Another bat swooped low—Uadjit and Arjhani dropped from it, weapons ready. The maurezhi hardly had a chance to notice Arjhani before the glaive whipped toward it in a high slice. Whatever grace and speed age had stolen from him, Arjhani was still a master of the glaive. The maurezhi fell back, dodging the blade but catching it every other strike. Uadjit, her own long sword free, sprinted past to flank the beast.
Another bat swooped low, dropping Kallan who landed spryly behind Mehen. “Dog’s nearly to the top,” he shouted, drawing his swords. “Dumuzi’s close behind, little madman. Did I miss much?”
Sheer numbers will end this, Mehen thought. Not a pretty strategy, but a hard one to defeat.
As if it had heard him, the maurezhi teleported again, away from Arjhani and Uadjit—right up to the southern edge of the platform. It spoke a dark and tangled word and all four dead Lance Defenders suddenly rose swaying to their feet.
I seem to recall you find this unsettling, the maurezhi said. Reminders of another time, another tyrant. The Lance Defenders turned on their former comrades, only the baleful glow of the Abyss behind their eyes.
ZOONIE SCRAMBLED up the edge of the pyramid’s platform, and suddenly, it was all Havilar could do not to throw up. The pyramid’s platform was crowded with bodies—dragonborn, demons, dead things. She spotted Mehen and Farideh on the farther edge of the crowd. She climbed down to one side, Brin to the other.
“Zoonie,” she said. “Parosh—”
Zoonie snarled and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Lance Defender, a lithe gold-scaled woman, stumbling toward them. Havilar had no time to shout—and hardly enough time to register the woman’s already broken neck, the blank look in her eyes, the fact she’d been heading straight for Brin—before Zoonie tossed her like a toy off the side of the pyramid.
And before the undead creature landed, before all the pieces could come together, a burst of panic hit Havilar, and the two imps appeared as if from nowhere.
“Blistering archlords!” Mot yelled. “What the ever-burning—”
“This is a mistake!” Olla shouted over him. “A mistake. You didn’t mean to call us.”
More undead dragonborn crowded the platform. The living Lance Defenders harried the maurezhi still wearing the Vanquisher’s skin. It made them slower, more careful, like they didn’t quite believe he wasn’t Tarhun. One jabbed a spear at the maurezhi and it grabbed hold, pulling the man closer, grabbing his arm and twisting it swiftly from the socket.
Beyond it Farideh had pulled the second scroll out, watching the maurezhi with a pinched brow, as if she were waiting for something.
Come on! Havilar thought.
Kallan broke past one of the zombie Lance Defenders, slashing his sword down against the maurezhi’s arm. Before the blade could connect, the creature had vanished, reappearing several feet away.
It raised both arms, hissing something that made Havilar’s spine feel as if it were about to slide down her tail. A crackle of magic filled the air and five ghouls rose out of the stone, crawling up through portals to some other world that leaked the same stink of brimstone and salt and cheap perfume.
“Karshoj to this. Mot!” she shouted. The red imp swooped low. “Zombie things, ghouls, dretches—go annoy them and see what you can trick into falling off the pyramid. Don’t get too close,” she added. “And don’t push Olla into one.”
Mot gave her a sidelong look that said he knew she’d said it because she was considering it too. Both imps flapped off. Havilar started toward the maurezhi.
Or tried to—every step felt as if she had to fight against some invisible force, pulling her back or maybe pushing her away. The nausea rose and rose and rose. Don’t throw up, she told herself. Don’t throw up. Every step made it worse.
“Havi!”
Mehen’s shout pulled her attention back. The broken mantra had Havilar so distracted that she didn’t see the ghoul that broke away from its fellows to attack her. She only just caught its reaching claws on Devilslayer’s haft, keeping their poisons from her. She whipped the point of the glaive up, smacking the ghoul in the crotch.
A blast of flames struck the creature in the back—it turned its baleful glare back at Farideh, giving Havilar another chance to hit it. Slice, step back, force the point in. A wave of nausea hit her again and she held her breath. The stink of dretches was not helping. The ghoul turned back to her—
Zoonie leaped on it, ripping away one arm and shaking it like a rag. The ghoul tried to scratch at the hellhound with its poisoned nails, but her thick fur deflected the attack. Havilar brought the blade down on the thing’s neck, severing its head enough to stop it from attacking again. Zoonie threw the arm aside, sniffed the ghoul twice, wagging her tail.
