The scalp on the human side of Dorn’s head itched, and he scowled, pushed back his hood for a moment, and scratched. Maybe he should have washed, trimmed his hair, and shaved when it would have been convenient. But he hadn’t felt like bothering, nor did he truly regret it even then. It suited him to be filthy and uncomfortable.
At his back, Will cursed. Dorn glanced around. The halfling was all right, simply floundering through a particularly deep snow drift that lay across the steep, narrow mountain trail.
“‘Hidden paths,’ my freckled arse,” said Will. “This is supposed to be a path? Well, maybe if I could turn into a wolf or a hare like half these Sossrim can.”
“I’d be thrilled,” Pavel drawled, “if you could turn into one of those beasts. Or any creature more intelligent than is your natural state. It would be a blessing.” He had a new mace dangling from his belt, and carried a new arbalest in his hands. The Sossrim had given him and his fellow travelers some of their surplus gear.
“Since when do you know anything about blessings?” Will replied. “Such matters are the province of genuine priests.”
They bickered on, trading gibes, while anger clenched in Dorn’s guts and swelled inside his chest. Finally, he had to let it out. “Enough!” he snapped, and only realized he’d yelled when the sound rebounded from another mountainside. Startled, his comrades gawked at him.
“We need to be quiet,” he said awkwardly.
Will waved a gloved hand at their snowy surroundings. At the moment, they could see for a considerable distance in every direction. “Nobody’s around. Anyway, the charlatan and I were talking quietly. The fool making the most noise was you.”
Pavel set his hand on the halfling’s shoulder. “No, Dorn’s right,” he said. “It’s better to be safe.”
Dorn could tell the priest was simply humoring him and trying to avert a full-blown quarrel. That, and the pity in Pavel’s brown eyes, triggered another spasm of ire. But he didn’t want to fight either, so he clamped down on the emotion, pivoted, and trudged on up the trail. His friends tramped—and Jivex flew—after him in silence.
They reached the top of one peak, descended a bit, crossed a saddle to another mountain, and climbed once more. Scales rippling with rainbows, Jivex streaked ahead of Dorn, reached the next summit, then hissed. Dorn scrambled the last few paces to find out what had surprised the little drake.
An army marched in the vale below them. Like the Sossrim host with their fair skin, moon-blond hair, and snow-colored cloaks, on first inspection, Zethrindor’s force seemed ghostly white. The towering frost giants were pale as marble, the dwarves had silvery hair and wore the fur of polar bears and arctic wolves, and the dragons, ice drakes, and tundra landwyrms were like gleaming ivory gargoyles brought to life.
Hide mottled with patches of rot, sunken eyes gleaming, Zethrindor strode along in the midst of his warriors. Here was the abomination whose magic had killed Kara, and rigid with hate, Dorn stared at him.
Pavel hurried up behind him, took in the vista below, and said, “Get down!”
Dorn knew his friend was talking sense, but it didn’t matter. At the moment, he couldn’t do as he’d been bidden, and wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
At some point during the last couple heartbeats, Jivex had become invisible. Dorn felt a gust of displaced air and caught the rustle of beating wings as the faerie dragon flew close to his head. Then pain, abrupt and unexpected, stung his ear lobe. The reptile had either nipped him or pinched him with his talons.
“Now,” Jivex snarled, “is not the time to go all strange and stupid. Get down!”
Dorn crouched down in the snow, as did his friends. Perhaps not a moment too soon, for he spotted a couple of wyrms—lookouts, plainly—gliding high above the host on the ground.
“Well,” said Will after a time, “there are a lot of them, but I imagine we can sneak by if we’re careful. Or, we could stay put and hide until they pass us.”
“Unfortunately,” said Pavel, “it’s not that simple. It’s obvious from the direction they’re headed that Zethrindor somehow knows the location of Madislak’s company. He means to come up on their flank, attack by surprise, and slaughter them before they can link up with the rest of the Sossrim.”
Will sighed. “You’re saying somebody needs to warn them.”
“They’re on the right side of this war, and if that’s not enough for you, they helped us.”
