The Rite

by Richard Lee Byers

  YOU HAVE TO FIGHT BETTER.

  We’ll teach you where to hit them to do the most damage, and how to tell when they’re getting ready to breathe or spin around, when to get in close, and when to get away. You’ll slow the dragons down, and spill more of their blood than you would otherwise. That’s all we can promise.

  You have to give them the walls and courtyards, and fight on inside your great keep and the vaults beneath. Make the dragons fight us on foot, at close range, on ground we know better than they do. Set traps and ambuscades. That way, we can hold them back for a long time.

  Keep fighting outdoors, and we won’t last another tenday.

  THE YEAR OF

  ROGUE DRAGONS

  Richard Lee Byers

  Book I

  The Rage

  Book II

  The Rite

  Book III

  The Ruin

  Realms of the Dragons

  Edited by Philip Athans

  Realms of the Dragons II

  Edited by Philip Athans

  Other FORGOTTEN REALMS Titles by Richard Lee Byers

  R.A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen, Book I

  Dissolution

  The Rogues

  The Black Bouquet

  Sembia

  The Shattered Mask

  For Bruce, Liz, and Heather

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Phil Athans, my editor,

  and to Ed Greenwood, for his help and inspiration.

  2 & 3 Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

  To Fodel’s chagrin, Natali saw them first. He was the one who knew they were coming, but still, it was his fellow sentry with her keen eyes who spotted an outstretched wing momentarily blocking the light of a star, or perhaps the leading edge of the dark mass creeping over the ground—Fodel could tell by the way she gasped and snatched for the bugle hanging at her hip.

  Fodel whipped out his dagger and thrust at the slender redhead’s sunburned neck, at the bare flesh between mail and helmet. Thanks be to the Sacred Ones, the point drove home before she could blow a note. Warm blood sprayed out and spattered his hand. The brass horn fell clanking onto the wall-walk.

  Fodel winced at the clatter, but maybe no one had heard. He grabbed the corpse before it could collapse and make even more racket, wrestled it to the edge of the battlement, and shoved it over the merlons. It landed with a thud on the ground outside the castle.

  He scurried for the stairs leading down into the bailey. Avarin met him in the courtyard and with a nod, conveyed the message that he, too, had killed his companion up on the battlements. For the moment, no one remained to raise an alarm.

  That couldn’t last. They had to finish their work quickly. Still, as they approached the ponderous mechanisms of windlasses, chains, and counterweights that controlled the portcullis and iron valves, they forced themselves to slow to a saunter. It wouldn’t do for the warriors stationed inside the gate to discern their urgency.

  The North had reached that time of year when spring ruled the day but winter had yet to relinquish its grip on the night. Accordingly, the two common soldiers and the officer of the watch, a Paladin of the Golden Cup clad in gilt-trimmed knightly trappings, stood huddled around a crackling fire. At first they oriented on Fodel and Avarin, but in a casual sort of way. When the duo stepped into the circle of wavering firelight, though, the paladin peered at them intently.

  “Is that blood?” he asked.

  Fodel glanced down at himself and saw that it was. He had splotches of Natali’s gore all over his chest, where his war cloak didn’t cover. Somehow, in his excitement, he hadn’t realized.

  “Yes,” he said, “you see …”

  He couldn’t think of a plausible explanation, but hoped it didn’t matter. Maybe he just needed to keep babbling until he and Avarin closed to striking distance.

  The knight’s eyes narrowed, and Fodel knew the game was up. Ilmater’s holy warriors could look into a man’s soul when they deemed it necessary, and the officer was surely gazing into his. Fodel flailed his knife arm out from under his mantle and rushed in stabbing.

  The paladin caught the first thrusts on his small round wood-and-leather shield. At the same time, he called, “Treachery! Treachery at the gate!”

  Magically amplified, the words boomed loud as thunder. Fodel had no doubt they’d rouse the entire garrison. That meant he and Avarin had, at most, a minute or so left to accomplish their purpose. Fodel feinted with the knife, then kicked the paladin’s knee. The knight reeled off balance with his broadsword still halfway in its scabbard. Fodel kicked again, dropped his foe onto his back, flung himself on top of him, and stabbed until the paladin stopped moving.

