make out details of the yuan-ti’s face, but Arvin could see his head snaking this way and that as he scanned the field. While the yuan-ti seemed at ease, his horse did not; it kept tossing its head and whickering, as if it had sensed the invisible rebels. When the yuan-ti reined it to a halt, the horse pawed at the ground with a hoof, digging a furrow into the stinking soil.
The yuan-ti glanced up at the sky, as if trying to tell what segment of the evening it was, then continued glancing around the field. As his head turned toward the spot where Arvin crouched, Arvin would have tensed-if he had been capable of it. Instead he let out a low hiss of relief as the yuan-ti’s glance continued past him.
A moment later, the yuan-ti’s head whipped around as something materialized on the far side of the cart. It happened in the blink of an eye. One moment the burned patch near the center of the field was bare of all but ashes, the next, a dozen cultists were standing there, holding hands. Their gray-green robes made them almost invisible in the darkness. Their pale, pox-spotted faces were faint white ovals.
Arvin felt something brush against him and heard the faint tinkle of Nicco’s earring.
“At the signal, use your dagger,” the cleric breathed, touching his arm. “Aim for the yuan-ti.”
Suddenly, Arvin could move. Wary of making any noise, he rose slowly to his feet-only to find that his legs were numb from having remained in a crouch for so long. He winced at the hot tingling of blood returning to his feet, and nearly stumbled.
The attack began without him.
A shrill whistle sounded. A heartbeat later, from several points around the field, came the
The yuan-ti also heard the prayer. Hissing with anger, he turned to face the spot where Nicco must have been standing. A tangle of weeds next to the cart came alive and began wrapping themselves around an invisible form.
Belatedly, Arvin threw his dagger, but in that same moment, the yuan-ti reared up. The dagger plunged not into his throat but into his coiled body, well below any vital organs. Hissing in frustration, Arvin threw up his bare hand, summoning his dagger, which yanked free of the yuan-ti’s scaly body. Arvin caught it-but the yuan-ti had seen him. The yuan-ti stared at Arvin, turning the full force of his magical fear on him.
Arvin staggered backward under a wave of magical fear. He had to flee, to get out of here, to
Something jerked him to a halt: the mind seed. The pain of it was excruciating.
“Get… out of… my… head!” Arvin raged.
Whatever else the mind seed might be saying, he didn’t hear it. The compulsion to flee was gone-but his head felt as though it were about to explode from within. Each thought was a slow, sluggish step, like wading through tar.
Only dimly aware of the battle that was raging in the field, Arvin caught no more than brief glimpses of it. Despite the fact that they were outnumbered two to one, the cultists had magic on their side. One of them waved his hand in a circle, causing a greasy, roiling darkness to rise from the field and engulf the four rebels closest to him. Three staggered away, retching, while the fourth sank to his knees and disappeared from sight under the black cloud. Another rebel, trying to spear a cultist from a safe distance, was swarmed by a cloud of insects summoned by a cultist; the rebel dropped his spear and staggered away, screaming and slapping at the thousands of black dots that covered every bit of exposed skin. Chorl managed to take one of the clerics down with a well-thrown dagger, but then one of the Pox grabbed him from behind and drew a finger across Chorl’s throat. The bare-handed attack opened a gushing wound; when the cultist released Chorl, the rebel fell to the ground.
Gonthril accounted for two of the Pox in quick succession, lopping the head off one and disemboweling the other. Then one of the cultists lunged past his sword and slapped a hand on the rebel leader’s chest. Gonthril ran the cultist through, but the damage had been done. The rebel leader staggered, his arms shaking so violently that he nearly dropped his sword. A hideous cough that sounded like hiccupping laughter burst from his lips as he doubled over, chortling and gasping.
“Cackle fever!” one of the rebels closest to him shrieked-then turned and ran away.
Nicco, visible now, was frantically dodging as the yuan-ti lashed down at him from his seat on the cart, trying to sink his fangs into Nicco’s neck. Unable to move, his feet entangled by the weeds, Nicco prayed loudly, one hand raised imploringly to the heavens. A glowing shield of magical energy sprang up in front of his hand, but even as Nicco swept it down between him and the yuan-ti, the driver lunged past it and sank his fangs into Nicco’s shoulder. The cleric sagged to his knees as venom coursed through his blood.
“No!” Arvin cried.
Thunder boomed overhead once, twice, a third time-Hoar’s death knell for his fallen cleric?
One hand clutching his pounding head, Arvin raised his dagger. The yuan-ti was still sitting on his cart, no more than a dozen paces away. An easy target, in daylight-but rain was falling in thick, splattering drops, further obscuring his aim. Arvin threw-and hissed in satisfaction as he saw the driver thrash once then crumple in a loose coil.
The rebels were faltering, more than one of them turning to run, but somehow Gonthril managed to pick up his sword and rise to his feet. “Finish them,” he croaked, staggering weakly forward.
Amazingly, the rebels rallied. Weapons raised, they moved grimly forward.
The Pox seemed to have had enough. They stared, stricken, at the dead yuan-ti. Then one of the cultists leaped up onto the cart. “Form a circle!” she shouted. “Join hands with me.”
They did and, a moment later, were gone.
So, too, was the barrel. It had been teleported away-right out of the straps that had bound it to the cart.
Arvin, nearly blinded by the falling rain that soaked him to the skin, staggered forward to the place where Nicco had fallen. The cleric, he saw to his infinite relief, was still alive. One of Nicco’s hands gripped a deep puncture in his shoulder, which closed, healing itself, as he completed his prayer. As Nicco tore his feet out of the weeds that had entangled them, Gonthril staggered up to him, a stricken look on his face.
“We have… failed,” the rebel leader gasped. “They took… the potion.”
“Yes-Hoar be praised,” Nicco said, a gleam in his eye.
Seeing Gonthril’s mute question, Nicco explained. “Not only did I dispel the potion’s magic and negate its poison; I also placed a blessing upon it. The ‘potion’ is harmless-to anyone but the Pox. When they drink what is now holy water, Hoar’s vengeance will be complete.”
Gonthril laughed then-a genuine laugh, if weak. Then a violent trembling shook his limbs and he sagged weakly.
As Nicco moved toward Gonthril, Arvin clutched at the cleric’s rain-soaked shirt. Arvin didn’t have much time left. He could feel the mind seed unfolding within his head, pushing aside his awareness, crowding out his thoughts with a fierce, gloating joy.
“The mind seed,” Arvin gasped. “It’s blossoming. Nicco,
Nicco glanced at him, sympathy in his eyes, then turned away. “Gonthril first,” the cleric said over his shoulder. “His need is more urgent.”
“No!” Arvin wailed.
Too late. Nicco had already slipped out of Arvin’s grasp. As the cleric prayed over Gonthril, healing him, Arvin sank to his knees under the weight of the crushing pain that filled his head. Moaning, he felt the mind seed expand and start to push his awareness aside. He saw Nicco finish his prayer and turn toward him, but then his vision dimmed. What remained of his consciousness began to slough away like a torn and tattered skin.
CHAPTER 19
