The Adversary

by Erin M. Evans

  And stiffened as a blast of greenish light slammed into him. A deranged grin spread across the shadar-kai’s face as one dagger punched into his lung, then another. A second bolt of magic screamed past them.

  Dahl looked up—it wasn’t Armas who stood there, but his likeness in dirt, looking impassively down at Dahl. Beyond, Armas clutched one hand to his burned and bleeding chest, staring shocked at the quartet of protectors who’d risen up out of the ground around him. The faintest halo of silver seemed to shimmer over the half-elf.

  “So she was right,” he said numbly.

  Bad wound, Dahl thought. He needed healing—but Brin was busy, fending off another guard. The four defenders arranged themselves silently around Armas. The new-made Chosen straightened, still bleeding, still wounded, and raised a hand. A burst of light streaked from his palm, and with the guardians around him, he forged a path toward the cages on the right end of the room, where Phalar still battled the guards. Dahl saw the drow duck into an open cell and slam the door behind him.

  The wizards were still on their feet, sending burst after burst of magic streaking out into the fight. Too many overshot the attackers and burst against the cages—or maybe they aimed their strikes there . . .

  Give me the wisdom to separate the lie from the truth, Dahl chanted as he and Armas forced their way past a guard harried by Vescaras’s swift rapier, past Hamdir struggling to hold back another two, toward the two wizards and the man in the cage. The young man’s frantic screams and the Chosen’s blending powers threatened to make Dahl break. Give me the strength to accept what is so . . .

  Armas’s defenders reached the wizard by the cage. Eyes on Oota and Vescaras, attention on the spell he was casting, the wizard didn’t notice the golem until it slammed a solid fist into the side of his head.

  “You idiot!” the other cried as his spell shot off to envelop Phalar in a fog of poisonous-looking gas. “Pay attention.” He cast another spell and vanished, reappearing nearer to Phalar. Sheera’s arrows chased him. Armas reached up and shook the cage with the panicking young man in it.

  “Mreldor!” Armas yelled, as the wizard reeled. “Stop screaming!”

  My word is my steel, my reason my shield, Dahl chanted as he searched the walls. And I shall fear no deception, for the truth remains—

  A crackling orb of energy burst into being between the Armas, Dahl, and the wizard. Dahl’s muscles all went stiff, and for a moment there was only the searing pain that drove all else—even the powers of the gods—from his thoughts. The energy dissipated, but Dahl’s mind still reeled and—

  “Dahl!” Armas shouted, and suddenly two of the golems stood between him and the wizard he’d struck. There was a sizzle, a spatter, like fat in a fire. And the golems collapsed into piles of dirt and acid. Armas stood panting over them.

  “Gods,” Dahl cried. The wizard gathered another spell.

  The screaming man reached through the bars and grasped the wizard’s shoulders. A pulse of energy rushed outward, and Dahl could have sworn the young man seemed larger, broader, his eyes in shadows. Lightning leaped from Mreldor’s hands, crackling over the wizard’s form, small and spindly but as powerful as the orb, and with a thunderclap loud enough to make Dahl’s ears ring. Flames burst out of the wizard’s robes. He yelped, and before Dahl could do anything, he cast again, this time at the young man. Three bolts of magical energy hit the Chosen, one after the other, and he collapsed against the cage.

  The wizard looked up, still burning, saw Dahl, and reached out to cast. One of Sheera’s bolts caught him in the shoulder. Dahl swung his sword, hardly thinking, and cut the man’s hand at the wrist, severing the veins. His next spell flew wide, giving Dahl a chance to run the wizard through and stop his casting.

  “The . . . wall . . .” Armas panted behind him. His wounds were worse—the acid had caught his arm. “It’s . . . by the exit.”

  “Hamdir!” Dahl shouted. “Get him to Brin!” A rune-scribed gem throbbed in the stone near to the door. An arcane lock.

  And Oghma has made me a lantern in the gloom, he chanted to himself, a compass in the wilds . . .

  Another guard came at him, chain wheeling. The heavy weapon smacked against Dahl’s upper arm, hard enough to make him feel the bone, and more than enough to grab his attention. He heard Vescaras’s shouts, Hamdir’s shouts, Oota’s bellows, and he could not track a one of them as he dodged the heavy spiked chain. He backed away, leading the chainmaster away from his fellows . . . and toward the rune-scribed gem glowing in the center of the wall. “Come on, little mouse,” the shadar-kai crooned. “Come and play.”

