Brimstone Angels

by Erin M. Evans

  Sairché waved the ring again and bade the mirror show her Aornos. The mirror swirled and formed an empty street under a dark, drizzling sky. Neverwinter again. But there was no sign of red-haired Aornos. Sairché peered at the image, but as she did, the image blurred and wavered and reformed into the plains of Malbolge. Into the Birthing Pit, where the damned became devils and the devils killed out in the world incubated.

  Sairché raised her eyebrows, and felt a small smile sneaking its way across her lips. “Oh no.”

  She pressed the mirror to find Nemea, and again it showed her the same twitching images that settled, resolutely, on the boiling pit of souls. No doubting its message: Nemea and Aornos were dead.

  Had Aornos and Nemea been stupid enough to pick a fight with Glasya’s hellwasps? Sairché shook her head sadly at the bubbling pit. Why did she even ask? Poor stupid Nemea. Poor stupid Aornos. They were exactly the sort to take Invadiah’s rage as an exhortation to kill the hellwasps.

  With luck they would emerge as erinyes once more, though Sairché doubted their luck was that good. If Sairché was lucky, they wouldn’t remember her at all when they were reborn.

  Hellwasps, she ordered the mirror. It snapped but flowed more smoothly, forming a window into Glasya’s audience chamber, where the hive of hellwasps swooped and swarmed around the throne of their chosen queen. Sairché frowned.

  The ring, she remembered, and directed the mirror to find the hellwasp which carried the green stone ring in its mouth. The mirror’s surface dissolved into wavering light, as if the request were too difficult to manage, but then, abruptly, it cleared to show another rainy street. Then the Birthing Pit. Sairché’s eyebrows went up again.

  As if for good measure, the mirror changed to the street again, then a wide, ancient wall, under the same drizzling sky. Nestled in a crack in the poorly repaired mortar sat the green stone ring—the second hellwasp must have snatched it up when the first was destroyed. Organized little beasties, Sairché thought. She would have liked a swarm of her own.

  But then the mirror shimmered again and returned to the pit.

  Sairché took a step back from the mirror. Both hellwasps dead. Both erinyes dead.

  Lorcan, she ordered the mirror, her throat tightening. Show me Lorcan.

  The mirror moved smoothly this time, but when it stopped, it showed her Lorcan launching up from a city street, a woman clinging to his neck as he took to the air. She peered at the woman—the Brimstone Angel.

  Sairché grinned. Not one part of Invadiah’s retaliation had come out right.

  She stirred the scrying mirror once more, and this time her adaptations worked. The mirror parted the temple’s forbiddances and obliged her—for only scant seconds, but still—with a glimpse of how Rohini’s end of the plan was going.

  Rohini stood, exposed, unglamored, traces of tainted blue magic squirming over her dusky skin. She swayed on her feet like a drunk. Four people stood arrayed around her—a dragonborn and a man she had clearly charmed, and two empty-eyed, slime-skinned slaves of the aboleths. There was no question that they knew what she was. There was no question, in Sairché’s view, that Rohini was under their control.

  Delicious, she thought again. And Invadiah was out on her training field without an inkling that everything was falling apart. Heads were going to roll this time. Starting with Rohini or with Lorcan? she wondered.

  Starting with the messenger, she thought grimly. Sairché wet her lips, and racked her brain for a devil who was foolish enough or desperate enough or indebted enough to deliver such a message to Invadiah. If she wrote it down, they didn’t have to know the contents.…

  Or, she thought, perhaps not Invadiah.

  The Neverwinter mission, after all, was a disaster, and such disasters led to dramatic shifts of power. If Sairché played her hand right, she could gain some of that power. She had Glasya’s ear, after all. Invadiah would call her traitor, but that wouldn’t matter if Invadiah fell.

  Both, she decided. She would find a stupid imp to carry her message to Invadiah and then find a way to get an audience with the archduchess.

  Because regardless of whether Glasya thought Invadiah had ruined things right now, things would start to crumble when Invadiah inevitably went blazing into Neverwinter.

  The moment Lorcan’s feet were solidly on the ground, Farideh untangled herself from him, falling to her knees as if to reassure herself the ground was solid beneath her. Lorcan unwound her tail from his knee where it had wrapped itself.

