“The way is clear!” called a voice. “Come quickly. We don’t have much time.”
“Who is that?” Kit demanded, peering through the shadows cast by the tall pine trees that screened the entrance. The sun had just risen. Trumpet calls bounced off the rocks around her, the attack on the city of Hope’s End had begun. “Sir Nigel? Or whatever the hell it is you’re calling yourself?”
She found the spirit standing where she’d left it, inside the entrance to the cavern.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Sir Nigel. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
“I take that to mean that you encountered the wizard.” Kit entered the cavern. The dark cool shadows of the rock washed over her, chilling after the heat of her pursuit. Her skin prickled, she rubbed her arms.
“Yes, he passed by some time ago. You told him where to find the eggs,” Sir Nigel said accusingly.
“Those were my orders,” Kit returned. “I suppose even spirit-knights obey orders.”
“But now you’re here to stop him from destroying them.”
“Those are my orders, too,” Kit stated coldly and, walking past the ghost, she entered the cave, leaving the ghost to come or go as it chose.
The ghost entered with her and, once again, as when she had first entered the tunnel from the other direction, she found her way lighted.
No, she thought, it was not so much that her way was lighted, but that the darkness receded. When the spirit raised its hand, the darkness flowed away from it like the tide from the shoreline. Gold and silver scales, shed long ago, gleamed on the path, glittered on the walls. As long as Kitiara kept close to the ghostly Knight, she could find her way. Darkness flowed in behind them after the Knight had passed. If she lagged behind, even a pace or two, the darkness engulfed her.
“This spirit is just full of tricks,” Kit muttered. She hurried to keep up. “Tell me how you knew I was coming back,” she challenged him. “Or do all ghosts read minds.”
“There is nothing very mystical in my knowledge,” the Knight said, with a slight smile. “When Immolatus arrived in the cavern, he did not proceed straight to his goal, but stopped and waited, looking behind him, back the way he’d come. He waited until he caught sight of something and then he nodded to himself as if he’d expected to see what he saw. Following his line of sight, I observed you farther down the mountainside.
“Immolatus was not pleased,” the Knight continued. “He growled and muttered, called you a nuisance, said he should have finished you when he had the chance. He hesitated and I thought he planned to stay and wait for you. He thought so himself, I believe, but then he glanced down the corridor, into the darkness, and his red eyes glowed.
“ ‘First I’ll have my revenge,’ he said and left.”
Sir Nigel looked back at her, a measuring gaze.
“He is in dragon form now, Kitiara uth Matar.”
Kit drew in a breath, tightened her grip on her sword. Logic dictated that Immolatus would change back. She’d expected nothing else, yet the knowledge that he’d actually done so was a blow to the pit of the stomach. Now that the ghost had mentioned it, she could feel the onset of the terrible debilitating fear that had come near to crippling her the first time she’d seen the dragon. The fear caused her palms to sweat and her mouth to go dry. She was angry at the Knight, angry at herself.
“Do you mean to tell me that you were lurking in that cavern all the time?” Kit demanded. “Why didn’t you strike him? Stab him from behind before he had a chance to change his form! He obviously had no idea you were there!”
“Useless,” Sir Nigel replied. “My sword has no bite.”
Kit swore, beside herself with rage. “A fine guardian you make!” she sneered.
“I am the guardian of the eggs,” the Knight replied. “Those are my orders.”
“And how do you propose to guard them, Sir Undead? Say, ‘Please, Master Dragon, go away and don’t break the pretty eggs’?”
The Knight’s face darkened or perhaps the light that flowed from him dimmed, because it seemed that the shadows closed in on them. “This is my geas,” he said in a low voice. “I chose it myself, none laid it on me. But sometimes it is hard to bear. Soon, however, my watch will be over, for good or ill, and I will continue on my long-delayed journey. As for my plan, I will distract the dragon from the front. When his attention is concentrated on me, you will strike.”
“Distract? What are you going to do? A little song and dance—”
“Hush!” Sir Nigel lifted his hand in warning. “We are close to the chamber!”