  The chain darted out, nearly catching Dahl’s shoulder, but he dropped beneath it. The chain crashed into the gem. A stream of ice burst out, encasing the guard. The shimmer of magic dropped from the cages. Dahl finished off the guard and started prying open doors. On the other side of the room, he saw Vescaras do the same. Oota roared as the last of the guards fell to her sword.

  It is my duty to find what is hidden, Dahl chanted through the noise of the Chosen, and my gift to know what is unknown.

  He heard a strangled sound. The last wizard was pulled against the bars of the cell beside the one Phalar had ducked into, the chain of his amulet stretched between two ebony hands and pulled taut against the wizard’s throat. Against the back wall of the cell, an old woman watched in horror.

  The wizard’s last strangled gasps were cut off by the twang of Sheera’s crossbow. The bolt lodged in the wizard’s chest, and he fell still. Phalar dropped him with a look of disgust.

  “None of you,” he announced, “are any fun.”

  “The sands are running,” Dahl said. “We have to move.”

  Those prisoners who had not broken out into the fight on their own were easily recovered. Many of them were wounded, all of them were shocked and shaken. Dahl had to coax little Vanri out of the corner of the cage she’d been thrown in.

  “I don’t want to,” Vanri sobbed. “Tell her I don’t want to.”

  Dahl picked the girl up and held her close. He looked over her shoulder at Armas, at Brin straightening, woozy and off-balance from trying to heal the half-elf’s ruined chest. The wound had healed over, a shiny patch of pink skin where the bloody mess had been. But Armas still looked drawn and sallow. Vanri’s grip on Dahl’s neck tightened and the sound of the roaring ocean filled his ears.

  “Hush,” Dahl said, and he rubbed her back. “It will be all right.”

  As they came to the door, however, a sudden sense of utter dread clenched around Dahl’s heart, so strange and sudden that it only took a moment to realize it wasn’t natural.

  “What in the Hells was that?” Oota demanded.

  Lord of Knowledge, Dahl thought, don’t let that be from the Hells. Havilar watched, horrified, as flames leaped across Farideh’s skin when she stepped from the water. A whirlwind of fire shifted, collecting, haloing her form, but building, building, up her back until . . .

  Wings of fire unfolded around Farideh, shielding her like two massive hands. Pure dread gripped Havilar in the very base of her belly, and for a moment she couldn’t quite feel her knees or her glaive in her hands. Samayan clung to Ebros, shivering. Among the shadar-kai, even, some stepped back, away from this nightmare creature Farideh had become.

  No, Havilar thought, gripping her weapon. She’s still Farideh. She’s still Farideh.

  Farideh held her rod out in front of her. “Chaanaris,” she said, almost a hiss. She pulled the rod up.

  In concert, a dozen hands made of shadow and flame broke out of the ground. The shadar-kai who noticed yelped and cursed and backed into still more hands, still more bodies pulling themselves up out of the ground and snatching at the guards with hands more claw than finger. Hungry hands, Havilar thought, edging toward her sister.

  Farideh dropped the rod with a soft cry. The flames sputtered and failed. Havilar grabbed her arm.

  “What are those things?”

  “Get back!” Farideh cried, sna
tching up her fallen rod. “They’re not on our side.”

  The creatures grabbed hold of several guards, hooting and howling like wild apes, like things all empty of all but the simplest needs. Their shadowand-flame hands sank into the shadar-kai, who screamed as the creatures tore flesh and something deeper from their forms.

  “Ebros, keep shooting!” Khochen cried, pulling throwing knives from her boots. Farideh recovered herself and sent a rain of brimstone after them, and Havilar kept her glaive moving, keeping the frantic guards away from her sister and trying hard not to watch the clawing, Hellish souls.

  Farideh’s terrible spell faded, and the shadar-kai who weren’t lying dead or dying came at them with renewed fury. Fifteen still, Havilar guessed. And five of us. Not pleasant odds, but she adjusted her stance and held her glaive low and ready.

  A flash of light seared Havilar’s eyes.