  “You know,” he said, “most people literally dream of flying.” He helped her to her feet, still smirking. “I rather enjoyed it.”

  She swatted him away. “Never again,” she vowed. But at least he had gotten them there quicker than the streets would have, and far ahead of the Ashmadai. “Thank you,” she added. She pulled the rod from her belt and scanned the empty courtyard. “Where’s your portal?”

  He drew his sword and wand, ignoring her question. “You’d do well to get that sword out,” he said pointedly. “Who knows what’s waiting for us.”

  “Acolytes,” she said, “who will panic when they see you with a bare sword. Show me where you left Mehen at least.”

  They crept through the dim corridors, Lorcan leading the way. Farideh’s heart was in her throat, and at every turn, she expected to find herself facing one of the acolytes or new-marked Brother Vartan or Rohini herself.

  “You do know,” Lorcan murmured, “that if Mehen doesn’t break free of his domination, you’re going to have to break it for him.”

  Farideh nodded. “I’ll just tell him Havilar’s in trouble.”

  “No,” Lorcan said, “I mean I hope you’ve learned enough about swordwork from him because you’re going to have to subdue him, and I’d rather you didn’t get hit with that cleaver of his.” He glanced back at her. “Still certain you don’t want to come with me?”

  Farideh bristled at that. “If I’m killed, you can always go make a pact with Havilar. Get yourself a Kakistos heir who knows her bladework.”

  Lorcan muttered a curse under his breath. “Look, don’t start this now. You … I’m going to get upset and you don’t want me to get us both killed by doing something like shouting at you not to be so stupid as to listen to bloody Sairché.” He started moving again. “I hope you are not such a fool as to believe she has your best interests at heart.”

  “And you do?”

  He spun on her again. “No,” he said. “But your interests are closer to mine than any other devil in the Hells. I guarantee you there is not a one among them willing to venture into a shitting temple to help you rescue a man that hates him above all others.”

  She returned his glare. “What were you going to do with Havilar? She’s just as valuable.”

  For a long tense moment, Lorcan didn’t speak. His mouth twitched as if he were choking on the words, and a muscle in his jaw pulsed as he bit down on them.

  “You want to talk about this, fine,” he finally said. “We will. Not now. She’s safe,” he added. “Nobody knows there are two of you. No one’s going to find her.”

  Off the main hall, Lorcan turned down the corridor that led to the acolytes’ quarters and abruptly stopped. Lying half out of the open door on their left, the body of an orc scintillating with blue fire blocked the path.

  Lorcan reached back to press Farideh against the wall, but she’d dropped low, out of the eye line of anyone in the doorway. She crept forward, ever so slowly, until she could see the form of Brother Vartan standing near the door. Beyond him there were more of the spellscarred orcs and two men whose skin glistened in the torchlight. One stood to the side holding a wooden box. The bodies of another orc and one of the men lay on the ground. Beyond them stood Mehen, holding his falchion and rocking on his feet. Beyond Mehen, standing on a chair with her wings spread as if she could fly from the small room, was Rohini.

  The succubus looked only vaguely like the hospitaler she’d portrayed before. If Farideh had not been told what to
expect, she would never have put the proper name to the creature. Aside from the vibrant red hair, the only thing Rohini had in common with her former mask was the inexorable air of competence—Rohini the hospitaler seemed like she could cure anything. Rohini the succubus could easily bring anyone down.

  The succubus twitched, a scatter of blue lightning racing over her bronze skin. “In the space between twilights the favored one will return—you let me pass or I’ll show you what you ought to fear!”

  “If you accept it,” the slimy man closest to her said, “it shall not hurt anymore.”

  “Mehen,” she said, in a strained voice. “Kill them.”

  Rushing forward, Farideh tried to cry out, but Lorcan’s hand covered her mouth. The amulet flared, and he muffled his own cry of pain against her hair.

  Brother Vartan turned to look out the door, his face a mask. Lorcan held her tighter with one arm, and with the other grabbed hold of one of the charms pinned to his breastplate. A rush of cold air wrapped around them and Brother Vartan’s eyes swept by.

  “Hold still,” Lorcan murmured, hardly speaking. “Mehen can take a few beatings. Let him thin that crowd out. Tymora smiles, he gets knocked out in the process.”

