Goruc spun. Yvon kept watching him.
“Your friends coming soon?” the orc asked.
“Soon,” Yvon said. “What sort of mutual acquaintance?”
“A patron,” Goruc said. He whipped his head around at another rustle of movement. “If you’re trying to trick me with all this, I’ll make certain you regret it.”
A flash of red between those two trunks. Like a bit of cloth waving behind a person as they ducked behind a larger tree. Goruc bared his teeth and leaped toward it.
He bared his teeth. “Show yourself!” Goruc bellowed. “Come out or I’ll kill the shopkeeper.”
Nothing.
“You’re awfully stirred up,” Yvon said. “I thought you wanted our help.”
Four figures, draped in bloodred robes, stepped from the shadows. Loose hoods obscured their faces, and each one wore a sash emblazoned with the same sign: three triangles forming a larger one, surrounded by a figure with nine sides.
“These are your friends?” Goruc demanded, still holding his axe high.
“Yes,” Yvon said, standing and finding his place in the circle. “Mine and the tiefling’s you seek.” He shook his head sadly. “But I don’t think they’re yours.”
“That’s a very nice axe,” the figure standing on his left said. “Wherever did you get it?”
“A gift,” Goruc said. “What are you playing at?”
“Really?” the largest figure-unmistakeably Creed-said. “A very generous gift. One might even say it was quite the steal.”
“Where are the tieflings?” Goruc shouted.
“Yes, that,” Yvon said. “With a bare axe in your hand and, pardon the expression, that beastly demeanor of yours, I don’t think we’ll be pointing you in her direction. Your patron shouldn’t be toying with the disciples of the Raging Fiend.”
Goruc chopped wildly at the robed figures. But they all stayed precisely out of reach, still watching him from the shadows of their hoods.
“Stay back!” he yelped. “You come any closer and-”
“In due time,” Yvon said. “Who sent you to find the warlock?”
“I have a right no matter what he says,” he said. “She killed me twice.”
The fourth figure chuckled. “Well,” a female voice-Sekata-said, “obviously she needs some practice. A fortunate thing we’ve had plenty of that.”
Goruc started to reply, but behind him, Yvon was quicker. The garrote twisted around the orc’s throat. Yvon smiled as Goruc clutched at the garrote, but he still would not drop the axe. He struggled and gasped, and tried to swing the axe over his head. Yvon released the garrote and jumped out of the way.
Imarella’s whip lashed around Goruc’s right wrist, and yanked that arm backward and the axe away from Yvon. In front of the orc, a robed figure stepped forward and raised a hand.
“
Goruc started to roll to his feet. Lector slapped an amulet against his cheek. “
The orc convulsed once and his arms and legs went limp and stopped obeying him, long enough, at least for the Ashmadai to hold him down.
Sekata’s stake pierced the wrist of the hand that held the axe so quickly his scream came after the crack of dividing bones. Yvon took one of the iron staples from Creed and helped pin down the orc’s ankles, as Sekata drove another stake through the orc’s off-hand.
“Why?” Goruc screamed. “Why?”
“We protect our own,” Yvon said, his voice still gentle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Neverwinter 13 Kythorn, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)
Havilar edged down the hallway, her right foot leading, her glaive held low. She scooped the edge upward, guiding it with her left hand and driving it forward with the thrust of her hip. Angle down to slice across her imaginary foe’s throat. Sweep across his shins. Then lift, plant the right foot on his knee, and drive the blade home.
There was hardly room inside the temple for her to practice-every room had beds or tables or piles of books in it, and nearly every room had a scowling priest or acolyte giving her disapproving glares for bringing her glaive through the door. Even the library in the basement, where
She thought of his face as she jabbed forward again. Barbarian, indeed. If she didn’t practice, her muscles would go soft, and forget how to control the long, heavy glaive she’d spent so long practicing to wield. If those priests were clever enough to be healing people and archiving books, they should be clever enough to know that much.
It had taken the better part of the day, but at last she’d found the long, wide corridor in the still-damaged part of the temple. Unlike the rest of the temple, no one rushed up and down it. The tapestries still hanging on the walls were thick with old soot and dust, and trimmed with cobwebs. Nobody but spiders to tell her to go elsewhere.
Stupid acolytes, she thought, resetting her grip. They thought she was an idiot or a child with a toy. Even if she wasn’t as smart as Farideh, she wasn’t stupid. Just like Farideh wasn’t a complete waste in a fight, even if Havilar was much better with a blade. It wasn’t as if one of them got everything and left the other one without.
Except sometimes, she thought with a scowl of her own. Everyone they met lately seemed to like Farideh better-that man in the shop, the red-haired nurse. Stupid Lorcan, she added, even though it made her sound even more childish. Brin.
She planted the glaive and rested. Stupid Brin. She didn’t want him under her skin. It was just that he’d rushed her out of there, off to find Farideh. That’s all.
That’s all, she told herself more firmly.
Even though Farideh protested it wasn’t true, she got to be the smart one and the one people trusted, but Lorcan made her the interesting one, too, and the one who might be dangerous. Havilar and Kidney Carver might as well not even exist.
Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, she remembered, and wrinkled her nose. Perhaps Farideh was right. Perhaps that did sound pretentious. She needed a shorter name.
“ ‘Justice,’ ” she said scrutinizing the weapon. “ ‘Cutter.’ ”
Bad and worse.
“Devilslayer,” she said. Everyone would probably appreciate it if she could fight Lorcan to the death. Except Farideh.
Half a year had gone by since Havilar had called down Lorcan, and too much had changed. Farideh had gotten so short with her. Farideh slept fitfully-awake, her mind would just drift off, Havilar could tell by the way she would suddenly be staring at nothing at all, as if all the treasures in the world were somewhere in the middle distance. Farideh might be as private as she could with Lorcan, but Havilar wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way Farideh looked at him. And still, she thought she could tell Havilar what to do.
She made another series of passes down the corridor, and was about to turn around and work her way back, when she heard the murmur of voices a short distance off. The sunlight from the broken windows did not penetrate all the way down the hall, but Havilar padded into the graying shadows, toward the sound, the newly christened Devilslayer at the ready.