  Hands gripped Fodel’s forearm. He jerked around and nearly slashed with the knife before realizing that it was Avarin who’d taken hold of him. His comrade had killed the two men-at-arms and was attempting to haul him to his feet.

  “Come on!” Avarin said.

  They scrambled on to the windlass that would lift the portcullis. Thanks to the cunning of the dwarves who’d built the contraption, two men could operate it without strain. Still, such was Fodel’s desperation that it seemed to take forever to hoist the massive steel grille.

  Next, they shifted the bar sealing the gates, which squealed in its brackets despite the grease. That alone didn’t make the thick iron leaves movable. Their sheer weight and the enchantments the king’s wizards had cast on them could hold them shut. Accordingly, Fodel and Avarin rushed to another windlass, grasped the handles, and heaved.

  “Stop!” a soprano voice shouted.

  The gate was in effect a sort of tunnel passing through the thick granite wall. Fodel looked around and saw the archers, crossbowmen, and spellcasters assembled in the courtyard just outside, each ready to shoot the traitors down with shaft or spell.

  “Come away from the mechanism,” the magician, a thin, aging woman with braided hair, continued. She was still in her nightgown, with only a knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill.

  Come away? Fodel thought. Why? They’d only kill him anyway. Better, then, to go down fighting, striving to do what he’d come so close to accomplishing. He threw his weight against the windlass, and Avarin did the same. A first crossbow bolt, precursor to the volley to follow, streaked past Fodel’s head.

  Fire, dazzling bright, roared down from the sky to engulf men-at-arms and paladins, wizards and clerics, who screamed, floundered, burned, and died. Those defenders who happened to be standing outside the perimeter of the blast, and who thus survived it, goggled upward to see what had so unexpectedly attacked them. What they saw there drove some mad with fear and made them bolt. The rest, the bravest, prepared to strike back.

  With a jolt that shook the earth and knocked men staggering, a gigantic dragon slammed down amid the litter of burning corpses. Its scales were a dull, deep red, and its blank eyes glowed like orbs of molten lava. With a claw it pulled a knight’s guts out of his belly. Its serpentine tail lashed, shattering an archer’s legs. Biting, its fangs sheared off the top half of a wizard’s torso.

  The defenders managed to do the wyrm some little harm in return. An arrow pierced one of its scalloped neck frills. Bellowing the name of his god, a Paladin of the Golden Cup swung his greatsword and cut a gash in the dragon’s flank. The wizard in the shawl thrust out her hands and encrusted the monster’s neck and one wing in frost, which seemed to sting it. The dragon hissed in fury. Blood oozed from its scales, not as a result of any injury but as a manifestation of some magic of its own, and slathered it in a dark, shiny wetness. It lunged, snapped, and raked at its adversaries even more savagely than before.

  At which point Fodel abruptly realized that the surviving defenders were so busy fighting the
wyrm that they’d forgotten all about him and Avarin.

  “Let’s get it open,” he said, and he and his comrade hauled on the windlass anew. One of the iron leaves swung inward, and cheering and howling, stunted goblins, pig-faced orcs, and a miscellany of bigger, more fearsome creatures surged through. A towering hill giant with thick, long arms, a low forehead, and lumpish features spotted Fodel and Avarin and rushed them. It swung its crude warhammer over its head.

  “We’re friends!” Fodel cried. “We opened the gate for you!”

  The giant only sneered.

  But then, in the blink of an eye, Sammaster appeared between the huge marauder and its intended victims. Many an observer might have regarded him as an even more alarming apparition than the giant, for his spiked gold crown and the rest of his jeweled regalia did nothing to blunt the horror of his withered skull-face and skeletal limbs. But Fodel had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

  “They are friends,” the undead wizard said. “Go make yourself useful. Pulp some paladins or something.”

  The giant inclined its head in a servile fashion and shambled away to do its master’s bidding.