Jivex sniffed. “At first they were going to shoot me full of arrows in my sleep. But then, they are just warmbloods. I suppose I have to make allowances.”
“I sympathize with them,” said Will, “I swear by the silent dirk I do, but if we turn back now, it won’t be easy to reach these paths a second time. Zethrindor’s army will be in the way, and we have our own business to attend to. You and I, charlatan, diverted from it once already to help drive the Vaasans out of Damara, but I figured that was because Damara’s your homeland. Do you really want to push our luck again?”
“No,” Pavel said. “But we can’t simply turn our backs on folk in need, no matter what other matters weigh on us. It would be a sin.”
“You three press on to Thentia,” said Dorn, his torn ear smarting and dripping blood. “I’ll go back and warn the Sossrim.”
Will and Pavel regarded him in silence. Then the priest said, “No. It’s as Jivex said, back in the Novularonds. We four should stick together.”
“Right,” Will said. “If Lady Luck smiles on us, maybe we’ll still make Thentia in time for the conclave. If not, well, what did we truly have to contribute anyway? News of a magical doorway that doesn’t open anymore. How’s that going to help?”
As he looked at their faces, Dorn realized why they wouldn’t let him go alone. They believed he meant to use the Sossrim’s war as a means of engineering his own death.
He wasn’t even sure whether their fears were justified, but he did know he resented their solicitude. For a moment, he felt as if he was going to curse them for it. But in the end, he simply growled, “We should get moving, then. We can travel faster than an army, but we still need to hurry if we’re going to arrive far enough ahead of them for it to matter.”
Taegan gave Kara a rake’s grin, full of bravado. “I’m flattered beyond words,” he said, “by your concern. I daresay Raryn feels the same. But we’ll be fine. There are only six Tarterians in the valley, and I imagine one is still feeble from Brimstone’s bite. We should have little difficulty flummoxing such a paltry force.”
“It comes down to this,” said the dwarf, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cave and scraping away at the flint head of his axe with another stone. “Brimstone discovered that if something creates a disturbance, all the dark wyrms come rushing to investigate. Scouting, I’ve learned more about their habits. Now we need to put the knowledge to use. It’s the only edge we’ve got.”
“I know,” said Kara. “But perhaps if we studied the situation a while longer, we’d hit on a better idea.”
“Or else we wouldn’t,” said the dwarf. “We’d just grow hungrier, weaker, and—forgive me—less clear-headed, less able to work magic, with the passing time.”
“Raryn Snowstealer is right,” whispered Brimstone. He crouched deeper in the cave—Taegan suspected he was keeping his distance from his companions to help rein in his blood-thirst—and the gloom reduced him to an enormous shadow with burning scarlet eyes.
“Perhaps,” Kara said, peering at Raryn and Taegan, “but at least promise me you’ll be careful. Look in your hearts, and make sure you aren’t doing this for the wrong reasons.”
Raryn smiled. “You mean, because I blundered on the glacier, led us all into disaster, and now feel a need to atone? Or because I’m suddenly ashamed of my people and their treachery? Don’t worry, singer. I’m not happy about any of that, but I’m not giving it a lot of thought, either. I’m concentrating of the job that needs doing here and now.”
“Nor am I,” Taegan drawled, “ashamed of holding my ow
n race in less esteem than is its due.” Actually, he was, but it wasn’t his habit to admit his blunders. “I have, however, discovered I possess a noble heritage, and arguably ought to make some effort to live up to it. My ancestors gave their lives to liberate Faerûn from the tyranny of evil dragons, and it would be poor form for me to let Sammaster undo their achievement.”
Brimstone spat, suffusing the cold air with the stink of acrid smoke and rotten eggs. “It doesn’t matter why they’ll do it, Karasendrieth, only that they’re willing. You must know that, even with frenzy gnawing at your mind.”
Kara sighed. “Yes, of course. Let’s lay our plans.”