  “Hold,” Adolican Rhand said to his guards. And as welcome as the order was, it sent a trill of panic through Havilar. The wizard’s creepy gaze was fixed on Farideh.

  “Well, well,” Rhand said, his voice like a razor, “I see you are not in the keeping of the Hells, after all. I shall assume that this was just Lady Sairché’s attempt to enjoy my company.” He smiled at Farideh, and Havilar shuddered. Twelve steps, she estimated. Just far enough she couldn’t be sure that she’d hit him before he cast another spell. She edged toward her sister.

  Farideh was as still as an oak in the forest. “You didn’t come here to ask after Sairché’s motives. What do you want?”

  “My patron’s interest has diminished,” Rhand said, “and we seem to be under attack. We are departing for Shade, and so you have a choice to make.” His gaze bored into her. “You can depart with me, and I will leave these people to their own devices. Perhaps they will manage where others have failed and escape before the remaining stores run out.

  “Or you can refuse,” he went on, “and be swept from the face of Faerûn with the rest of these unwashed pretenders, knowing you could have saved them.”

  Farideh glanced at Havilar, her terror plain to her twin. Havilar shook her head, ever so slightly. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Rhand couldn’t destroy the camp faster than they could finish getting people underground, right?

  Farideh swallowed and gave Havilar a look that said volumes: There wasn’t another way. There wasn’t a way to be sure. And she was sorry, again. So sorry.

  “Don’t!” Havilar said.

  “I love you, Havi,” Farideh said. “Tell Mehen and Dahl and the others I’m sorry, and . . .” She gave her twin a significant look. “Don’t follow this time.”

  “Fari!” Havilar shouted, running toward her. “Fari, karshoj, don’t—”

  But Farideh took hold of Adolican Rhand’s proffered hand and vanished before Havilar could grab hold of her and make her stop. The shadar-kai glanced at each other, as if none of them wanted to follow orders, but each stepped through the nearest patch of shadow and disappeared, back to the fortress.

  Silence hung over the bloody beach. Then, Havilar screamed.

  Lorcan knew he ought to ask the mirror to show him Adolican Rhand—if it couldn’t find Sairché, it could at least find her captor and narrow Lorcan’s search. But instead he caught the scourge pendant in his hand and asked to see Farideh.

  Asmodeus’s demands outweighed his agreements with Sairché, he told himself. The mirror shivered and shifted to reflect Farideh tearing down a slope toward a score of armed shadar-kai, and Lorcan cursed.

  Lorcan sprinted back to the portal, holding in his thoughts the image of Farideh, the edge of a frozen lake.

  The portal to the fortress didn’t behave any better for Lorcan than it had for Sairché. He stepped out, not into the middle of the battle with the shadarkai, but into empty streets between ragged huts. He heard the shouts and scrambling of a handful of people running from his entrance to the plane. Good riddance, he thought, trying to orient himself. The lake would be to the south and west—

  Out of nothing, an all-too-familiar horror clutched at Lorcan’s throat—

  Calm, he told himself. Calm. It might be something else. It might be some Chosen’s trick, some other god’s sleight of hand. He leaped into the air, gaining enough height to spy the lake, the beach, the shadar-kai scurrying back as wings of fire unfolded from Farideh’s back. There was no hoping this was some trick of the wizard, some errant Chosen fallen into the wrong fight.

  The rest of Asmodeus’s blessings had fallen on Farideh.

  An arrow whizzed past Lorcan. He looked down to spot Mehen, the sour-faced elf with her longbow out and aimed at Lorcan, and the straggling scout besides.

  “Save the arrows!” Lorcan said. “Farideh’s in trouble. Get to the lake.” Screams rose from that direction, and he said a little thanks to the Lords of the Nine that Mehen didn’t protest, didn’t ask what was happening. There would be plenty of time to think of ways to explain without explaining— now, they had to get Farideh out of there, first and foremost. Whatever she thought she was doing, it was obviously dangerous and not necessary to stopping Magros. He’d pull her out of there, convince her—

  He crested the last row of buildings in time to see Farideh take hold of Adolican Rhand’s outstretched hand, and vanish.

  No, Lorcan thought, hitting the ground. No, no, no . . .

  Havilar let loose a keening scream, part war cry, part anguish. Some part of Lorcan—the sensible part—tried to stop his feet, to turn him anywhere but where he was headed. But he ran straight to Havilar, cursing. “You let her go?”