  “Thank you!” Fodel said. “I thought—”

  Sammaster silenced him by raising a bony finger. “Be careful what you say,” the enchanter whispered. “Remember that to you, I’m the First-Speaker of our fellowship, but to our allies here, I’m Zhengyi, their fallen Witch-King risen from the Abyss to lead them to victory. Convenient, isn’t it, that to most eyes, one lich looks like another.”

  “Thank you for sending the dragon to help us.” Fodel wondered how Sammaster had known they needed succor, but probably that was no great trick for a master wizard. “I’m sorry we couldn’t open the gate secretly, the way we were supposed to.”

  “No matter. I thought to take the fortress with more finesse and less brute force, but the important thing is that we’ve taken it. Look for yourself.”

  Fodel gazed out into the courtyard and saw that Sammaster was correct. The king’s men had no hope of contending with the dragon and the invading horde of goblin kin simultaneously. Most of the men-at-arms were dead, the rest, routing. Perhaps a handful would escape the citadel and lose themselves in the night, but that didn’t matter.

  Earlier, the castle called the Vaasan Gate, where the Cult of the Dragon had likewise insinuated its agents, had fallen, enabling Sammaster to lead the orcs and giants of the desolate territory to the northwest into Bloodstone Pass. Marching at maximum speed under cover of darkness, the invaders had ignored the various setlements in the valley to reach the Damaran Gate in advance of any warning that aught was amiss, and they’d taken possession of that fortification as well.

  Well, actually, only the eastern tip of it. The Damaran Gate was a mammoth construction of wall and watchtowers three miles long, with castles anchoring the ends, and it was the lesser of these that Sammaster had overthrown. But that was enough to open Damara to the hosts of savage creatures who’d lusted to take their vengeance on it ever since the king slew their overlord and drove them out of his dominions fourteen years before.

  Fodel was a Damaran himself, and for a moment, felt a vague pang of regret over the slaughter and ruin to come. Then he reminded himself of the glorious future that awaited him and all who believed in Sammaster’s teachings, and the emotion faded.

  The company had ridden hard for two days, but, Igan reflected, no one would know it from the way Gareth Dragonsbane sat tall and easy in the saddle. Trying to copy the brawny, handsome, blond-bearded warrior as a squire was supposed to emulate the knight he served—especially if said knight also happened to be a Paladin of the Golden Cup, a celebrated hero, and the King of Damara—the gangly youth with the pox-scarred face sat up straighter, too.

  “They’re coming,” said Mor Kulenov, one of the senior wizards, a pudgy little man with a billy-goat beard. Presumably some spell alerted him to the enemy’s approach.

  “It’s a bad idea,” grumbled Drigor Bersk, “fighting dragons in the dark.” Scar-faced and hulking, stronger than most men-at-arms, the priest of Ilmater was a dauntless terror in battle, but had a habit of predicting doom before the hostilities commenced.

  “It’s either stop them here and now,” Dragonsbane said, “or let them rampage through Ostrav. The village is just beyond those hills. Besides, dragons are big, Drigor. You won’t have any trouble picking them out, even at night.” He raised his voice and called, “All right, gentlemen, this is where we make our stand. You know what to do, so take your positions, and may the Crying God bless us all.”

  Maneuvering with practiced efficiency, the company of six hundred riders dispersed itself into a number of smaller units arrayed across the heath. It was a looser formation than the king might have chosen to meet another foe, but it was bad tactics to bunch up when fighting dragons.

  Though he’d skirmished with orcs and bandits, Igan had never even seen a drake. He looked forward to it with a mix of eagerness and dry-mouthed trepidation, despite the fact that he still might not behold a living wyrm up close. His master had assigned him to help guard four of the magicians, a contingent positioned to the rear of most of the men-at-arms, and it was entirely possible no dragon would attack so far behind the front line.