“Don’t … eat …,” Havilar started to say. Her vision suddenly contracted, black stars around a hazy point of light. She didn’t realize she was falling until she noticed Brin had caught her. She nearly grabbed his arm to pull herself up, but remembered what would happen if she did.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned Brin. “You don’t want to get blessed on.”
“You have to pass it,” Brin told her. “If it’s not me, choose someone else, and hurry!”
Don’t throw up, she told herself. Don’t throw up. Mehen rushed up to her—give it to Mehen. And then watch him bull in and get killed while everyone else wonders what he’s karshoji thinking.
Dumuzi climbed over the edge of the pyramid, behind everyone else but still looking fresh and ready to fight. Dumuzi could take it—but how would that work with whatever god-blasted nonsense he was dealing with?
This should have been Farideh’s gift, she thought. Don’t throw up.
Uadjit slashed a ghoul, hardly flinching as it screamed its horrible, bowel-shaking death cry. She spotted Dumuzi, and Havilar almost cursed. Head in the right place, heart in the wrong one. She forced herself to stand, to spring to Uadjit.
“You get to kill it,” she said, and pressed her hand to Uadjit’s bare cheek. “Be smart.”
For an awful moment, Havilar felt as if she’d disappeared, as if she were nothing but the power surging through her and the world was only a ledge overlooking a terrible abyss. She focused on Uadjit’s scaly cheek under her hand, as if it would drag her back. The moment seemed to stretch out hours, but when it passed, no more than a heartbeat could have passed with it. Uadjit narrowed her eyes at Havilar, then turned to the maurezhi.
The absence of the building blessing made Havilar feel so light she nearly toppled again. Glaive in hand she forced another ghoul back before gesturing to Mehen. Uadjit was already in the hold of the blessing, fighting her way through the wall of ghouls. If Mehen came around the other side, he could give her cover, help pinch the maurezhi in place.
Already, Havilar could feel the blessings building up, already she knew it would have to be passed along again. Several feet away, Arjhani skewered another of the ghouls.
Which meant they were at least even, and Havilar could not let that stand. She gripped Devilslayer, and grinned at the nearest ghoul—to the Abyss with the Chosen of Asmodeus, this was how Havilar fought ghouls.
THE PYRAMID’S PLATFORM felt as uncontrollable as a tavern brawl, there were so many bodies crowding the space. Farideh tried to keep her eyes on the maurezhi, the scroll ready for the next time it faltered. Its minions kept claiming her attention, and she sent spell after spell streaking through momentary gaps in the crowd. Nothing more powerful than a blast or a burst of fire—spells like the lava vent would do more harm in the chaos than good.
You could burn, a little voice inside her murmured. Cow the creature. Remind it of who you are, what strength you possess.
The powers of Asmodeus climbed up her spine, pressing upon her chest, almost closing her throat. Tatters of shadow-smoke kept leaking off her arms, as she fought to keep the flames from bursting forth and turning an already chaotic scene into a massacre.
Uadjit lunged at the maurezhi. Before her long sword could reach its
target, the maurezhi teleported again to land behind Mehen—not as far, Farideh thought, it’s slowing down. But it wouldn’t hold still, and she only had two more scrolls to use. She pulled on the powers of the pact, opening a rift in the plane and leaping through it to land lightly on the other side of the fray, gaining a clearer line to the maurezhi.
Concentrate, she told herself.
A wounded ghoul rushed her—she had only a moment to raise her rod, to scramble for a spell before its sharp black claws were on her. Before she could cast, Kallan slammed into it, knocking the ghoul off its course. The undead turned on him, lunging once more, but Farideh cast a burst of flames, wreathing the walking corpse in enough fire to send it screaming back to the grave.
“All right?” Kallan asked. She nodded tightly, her knees locked from the ghoul’s death shriek. “You planning to use that circle soon?”