Kit knew well enough where she was. The corridor in which they stood made a turn. A short distance beyond, it opened into the huge chamber where the eggs were hidden. Kitiara stood just before that turn. Walk around the jutting rock wall to the right and she would walk into the chamber.
Walk into Immolatus.
Kitiara heard the dragon, heard his massive tail scraping over the rock, heard his stentorian breathing and the rumbling of the fire burning in his belly. She could smell him, smell the sulfur and the stench of reptile. The smell sickened her, her fear sickened her. She heard the dragon lash his tail against the rock. The corridor in which they stood shuddered. Her body went hot and then cold. Her palms were slippery, she had to continually adjust her grasp on the sword’s hilt.
Immolatus was talking to the unborn of his enemies, haranguing them in the language of dragons, presumably. Kitiara couldn’t understand a word.
“I must go now,” Sir Nigel said and she felt his words as a breath on her cheek. She could hear nothing over the dragon’s howls and grunts and taunting words that were like the cracking of bones. “Await my signal.”
“Don’t bother!” Kitiara snapped, angry, afraid. “Go back to your tomb. Maybe I’ll join you.”
Sir Nigel looked at her long and searchingly. “You truly do not understand anything you have seen or heard since you entered this temple?”
“I understand that I have to do this myself,” Kit retorted. “That I can count on no one but myself! The way it’s always been.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Sir Nigel raised his hand in salute. “Farewell, Kitiara uth Matar.”
The light vanished and Kit was alone, alone in a darkness that was not as dark as she could have wished it, a darkness that was tinged with red, the fire of the dragon.
“He left me!” Kitiara said to herself, amazed. She had trusted she would be able to shame him into staying. “That bastard ghost really left me here to die! A pox on him, then. His soul to the Abyss.”
Aware that she had to act now, while she was more angry than she was frightened, Kitiara wiped the wet palm of her sword hand upon her leather tunic, clenched her hand around the hilt, and strode through the fire-singed darkness.
Immolatus was enjoying himself. He had a right to indulge. He’d earned this moment, paid for it in blood, and he meant to make it last. Besides, he needed time to accustom himself to his dragon form again, revel in the return of his strength and power. He raked his front claws against the ceiling of the cavern, leaving great gouges in the stone. His hind claws dug into the rock, breaking it and tearing it. He would have liked to spread his wings, to stretch the muscles. Unfortunately the chamber, though large enough to accommodate him, was not large enough to accommodate his full wingspan. He made do with lashing his tail, feeling in satisfaction the very bones of the mountain tremble at his might.
Immolatus spoke to the unborn of his enemies, knowing that somewhere his enemies could hear him. They would sense his presence in the nest of their young. They would know what he intended and they would be powerless to stop him. He felt the parents’ anguish, their helpless dread, and he laughed at them and mocked them and made ready to destroy their children.
He had planned to incinerate the unborn dragons; indeed, that is what he’d intended to do. The fire in his belly had very nearly gone out, having been nothing but a measly spark in his human form, a spark he had to constantly
nurse to maintain. Needing time to stoke the fire, he determined that, in the beginning at least, he would crack the eggs with his claws and maybe even suck out the yokes of a dozen or so.
Anticipating the pleasure, he recited the catalog of his wrongs and gloated over his revenge, savoring every moment in order to relive it later in his hundred-year-long dreams.
Immolatus was enjoying himself so much that he paid little attention to the speck of light shining silver-white at his feet. He thought the light nothing more than one of the myriad silver scales left scattered about by his enemies. He shifted his head slightly, hoping the light would go away, for he found that it irritated him, like a bit of chaff caught in his eye.
The light remained. He could not rid himself of it and he was forced to pause in his recitative to deal with it. He looked at the light closely, though it hurt him to do so, and as he looked he saw it take form and shape. He recognized it.
One of Paladine’s flunkies.
“A Solamnic Knight for me to kill!” Immolatus chuckled. “What joy! I could have wished for nothing more to increase my pleasure. Who says my Queen has abandoned me? No, she has given me this gift.”