  Mehen’s falchion was too large for the little room. He tossed it aside, well out of the reach of orcs or servitors, and pulled his ancient daggers instead. The nearest orc’s spellscar bulged into ropey vines that streamed toward Mehen. The dragonborn dropped beneath them, darting out with one thin blade to pierce the orc’s hamstring. But the blue tendrils plunged down after him and sank into the dragonborn’s scales. Mehen did not cry out, but the blue magic crackled over his skin. It took a heart-stopping moment for Mehen to stand.

  Farideh pried Lorcan’s hand off. “We can’t resurrect him if he’s dead!” She fought against his hold. “And we can’t carry him if he’s unconscious!” She shoved Lorcan away, trying to break his grip on her.

  “Mehen knows what he’s doing.”

  But Farideh had watched Mehen’s drill her entire life—this Mehen was slower, not caring if he left his guard open, not caring if his strikes brought him to a better counterattack. The only thing this Mehen did well was protect Rohini.

  Farideh had to get him away from her.

  “Adaestuo!”

  The blast of energy struck Brother Vartan, hurling him back away from the doorway. Farideh shoved her elbow into Lorcan’s chest and broke free of his grasp. She cast a second bolt into the room, into the cluster of orcs attacking Mehen. Whether due to luck or the frailty of the orcs from their transformation, the bolt exploded with a spray of blood, and one of them fell.

  “You!” Rohini cried, the strange blue magic surging up through her unruly mane. She shuddered and looked for a moment as if she would fall from her perch. “You’re supposed to be dead, the dead will swarm the gates of the city of skulls.” She broke into a string of infernal curses.

  Farideh answered with a blast of fire. It washed over Rohini with no more effect than a gust of wind. But now eyes were on her—the slime-skinned men, the remaining two orcs … and Mehen. She took a step back, into another body, into hands that grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her backward. Brother Vartan’s blank eyes looked down at her—

  Lorcan struck Vartan hard with the pommel of his sword and the half-elf collapsed with a sickly crunch of bone. “Not fire,” he ordered as she regained her balance. “We and she are of a type.”

  “And Lorcan,” Rohini snarled. She spread her hands and flames built in them. The sickly light of a hundred colors suffused the fire, and Rohini’s body gave a violent jerk. The flames exploded across the room, but what struck Farideh and Lorcan only singed them and didn’t burn as hot. The unprotected orcs, the men, and Mehen on the other hand—their skin blistered and the hair on the orcs burned, sending up a stench like nothing Farideh had smelled before.

  “The dead walk,” Rohini said with a laugh. “Or were your sisters not up to the task?”

  Lorcan smiled, a slow cunning grin. “Oh, they’ve failed all right. They were to meet me here—or didn’t they tell you?” He slashed at the encroaching orc. “I’ve been exonerated … and now they come for you, traitor.”

  “Liar!” Rohini’s wings spread as if she would take off. “I have done all the archduchess has asked, all your bitch mother has ordered. I am no traitor.”

  “You are no devil either.” Lorcan sneered. “Foulspawn demoness.”

  Rohini shrieked in rage, and as if to underscore Lorcan’s insult, the scintillating magic crackled over her again: she was no longer simply a devil. Farideh felt the course of Hellish magic thrumming through Rohini, but the crackling light was something else, something stranger.

  Farideh kept her rod high, ready to cast, but gods, she wished to run. Rohini was more dangerous than Lorcan, the orcs, Criella, the man from the inn, and the mad shopkeeper combined. Even maddened by that alien power, even clearly angry and beset on at least two sides, she was deadly. Farideh cast a bolt of fire toward the orcs—it burst outward and set fire to one of the slimy men.

  You do not get to be a coward, she thought. Especially when Lorcan isn’t. She cast another bolt at Rohini.

  “Deny it all you like,” she said, mimicking Lorcan’s cruel and haughty tones. “But it won’t save you from the erinyes’ blades.”

  Rohini’s focus trained on her. “How did you escape that nest of Ashmadai, little mouse?”

  Farideh smiled, though she felt sick under the succubus’s ruby gaze, and let the shadows curl around her as she drew her powers up to cast again. “Did you never suspect you were only leaving your mark on someone else’s dirty work? I was never meant to die.”

