag had to keep searching. He turned his attention to the desk. If any of the papers littering the writing surface or stuffed into the cubbyholes was of critical importance, he

was too thick to realize it. But one drawer, the top one on the left, was locked.

As he drew his main gauche, he thought again of magical traps, and the conjured blade of darkness that had, with a single stroke, erased the maid from existence. Refusing to let such reflections deter him, he worked the dagger into the crack between the drawer and the rest of the woodwork, then pried.

The action failed to bring any hellish spirits leaping forth, or to rot his flesh on the bone. The sturdy lock simply resisted him until he feared the parrying blade would snap or break loose from the hilt. Finally, though, the drawer lurched open.

He slid it all the way out. Inside was a battered brown leather folio. He turned back the cover and flipped through leaves covered in tiny script. Having looked on while Speaker scribbled a note or two, he recognized the wizard’s handwriting.

That had to be it. He started to pick it up, then heard a tiny rustle of cloth at his back. Instinct prompted him to fling himself sideways out of Speaker’s chair. As he slammed down on the cold stone floor, he saw the out-thrust rapier that had nearly pierced his back. Firvimdol was at the other end of it.

Are you mad?” Gorstag said. “The Wearer of Purple sent me—”

“Liar!”

Firvimdol pounced after him and thrust. Gorstag rolled, and the point missed him to rasp against the floor. “Traitor!”

Another stab.

“Unbeliever!”

Another.

Fortunately, the fat youth wasn’t agile. Gorstag managed to dodge every attack and eventually heave himself to his feet. His back was to the wall, and his main gauche was still on the desk where he’d set it down, but at least he had his rapier. He jerked it from the scabbard, put it in line, and Firvimdol hastily backed away from the threat.

That was bad. If the merchant’s son had kept on rushing forward, Gorstag could probably have spitted him. As it was, the spy thought he could still kill Firvimdol, but probably not before he called out for help.

“Calm down,” Gorstag panted. “I swear to you, the Wearer of Purple sent me here”

“Do you think I’m an imbecile?” Firvimdol asked, his double-chinned face mottled and sweaty. “I guess you must, since I’m the one you picked to flatter and befriend, to persuade me to sponsor you in the brotherhood. But I’m not stupid! I saw how hard you worked to win the prophet’s trust, and something about it troubled me.”

We all try to serve Speaker however we can,” said Gorstag. “You know that. It just irked you that he took a liking to me when I was only a neophyte. It made you jealous, and that affected your judgment.”

“Nonsense. I spotted you for a spy. I just couldn’t denounce you right away, not without proof, not when I’d vouched for you myself. How would that have looked? So I bided my time. When you didn’t show up for the ceremony tonight, I came searching to see if you were getting into mischief. And now I have you.”

“Maybe you do,” said the spy, “but have you really thought about what you’re doing? Your father’s rich. Everything the cult promises, you already have. It makes no sense for someone like you to conspire against the Crown.”

“My family is rich, and deserves to be, for it’s the merchants who bring prosperity to Impiltur. That’s why we ought to be the masters. Yet the old chivalry, the paladins and cavaliers, make the laws and turn up their noses at us, as if we were no better than the rabble. The brotherhood will change that.”

“Weeping Ilmater, man, you’d still have rulers set above you, even if the prophecies came true.”

At least we’ll be first among human beings.”

“Not really, because it’s never going to happen. Every time the cult puts some grand scheme into motion, people like the knights step in and break it up.”

“It’s different this time. Don’t you see that?”

“I see it’s time for you to think about practicalities,” Gorstag said, like how you yourself can survive the next few minutes. You fluffed your chance to murder me, and now I’ve got a rapier in my hand and I’m the better duelist. You can scream for help, and probably it will come, but not in time to keep me from killing you. If you want to live, you’ll have to creep quietly along with me while I make my escape. Once we reach the street, I’ll let you go.”

Firvimdol hesitated then said, “You… you wouldn’t dare harm me.”

“If you think that, you really are stupid. At this point, what do I have to lose? One thing’s for sure, I can’t afford to stand here arguing until somebody else happens by So this is how it will be. I’m going to give you to the count of three to be sensible, and after that, I’ll kill you. Who knows, maybe I can drive my point into your heart before you even get off a yell, or maybe that wretched chanting will cover the noise. One… two…”

“All right!” Firvimdol yelped. “I surrender!”

“Throw away your sword and poniard,” Gorstag commanded.

The weapons clanked on the floor.

“Now go stand in that corner.”

Once he had Firvimdol where he wanted him, Gorstag grabbed and sheathed his main gauche, then stooped to collect the folio. It was big and bulky, and the papers were loose inside it. It was going to make an awkward burden, but—

He realized Firvimdol was whispering.

Gorstag jerked his head up just in time to see the cultist spin his hand through a complex figure like a wizard casting a spell. Only then did he recall that Speaker had alluded to teaching Firvimdol magic. Gorstag threw himself forward, intent on killing the pudgy youth before he could finish the incantation.

Too late.

Like a wave rearing from the surface of the sea, a pale luminescence shot up and raced across the floor. It smashed into Gorstag like a giant’s fist, bore him backward, and slammed him against a bookshelf before blinking out of existence. Jolted loose by the impact, volumes tumbled down around him. One banged him squarely on the head, and he fumbled his grip on the folio. It fell and humped open, scattering the pages inside.

As Taegan had taught him, he refused to let the shock of being hit paralyze him. He charged once more.