The Knight said no word. He drew his sword from its antique scabbard.
The dragon blinked, half-blinded. The silver light was a silver lance, stabbing through his eye. The pain was excruciating and growing worse.
“I would play with you longer, worm,” Immolatus growled, “but I find that you begin to annoy me.”
He made a swipe at the Knight with a slashing claw, intending to rip through the armor, impale him.
The Knight did not attack. Seeing certain death descending on him, he raised his sword, hilt-first, to heaven.
“Paladine, god of my order and of my soul,” the Knight called out. “Witness that I have been faithful to my vow!”
Ridiculous Knights, Immolatus thought, his claw stabbing downward. Vowing, praying—even after their fickle god had abandoned them. Just as my Queen abandoned me, then returned to demand homage and service and worship, as if she deserved it!
Searing pain pierced the dragon’s insides. His slashing blow went wild, missed its target. Furious, Immolatus turned to see what had hit him.
The worm. Uth Matar. That annoying, bloodsucking worm inflicted on him by that human excrement, Ariakas.
Kitiara had been both pleased and astonished to see the ghost reappear. The sight of the Knight lent her courage. Creeping around the dragon’s left hind leg, she struck the dragon from behind, driving her sword with both hands deep into the dragon’s flank. She aimed for a vital organ. Uncertain of dragon anatomy, she hoped to hit the heart, hoped for a quick kill. Her sword glanced off a scale. Her stab struck deep, but it struck a rib, nothing vital.
“Damn!” Kitiara yanked free the bloody sword and, guessing that her time was limited, made a desperate attempt to stab again.
Attacked from the front and on his flank, Immolatus returned his gaze to what he deemed the more dangerous foe, the accursed Solamnic. His lashing tail would deal with the worm. Quick as a whip snap, the dragon’s tail curled and released. The tail hit Kitiara full in the chest, a blow that sent her tumbling, rolling head over heels back down the corridor. Her sword flew from her hand.
Immolatus would finish off this Knight, then he would finish off the worm.
“Requite my faith, my god,” the Knight was yelling at the empty heavens. “Grant that I may fulfill my vow.”
The Knight flung his sword into the air.
A stupid move, but one that was a popular among Knights. They were always hoping to poke out an eye. The blade blazed with silver fire. Immolatus made the standard defense, jerked his head up and back.
Sir Nigel had not aimed for the dragon’s eye. The blade, blazing silver, soared high into the air, struck the ceiling of the cavern.
The sword that had no bite plunged deep into the rock.
The dragon laughed. He lowered his head, jaws snapping, intending to seize the Knight in his crushing jaws. His fangs opened and closed over nothing but air.
The Knight remained standing calmly, gazing upward, his hands raised in a salute or perhaps in prayer. Behind him, the eggs of gold and silver dragons lay nestled in a chamber of rock. Above him, the ceiling started to crack.
A large chunk of rock fell, struck Immolatus on the head. Another followed and another, and then a veritable cascade of rocks plunged down, threatening to bury the dragon. Sharp stones hit his body, wounding him, bruising him. One tore through a wing. Another crushed a toe.
Stunned by the blows raining down on him, Immolatus sought shelter. He retreated back down the corridor, trusting that its ceiling would hold, would not collapse around him. He crouched there as the ground shook beneath his feet. Dust and sharp shards filled the air, ricocheted off the cavern’s wall. He couldn’t see, could barely breathe.
And then the shaking ended. The avalanche ceased. The dust cleared.
Immolatus opened an eyelid cautiously, peered around. He was afraid to move, afraid that he would bring down the entire mountain.
The Solamnic Knight was gone, buried under a massive rockslide. Gone, too, were the eggs, their chamber sealed closed by tons of rocks and boulders. The unborn dragons were safely beyond Immolatus’s reach.
Roaring his disappointment and outrage, he belched a blast of fire from his belly against the newly formed rock wall, but all that did was to superheat the granite, cause it to fuse together in a solid mass, impossible to shift. He scrabbled at the wall with a claw and, after much work, managed to dislodge a single small boulder, which rolled down the hill of rock and landed on the dragon’s foot, hurting him.