Pavel had learned that druids dominated the religious life of Sossal. Priests of his sort were a rarity. Still, like most decent folk, the Sossrim honored the Morninglord, and the warriors welcomed whatever aid and solace one of his servants could give them. Accordingly, when the company made one of its brief stops, he had less opportunity to rest than his companions, even though, after the frantic trek to warn them of Zethrindor’s approach, he probably needed it more. His sun amulet clasped in his hand, he prayed for Lathander’s blessing, invoking bursts of dawnlight that lifted the spirit and temporarily banished fatigue from weary muscles. He used magic and his physician’s skills to help men afflicted with blisters, fevers, and coughs.
Then the army rushed on once more, and he rushed with it, his bad leg aching. He struggled against the temptation to ease his own pain with a spell. He was running through his store of magic quickly, and didn’t want to waste power he might truly need later on.
Stival fell into step beside him. “You’re limping,” the stocky ranger said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Pavel gasped. “I’ve had this for a while.”
“The river’s not much farther,” Stival said. “Once we’re across, I imagine Madislak will let us camp.”
Upon learning of Zethrindor’s intentions, the old druid had turned his army east, toward a river that had supposedly frozen solid enough for them to cross. When they reached the other side, Madislak, aided by his fellow spellcasters, planned to melt the ice, thus balking their foes. Only winged creatures like the dracolich, the white wyrms, and the ice drakes would be able to continue the pursuit, and Stival and his fellow captains doubted the reptiles, mighty though they were, would opt to attack without the support of their underlings.
Pavel’s steaming breath glowed in Selûne’s silvery light. The army advanced with a muted crunching as hundreds of footsteps broke through the crusted snow. The world repeatedly lurched and shifted, and he realized he was dozing off and jerking awake again. It didn’t seem to stop him from walking, so perhaps he should be grateful not to experience every miserable instant of the march.
“I keep thinking,” Stival murmured after a time, “I could have been in Damara by now, serving this Dragonsbane you talk about, or one of his barons.”
Pavel snorted. “You wouldn’t abandon your own country in its time of need.”
“Apparently not, but I did consider it,” Stival said. Evidently, cold as it was, the march was making him too warm, for he pulled open the front of his bearskin mantle. “My idea of soldiering is, you chase bandits and goblins. Enemies trained warriors can handle without a lot of trouble. Or, if you have to fight something awful, like a dragon, you make sure it’s only one, you bring overwhelming force against it, and you make sure you get the bulk of the credit for killing it. That’s the way to build a reputation and still keep all your limbs attached to your trunk. This craziness …” He shook his head. “A man could get hurt in the middle of this. Yet here I am.”
“Perhaps you just couldn’t bear to leave Natali behind. I’ve seen how you look at her when her back is turned.”
“You must have bad eyes to go with the gimpy leg. She’s a good lass, but a rich widow’s what I want. A woman with the experience and gold to take care of me in and out of bed.”
“Then you won’t mind if I whisper in Natali’s ear?”
Stival made a sour face. “Go ahead and try. She won’t—” He looked up at the black and starry sky. “Curse it!”
Pavel peered upward, too, and after a few moments, spotted pallid wings lashing high overhead. A clamor of dismay swelled among the company as other men caught sight of the creature.
For another heartbeat or so, Pavel dared to hope that the situation wasn’t so bad. If the white was simply a lone scout, flying well in advance of the rest of Zethrindor’s army—
But no. Other serpentine shapes winged their way across the sky, over the Sossrim and into the east. Pavel was no master strategist like Dragonsbane, but it was easy enough to understand what was happening. The drakes would block the way to the river, and could almost certainly hold there long enough for the rest of Zethrindor’s host to catch up with their foes. Then Madislak’s company would find itself trapped with enemies in front and behind.
The procession stumbled to a ragged halt. Some men milled around. Others, like Pavel, flopped down in the snow until new orders made the rounds. It seemed that the company was marching north.
Wherever they were headed, Madislak meant to get their quickly. He must have inferred from the dragons’ maneuvering that the rest of Zethrindor’s force had nearly caught up with them. Stival and other officers ranged among the common soldiers, encouraging them and bellowing threats by turns, exhorting them to greater speed.
