looking, he reached down and grabbed itjust an old tree limb the clean-up crew had missed.
It’ll do, he thought, then followed Devorast’s gaze.
“Sweet Haela’s bum,” the dwarf oathed.
“Naga,” Devorast said.
The human relaxed. Hrothgar couldn’t believe it. He hefted the makeshift club and stepped forward, but Devorast didn’t move. He faced the creature as if they were old friends, and Hrothgar realized that perhaps they were.
“What do you want here, nqja’ssara?” Devorast called out.
The creature hissed at him. For all the world it was a giant snake, but with a human’s face. That face held all the hate, anger, and violent rage Hrothgar had ever associated with humans, and more. The dwarf could only guess that the thing was a male.
“Ivar,” he said, “you told us that you”
“Speak,” Devorast called to the naga, ignoring the dwarf.
“This false river will not be realized,” the thing said. Hrothgar didn’t like its voice, not one bit. “Go from here, dista’ssara. Go now, or more will die.”
Devorast crouched and picked up a rock. The action elicited from the naga a sound that Hrothgar assumed to be a laugh. He liked that sound even less than its speaking voice.
“What of Svayyah?” Devorast demanded. “She and I-” “Svayyah?” the naga shrieked, hurling the name at Devorast as if it were a spear. What it said next had no meaning Hrothgar could fathom. Devorast threw the rock at the same time it spoke.
As the rock arced through the air, four slivers of red-orange light appeared perhaps a yard in front of the naga and arrowed through the intervening space, unerringly for Devorast. When they hit him, the human staggered back with a grunt. His face twisted in what Hrothgar perceived to be frustration, not paincertainly not fear-but he kept on his feet.
The rock Devorast had thrown went widebut then, it shouldn’t have.
Hrothgar blinked and shook his head. The naga was there, then it was just a step or two to the side of there. The rock was supposed to hit the thing but…
But you’ve seen it use foul magic, the dwarf told himself. Now here’s more.
“All right then,” he said aloud so Devorast could, perhaps, benefit from his wisdom, “aim a yard or so to the snake’s left.”
As if they’d planned it that way, a work gang bearing all sorts of nasty implementsshovels, awls, picks, and hammerscame up over a rise, attracted by the wind and commotion. They’d seen Devorast staggered by the naga’s magic, and though Devorast had assured them all that he’d garnered the snake-people’s support, even those simple men could add two and two. They rushed at the naga.
“Careful, boys,” Hrothgar tried to warn them, “it’s”
The thing let loose another string of nonsense words, and light flashed in the air. There was no getting a sense of the source of it and there were so many colors it was impossible for the eye to pick one from the next. Devorast turned his face away.
“Don’t look at it!” Devorast shouted, but only Hrothgar was able to heed his words.
The on-rushing gang stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide, moths agape, fixed in their places and thoroughly mesmerized by the naga’s incandescent display.
“Damn their eyes,” Hrothgar muttered.
He charged, trying not to consider what bizarre and horrendous fate the snake monster with the human face had in store for him.
One hit, he thought, slapping the tree limb against his palm as he ran. Just one.
Devorast threw another rock, and the naga started to rattle off another one of its spells. Hrothgar sent a silent thanks to Clangeddin Silverbeard that the rock not only beat the incantation from its mouth, but actually struck the creature a glancing blow. Surprised more than hurt, the thing stumbled over its words then growled in frustration. Sparks of blue and green light played in the air around its head, but that was all, and Hrothgar was there.
He swung hard and spun a full circle when the club missed its target. All his warrior’s instinctsby the Nine Hells, all his stonecutter’s instinctstold him he should have hit the thing, but it simply wasn’t where it appeared to be.
“Fool!” the naga hissed at him, then said something else in either the language of the wizards or the language of the nagas. The dwarf hoped it was the latter.
Hrothgar swung again with the tree limb, but at what appeared to him to be thin air just to the creature’s left. He felt the branch scrape something, but couldn’t see anything. The naga twitched its tail and though it appeared as if the tip of it was a full armslength from Hrothgar’s side, it slapped him hard enough to crack a ribbut that was the least of it.
The dwarf’s body spasmed and shook, and his teeth clamped down hard.
He’d lost his club and tried to find it. There it wasin Devorast’s hands.
The human swung the club hard from right to left across his body, and it hit something more or less near the naga, who reacted as though it had taken the full force of the blow. Devorast lost his grip on the club, and it went whirling past Hrothgar’s face.
“It pays!” the naga shrieked. “It pays or more of its stinking kind dies!”
Hrothgar looked up at the sound of another muttered incantationa short oneand watched the naga slither away at such a speed.
“Look at it… go,” he huffed out.
Devorast dropped the club on the ground at his feet. Hrothgar stood, his whole body still tingling from whatever the naga had done to him.
“You hurt it bad, my friend,” the dwarf said, bending to retrieve the makeshift weapon. “But you can bet it’ll be back.”
Devorast didn’t even bother to shrug that off. He ran for the spot where the trench had collapsed. Hrothgar followed, grunting with pain the whole way. They dug as fast as they could, brought in as many men as would fit around the trench, but not one of the five diggers were pulled out alive.
10
5 Ches, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) Third Quarter, Innarlith
She hadn’t done any of the things she would have expected herself to do.
She had taken no one’s advice. She’d used none of her father’sher family’sgold. The rented flat wasn’t in the worst part of Innarlith, but it wasn’t in the best either. Deep in the Third Quarter, it was a tradesman’s flat above a vacant storefront that used to sell cheese. She hated the smell that was left behind and under any other circumstances never would have put up with it. It was the kind of building she’d have burned down just because she didn’t like it. She spent not a single silver on furniture or decorations, and even promised herselfand any disembodied spirits that might be listening inthat she would sleep on the stained mattress, sit on the flea-ridden chair, and keep her clothes in the cupboard with the rat skeleton and the hardened undergarment the previous tenantperhaps the cheesemonger’s wifehad left behind. She didn’t bring the flamberge, and had not even a slim dagger or kitchen knife with which she might cut herself.
Phyrea sat on the floor. She had a candle, but had forgotten to bring anything with which to light it, so she sat in the dark.
She folded her arms in front of her and doubled over. Her stomach hurt almost as much as her head throbbed She wanted to cut herself so badly she wanted to scream. S But she wouldn’t let herself do either of those things.
The ghosts screamed louder and louder as the room grew darker and darker.
Cut yourself.