He glared at the wall. Revenge might be sweet, but it was an awful lot of work. And then there was Her Dark Majesty. She would not be pleased at this turn of events, and though Immolatus might sneer at his goddess and dismiss her as fickle and capricious, deep inside him, he feared her wrath. If he had destroyed the eggs, he might have talked his way around her. No use crying over spilt yolks. Having disobeyed her orders and in so doing inadvertently sealed up the eggs where they would be safe until the day came when they hatched and their parents could come to free them. Immolatus had the feeling Her Majesty might be difficult.
He had a moment’s fleeting hope that the eggs had all been smashed by the fall of the ceiling, but he knew Paladine well of old, knew that the Knight’s prayer had been heard. The blow that had brought the ceiling down around the dragon’s ears had not been struck by any mortal hand.
By some fluke, Immolatus himself had escaped the god’s anger. He might not be so lucky the next time. As it was, he could feel the mountain continue to shake. It was time to go, before Paladine tried again. Immolatus turned to leave by the same way he had entered, only to find the corridor blocked, choked up with debris.
The dragon snarled in irritation. He was more annoyed than frightened. Dragons are accustomed to dwelling underground, their eyes can penetrate the darkness, their nostrils sniff out the tiniest whiff of air.
Immolatus smelled fresh air. He knew there was another opening somewhere. He recalled the map of the temple the worm had drawn for him, recalled another corridor leading up and out. A corridor that led into the accursed Temple of Paladine.
“If I do nothing else, I’ll level that foul blot upon the landscape,” Immolatus muttered, flame hissing through his teeth. “I’ll burn it and then I’ll burn this city. They’ll smell the smoke of death in the Abyss and let my Queen or any other god try to touch me then! Just let them!”
Mumbling and grumbling his defiance, he sniffed the fresh air, located its source. Thrusting a clawed hand into the rubble blocking the way, rubble that was not very thick at this point, the dragon cleared it easily.
He found the corridor he’d remembered from the map. The corridor was open and clear, remained unaffected by the landslide. But it was a small corridor. A narrow corridor. A man-sized corridor.
Immolatus groaned and came near sinking un
der the weight of his severe disappointment. He would have to take that form again, that hated, heinous form, that weak and puny form, that human form. Fortunately, he would not have to traipse about in the flesh-bag too long, only long enough to traverse this corridor, which, if memory of the map served him correctly, was not very long.
He pronounced the words of magic, grinding them with his teeth, detesting every one of them, and the transfiguration occurred, painful and humiliating as usual. Immolatus the red-robed wizard stood in the midst of the ruin of the corridor. The fabric of his robe immediately stuck to a wound in his side, a wound that his dragon self had barely noticed, but a wound his human self was concerned to see was deep and bleeding freely.
Cursing the worm who had inflicted it, Immolatus wondered what had become of her. He glanced around the wreckage, saw no sign of her. He listened, but heard no sound, no moaning, no cries for help, and he assumed that she must be lying under half the mountain by now.
Good riddance, he thought and, pressing his hand against his side, each breath coming in a pain-filled gasp, he entered the corridor, cursing his weak human flesh with every step.
Kitiara waited until she no longer heard his footfalls and then waited to the count of a hundred after that. Certain that he had gone far enough that he would not hear her, she crawled out from beneath the rubble that had saved her life, protected her from the dragon’s huge body.
Bruised, bleeding from countless cuts, covered with rock dust, exhausted by her fear and her exertions, Kit was fed up with this job. Her ambition was at the ebb. She would have traded the generalship of the dragonarmies for a mug of dwarf spirits and a hot bath. She would have walked away from this wretched place here and now, leaving the dragon to do his damnedest, had there been anywhere to walk. Unfortunately, the only way out was the dragon’s way out. The path he walked was the path she would have to walk. Unless she wanted to remain down here in the dark, trapped inside an unstable mountain, she would have to deal with him.
Brothers in Arms Page 40