  She turned, eyes alight with fury, and shoved him hard “You said she was safe. I told you not to leave her with him, and you said it was fine! Now she’s gone, back into that karshoji fortress.”

  “What?” a gruff voice cried, and Lorcan cursed again. Mehen and the Harpers had caught up to him. Havilar took one look at her father and burst into tears.

  “Rhand took her,” Havilar said. “Back to the fortress, then back to Shade. And Zahnya’s spell is going to finish, and we all have to be underground. She’s going to die!”

  Mehen swung his head to Lorcan. “You’re popping in and out of this place. Get me to that fortress.”

  “You’re not leaving me,” Havilar said, and Lorcan felt sure that even sending her to the stasis cage in Malbolge would not stop Havilar from following. “If you go, Mehen, I’m going too.”

  “Havi, go back with the Harpers. Get to shelter.” Mehen hesitated. “Find Brin. Make sure he gets somewhere safe.”

  “Brin is perfectly capable of taking care of himself,” Havilar said—though she had no luck in hiding the fear and the doubt in her voice, not from Lorcan. “I’m coming.” She looked back at the odd assortment of Harpers, at the short, dark-haired woman. “Will you tell Brin what’s happened, and that we’ll be back?”

  The dark-haired woman shook her head in disbelief. “I’ll say those words,” she said. “But do you really think—”

  “Yes,” Havilar said fiercely. “Promise. I will find him after.” She turned back to Mehen. “But first, we take care of Fari.”

  Lorcan hesitated, his eyes darting between them. “You two understand that means passing through the Nine Hells? It means crossing the planes—twice. I can’t simply leap into the fortress.”

  Mehen took hold of Havilar’s hand. “Then start crossing.”

  Lorcan spared a glance for the two Harpers and the shivering boy who looked as if he’d fallen into a nightmare. He took the trigger ring from the chain around his neck, held it over the tip of his index finger, and held his other hand out to Mehen. “Don’t let go of me or Havilar. And shut your eyes,” he advised.

  Mehen took hold of Lorcan’s hand, eyes resolutely opened as the portal to the Hells opened around them.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  26 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) The Lost Peaks

  Dahl led the first group of Chosen through the camp, sword out, eyes sharp. Armas, carrying
Vanri and surrounded by his god’s earthen guardians, came close behind, followed by another ten Chosen and Oota at the rear, the strongest of them arrayed throughout the group to give cover to the weakest. Surely, he thought, the guards have noticed something’s wrong by now. Surely the shadar-kai will be everywhere. Surely the small force of Shadovar guards would be sent out as well. They’d selected four paths through the camp to keep the guards from positioning themselves to catch everyone. But either Dahl had drawn the luckiest route or the guards were nowhere to be seen.

  Overhead, the gathering spell had grown large enough to rival the orb of the midday sun in size. They didn’t have long.

  They reached the shelters at the same time as Vescaras’s group, halting at the edge of the milling crowd of prisoners. “Looks as if it’s getting tight,” Vescaras said, eyeing the stalled lines of Chosen descending into the earth, the basket carriers who shoved past, shouting to keep back, to keep the tunnel open. “We may have a problem.”

  Tharra hadn’t returned yet, and neither had Farideh. Dahl wondered if the Harper agent would return at all, if Farideh would give up and turn back. It had been at least half an hour, hadn’t it? “Tell them all to inhale,” he said. “Did you cross any guards?”

  Vescaras shook his head. “Not a one. That worries me too.”

  Hamdir and Sheera’s group of Chosen arrived, then Brin’s. Tharra and Farideh were with neither. “We found a few guards,” Brin said. “They were retreating, though—their leader wasn’t happy about them scuffling with us.”

  “You’ll have to call the course,” Vescaras said to Dahl. “If she doesn’t come back—”

  “Then we stand out here and die,” Dahl said. “I’m happy to hear another plan.”

  Tharra came running full tilt through the alleys, her auburn hair unbound and blood streaming from a wound on her forehead. Her blouse was soaked in blood and the daggers she’d carried were gone. In her hand, she gripped the ancient scroll hard enough that Dahl had to stop himself from snatching it away as well. Farideh wasn’t with her.