Finally Pavel had no choice but to use a healing prayer on his leg, in his exhaustion nearly fumbling over the proper cadence. Even magic didn’t produce the surge of strength or exuberant sense of health it sometimes did, but at least it numbed the pain.
Sometime after that, he realized with dull surprise that Dorn had put his arm around him and was half-carrying him along. He thanked him, and the big man responded with a grunt.
The ground rose, and the edge of a sizable forest loomed up on the right, where it could guard an army’s flank. As the sky brightened behind the trees, the Sossrim clambered up onto a tableland, and the officers herded the various squads to one position or another, establishing a formation. Obviously, that was where Madislak wanted to make his stand.
As soon as their superiors gave them leave, warriors collapsed wherever they happened to be standing. Pavel wanted to do the same, but had to attend to his observances first. He disentangled himself from Dorn’s arm, faced the dawn, and somewhat groggily started to pray.
Soon he felt Lathander’s bright and loving presence hovering near. The communion didn’t purge the exhaustion from his body, but it cleared his mind and refreshed his spirit, dampening fear and the urge to despair.
He asked for the spells he’d need to see him through the battle to come, and with flares of bracing light and warmth that only he could perceive, the god emplaced them in his mind like arrows in a quiver.
When the process was done, he lay down wrapped in his cloak and bedroll, to sleep as long as Zethrindor would permit.
17 Uktar, the Year of Rogue Dragons
Kneeling, gripping Rilitar’s sword partway down the blade, Taegan scratched away with it as if it were a stylus, and the point inscribed lines and curves in the slope. He disliked treating the superb weapon in such a churlish way, but it cut the frozen earth far more easily than a chunk of rock would have done, and it was an aspect of its excellence that even such rough usage wouldn’t dull it.
When he finished, he worked the incipient soreness out of his fingers—it had been awkward to grip the blade in a way that ensured he wouldn’t cut himself—and inspected his handiwork, a crude but recognizable copy of the flame, eyes, and claws emblem of the Cult of the Dragon. Presumably the Tarterians, being Sammaster’s allies or servants, knew what that particular device signified. Even if not, it would still give them something to puzzle over.
It was time for the difficult part. Taegan contemplated what was to come, and despite all that he’d already experienced and survived, felt a pang of dread.
He currently possessed every advanta
ge his magic, and that of his comrades, could provide, layered enchantments to make him as elusive as possible. Bladesong rendered him stronger, more nimble, and could provide other benefits when he found himself hard-pressed. Kara had shrouded him in invisibility. Raryn had heightened his endurance, granted him the ability to see in utter darkness, deadened his scent, and insured his feet would leave no tracks. Brimstone claimed to have sharpened his wits—though Taegan preferred to believe that was scarcely possible—and to have supplied a protection that might enable him to go where even Tarterians wouldn’t follow.
Yet against half a dozen wyrms, creatures Sammaster had conjured from the foulest reaches of the netherworld, could such tricks possibly prevail?
Well, Taegan told himself, pushing trepidation aside, they’d have to, wouldn’t they? Because, while he and his friends could die—indeed, expected to, in one way or another, for all that they forbore to say it outright—they couldn’t fail. The stakes were too high.
He breathed a prayer to sweet Lady Firehair, then, on impulse, petitioned Aerdrie Faenya, principal goddess of the avariels, as well. Since he hadn’t acknowledged the Winged Mother since forsaking his tribe, it seemed unlikely she’d listen with any particular sympathy, but perhaps she’d help him in order to preserve the legacy of his ancestors.
He drew a deep breath, then shouted across the valley: “Sammaster is here! Attend me!”
Then he fled, flying fast along the inner slopes, skimming low over scree, snowdrifts, and the gouged places where the Tarterians, who could apparently subsist on most anything, had made a meal of earth and rock.
He kept on for as long as he dared, while, hissing and screeching to one another, the Tarterians winged their way closer. Finally he lit in the shadow of a boulder. He was trying his best to be stealthy, but still worried that, once the drakes drew near enough, their keen ears would catch the snap and rustle of his pinions.
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