  Rohini’s eyes widened at that, as if Farideh had struck her physically. She most definitely had all the succubus’s attention. Lorcan cast another bolt at Rohini, but when she recovered, she was still focused on Farideh.

  “Mehen,” she said. The dragonborn froze, letting two of the orcs strike him while he awaited Rohini’s orders. She stepped down and laid a hand on his shoulder, and a jolt of magic went through Mehen. “Kill the warlock. She’s ever so much trouble, don’t you think?”

  Mehen’s yellow eyes were full of hatred. It’s not him, Farideh told herself, taking a step backward. It’s Rohini.

  But it wasn’t only Rohini: it was Clanless Mehen, eyeing his daughter like a dire enemy. He curled his lip, baring his long sharp teeth.

  “Yes,” he said. “Trouble.”

  Stay calm, she told herself as Mehen scooped up his falchion. She edged toward the door, sparing a glance for Lorcan. He was still fighting back the orcs, and looked as if he’d like to strangle her. Rohini stalked toward her, following Mehen.

  Farideh needed to slow her down. The slimy-skinned man holding the box hadn’t moved—had only watched as Farideh and Lorcan burst into the room. As Rohini drew near to him, Farideh pointed at the box.

  “Assulam!” she cried. The box shattered into a cloud of splinters, forcing Rohini back with a shriek of surprise. Something bright and horrible burst free. Mehen didn’t notice. She turned to run, catching Lorcan’s eye. He could still find the portal if he ran now.

  “Farideh!” he shouted after her.

  Farideh led Mehen away from Rohini and hopefully into the safety of Neverwinter. As she bolted out the side doors and across the broken remains of the city so close to the Chasm, she wondered if it would be any sanctuary at all.

  Rohini’s hands closed on the thing out of impulse, instinct. What her hands touched … there were no words in the languages of mortals. Only the secret parts of Rohini’s brain, the parts that still stoked a demon spark of madness, knew the words to describe what she held.

  The Hex Locus froze her hands colder than the blessings of the chapel, colder than the blood of the Stygian general—but blisters erupted all over her palms and up her arms as if she held the sun itself. She was screaming—she could feel her throat tearing and the power of the Hex Locus snaking down, down into her very
core. Tendrils of magic seized her limbs, her neck, and squeezed as if to crush the life out of her. As if to bury themselves in her flesh. All she saw was blue as the heart of a glacier, blue as the heart of a flame. The Hex Locus’s tendrils plunged into her eyes, into her nostrils, into her ears, all the while singing the maddening prophecy that already boiled her mind.

  Her breath failed. Her lungs sucked into themselves. Her screams echoed into a thin, high vibration and the world swirled—shadows and blue magic fighting for supremacy.

  Out of the depths of her dying vision, strange shapes swam closer. The same shapes, perhaps, she had glimpsed when the Hex Locus first insinuated itself into her thoughts. Monstrous shapes that dwarfed Rohini—even though, here, there was no Rohini. There might not even be a Rohini in Toril any longer.…

  The creatures moved closer, great behemoths that swam through the nightmare ether she drowned in. Their tentacles encircled her. Their great ruby eyes pierced every layer of her being, through the artifice and the carefully crafted barriers, into what remained: ambition and the demon spark of madness.

  The aboleths’ thoughts tore through her like a hurricane wind, exposing that demon spark to the winds of the Far Realm. Coaxing a fire from her as the images of a world reformed, reborn into shifting, shapeless powers that would drive a lesser devil mad.

  She had served madness. She had served ambition. She had served chaos and order and destruction and hierarchy. Now Rohini could serve this nameless entity that sought something unnameable which was all this and more.

  Rohini returned to her bones and her breath, the sudden grossness, the abruptness more a violation than anything she had ever experienced. She did not belong in a succubus’s skin … and she realized why.

  The servitors stood quietly by, watching her stir. Vartan hovered over her, holding the bronze coffer she’d kept possets in. Only now … now Rohini was in it.

  No—she fought to press that thought back into a more secure place. It wouldn’t budge. She was in the box because the Hex Locus was in the box. They were entwined now, united. Its song pulsed in her ears, demanding to be spoken, but when she hushed it, it coiled deeper, deep as the heartbeats in the bottom of the Chasm. Waiting.