  Like the majority of mounts, even war-horses, Rain, Igan’s dappled destrier, quite possibly lacked the courage to stand before a dragon. Accordingly, Igan tied him up, then, carrying his lance to use as a spear, took up his position in front of the warlocks. After that, he had little to do but wait and imagine his comrades making their preparations for combat out there in the dark. Archers were surely stringing their bows, warriors tightening the pommels of their swords, clerics praying for the blessing of Ilmater and the other gods of light, and mages conjuring wards of their own. Indeed, flickers of silver, blue, and greenish light across the moor gave evidence of spellcasting.

  One of the magicians stalked up to Igan and the other men who were his protectors. His squint, the tight set of his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders gave him a clenched, dyspeptic look that was habitual. Igan knew the wizard’s name was Sergor Marsk, but little else about him.

  “Stand a few yards farther forward,” Sergor said.

  The sergeant, a short, wiry man with a bushy white mustache, a gimpy leg, and a missing pinkie likely severed on some forgotten battlefield, said, “We’re better able to guard you if we stay close.”

  “Do as I say!” Sergor snapped, and perhaps realizing how sharp he’d sounded, continued in a more moderate tone. “We’ll be conjuring forces that could hurt you if you stand too near, and the dragons won’t molest us anyway. They won’t even see us.”

  “Have it your way,” the sergeant said. “You heard him, boys. Move thataway.” The line shifted forward.

  Sergor returned to his colleagues, murmured words of power, and brandished a scrap of fleece. The air rippled and turned colder for a second, and the four warlocks twisted into the form of a cart heaped high with baggage. Igan assumed that in actuality, the mages were still there, hidden behind an illusion.

  “That’s odd,” he said, frowning.

  “What is?” the sergeant replied.

  “If Goodman Marsk wanted to conjure a veil, why not hide all of us behind it, wizards and guards alike?”

  The old soldier snorted. “It probably never occurred to him. High-and-mighty magicians don’t give a rat’s whisker about folk who can’t cast spells. The sooner you learn that, the better off—Oh, Tempus, here they come!”

  Igan jerked around. At first glance, he spotted half a dozen dragons, a couple soaring, one, cloaked in shimmering light, proceeding over the ground in a series of prodigious bounds aided by snaps of its wings, and the others striding as fast as a horse could run. One of the striders glowed like a hot coal. All had presumably fallen prey to the Rage, the madness that made wyrms rampage across country killing everything in their path.

  The king’s men were elite warriors all. Even so, a few threw down th
eir weapons and shields and ran, overwhelmed by fear. Others lost control of the panicked steeds whose mettle they’d trusted too well, and the destriers bore them helplessly away. But most of the company stood its ground.

  Volleys of arrows thrummed and whistled through the air, and flares of fiery breath leaped and hissed in answer. The first dying men and horses screamed. The air above the heath sparkled and rippled, and Igan felt a momentary surge of vertigo, as a number of spellcasters conjured attacks all at once. One of the flying dragons fell and hit the earth with a crash. Warriors cheered, but the celebration was premature. The wyrm heaved itself to its feet, shook itself like a wet hound, and charged the nearest group of humans.

  Igan realized something else that struck him as peculiar. “The mages we’re guarding haven’t attacked yet.”

  “They’re working on it, I expect,” the sergeant said. “I guess some spells take longer than others.”

  “How can they even see past the illusion Goodman Marsk conjured to pick a target?”

  “I reckon they can do it because they’re wizards. Now stop worrying about their job and do yours. Which is to shut up and stand ready.”

  Embarrassed, Igan resolved to do just that, for after all, he didn’t know himself why he was so concerned with what the warlocks were or weren’t doing. It was just a manifestation of his jitters, he supposed.

  A sinuous shadow at the heart of a bulb of glowing light, the leaping dragon—a fang dragon, if Igan wasn’t mistaken—rushed at the archers who were harrying it. Swirling tendrils of black mist appeared in its path, and five radiant spheres, each a different color, hurtled at it. Unfortunately, the spell effects failed to hinder it in the slightest. To Igan, it looked as if the curls of mist and brilliant orbs withered out of existence on contact with the reptile’s shimmering aura, before they could touch its body.