She turned back to the knot of the battle—the maurezhi had shifted again, deeper into the knot of fighters. “It’s moving too quick,” she said. “I can’t waste the scrolls when it keeps jumping out of the way.”
Kallan cursed, considering her view of the demon. Between them, Mehen broke away and punched one of the risen Lance Defenders across the jaw with his off hand. “If I’m in there when you cast it,” Kallan asked, “am I stuck?”
“No,” Farideh said. “Why? What are you planning?”
“Can’t be too much worse than wearing down a bull, right?” He gave her a quick grin, and sheathed his sword. “You ready?”
Farideh nodded, unrolling the scroll. Kallan darted through the crowd. Just as Uadjit surged forward, catching the maurezhi’s eye, Kallan leaped onto its back, wrapping both arms tight around Tarhun’s neck.
Farideh started reading, the words of the scroll streaking out of her like hornets gathering into a great cloud. The maurezhi screamed, the sound echoing in her skull loud enough to threaten her concentration. Farideh glanced up as Uadjit’s sword cut an arc toward the demon’s belly, slicing deep into it and splattering the stones with a thick, yellowish blood.
Tarhun no more. The dragonborn man’s bones seemed to stretch, to break, and suddenly he rose in height, his arms and legs hideously stretched. One clawed hand lashed out at Uadjit, who had the presence of mind to throw herself backward, out of reach and onto the stones. Mehen charged at its back, and the other clawed hand raked him, tearing through the scale plate as though it were cloth, and knocked him back.
Farideh kept chanting, kept filling the angry cloud of magic with more words, more power. It flowed from her around the maurezhi, shaping a wall to lock the demon in. Meanwhile the maurezhi reached back, trying to scrape Kallan from its back as though he were a tick. Suddenly it paused, eyeing the edge of the spell Farideh was casting as though the growing circle were visible. It looked up at Farideh, its eyes endless and cold. A smile grew on its hideous face. It raised its hands—
A crack of thunder broke the maurezhi’s concentration and threatened Farideh’s. She kept at the spell—she knew very well the sound of Mehen’s lightning breath. The last of the ghouls would be smoking.
But it wasn’t Mehen who streaked past her vision—it was Dumuzi, lightning still snapping between his teeth. Never slowing, he leaped over the edge of the growing circle, to bury the Black Axe of Thymara in the maurezhi’s chest.
The maurezhi looked down at the blade, perched above its earlier wound. In the same moment, a low whoomp, went through the air, a pulse of power that sent lightning crackling over Dumuzi’s armor, and seemed to sap the strength from the maurezhi. Its endless eyes widened as it sank into the stones, staring at its injury. Dumuzi yanked the axe free.
Farideh spat the last words of the spell. A circle of glowing runes erupted around the maurezhi, trapping it in place. Kallan limped away toward Mehen. Dumuzi remained, at the edge of the circle, still crackling with lightning. It surprised Farideh to see he had the lightning breath, same as Mehen, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Zoonie!” Havilar shouted. “Zoonie, down! Tarto!” The hellhound, bounding toward the trapped maurezhi, the last of the demons, dropped to her belly just behind Dumuzi, teeth bared, sparks raining from her glowing maw.
Perhaps you are a challenge after all, the maurezhi’s voice echoed in Farideh’s skull. It’s gray, corpselike face shifted, its bones pulling into a mockery of Zaroshni’s face for a moment, before its strength failed it. Too bad it took you so long.
“Who sent you?” Dumuzi asked, brandishing the axe.
One greater than yourself, the maurezhi said. Farideh could hear the pain compressing its terrible voice. On behalf of one lesser than him.
“Who?”
The maurezhi chuckled. A syrupy yellow liquid streamed from its mouth. I call him the king of dust. He is no one, and you are less than no one.
“We are Vayemniri,” Uadjit said. “Forged in hardship, tempered in war. We have survived millennia of tyrants—your king of dust can be added to the list with room for more still.”
You are fractious and flawed as every other creature on this plane. One demon in your midst, and how many die? Your greatest warrior crushed in his own hall of trophies? You are weak and you are lucky, this time. He doesn’t even want you. But taste the air—you’re the ones he’ll get. Tell him how the maurezhi brought you low. Tell that king of dust how it did his work.
“Who’s the king of dust?” Farideh said.
The maurezhi turned to her, its eyes half-lidded, its movements slow. You’ll discover. Soon enough. Taste the air. He comes soon … His army … swells … Not even allying … with the hateful Hells … will save you.
The maurezhi succumbed, bursting into a bonfire that hit the limits of the circle. The scrabble of bodies darting away from its heat came from every corner, but Farideh didn’t move. Neither, she noticed, did Dumuzi.
After, there was silence. The maurezhi was finally dead, and whatever it had taunted them with, it had been powerful enough. Farideh knew she ought to feel a measure of relief now that it was dead—but instead she felt even more anxious.
Taste the air—the sudden emptiness that came before a storm and yet the skies were clear. A strange electricity, a curious clamminess. What did it mean?
Calm, she told herself, and she could imagine Dahl saying, “We’ll know when we know.” Meanwhile there were wounded to be healed, dead to be buried. In the light of the moon, the dark shapes of the bat riders returning—what had been in the north? Anything? Only a distraction? She looked down at the platform.
At Dumuzi, ineffably changed, still standing at the edge of the protective circle. He looked back at her. “Will you look again?” he whispered.
She didn’t need to. “It will be all right,” she said. “I promise.”
But then there was Uadjit staring at Dumuzi as if she hadn’t the first notion of what to do with him. Then there was Arjhani not even considering his son. There was Mehen, still down and pressing a hand to his wounds, watching Dumuzi in a most unsettled way. It would be all right—it was true in the long run, but for now, Dumuzi’s world would be upended.
Maybe we’re all being upended, she thought. She searched the horizon, looking for an army, a monster, a portal—some sign of this threatened attacker. The air made the magic of the pact prickle along her skin. It felt as if something was about to happen.
And then Lorcan dropped out of nothing, landing in a heap beside her, and looking for all the world as if he were dead.
25
26 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
The Underdark
THERE’S NO EXIT,” THOST REPORTED BACK, AFTER WALKING THE PERIMETER of the cave twice. “Best chance is something’s feeding the lake under the surface and maybe someone could swim for it.” Dahl cast a worried glance at Mira, binding her ankle with torn pieces of her cloak and the scrolls Dahl had ruled out, rolled tightly enough to make splints. She kept her attention on her injury in a way that made him suspect she knew he was watching.
&n
bsp; “Granny’s not swimming either,” Thost said. Their grandmother stood off to the side, considering the wall of the cave, her injured hand wrapped in bandages made of Volibar’s cloak and held up. Pretending she’s not listening, Dahl thought.
“We’ve got a little food, little water,” Bodhar said. His jaw was swelling badly, his words thick around it. “Enough for a few days. But once we’re through that, it gets dire. The water’s sweet, but I can’t say for sure it’s safe past that.”
“I can fix the water,” Dahl said.
“And food? ’Cause all there is are the lights.” He gestured at the glowing fungus on the walls. “I can’t say I’m too eager to give ’em a try.”
“Not edible,” Volibar piped up from the lake’s edge. “You’ll shit yourself to death if you try. Fish in the water?”
Bodhar shook his head. “Too dark to tell. How’re the spells coming?”
Dahl rubbed his hands over his face and cursed. “We’ve got one bad option. I haven’t found anything better yet.”
“Still a few to consider,” Bodhar said. “Why don’t you work your magic, and Thost and I will see if we can’t find a trace of a current. See if there’s any hints about where our secret exit might be.” He fished a bit of wood out of his pocket and pulled out his knife. He and Thost retreated to the far edge of the shore to flick wood shavings into the lake.
It won’t matter, Dahl thought. You know what you have to do.
He unrolled the next scroll—a summoning to bring a monster to your side—and rolled it back up again.
“How’s your ankle?” he asked Mira.
“Fine,” Mira said, avoiding his eyes. Then, “Not fine. Broken.” She tied the makeshift bandage off and sighed. “We’re not fine either, are we?”
Dahl hesitated. “One of these is a portal spell,” he said quietly. “But it’s not written to encompass the caster. I’d have to stay behind.”
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