everyone else to hold his position, then prowled to the edge of the platform and peered downward.
The vista below was peculiar enough that it took a moment to make sense of it. Acrid smoke and warm, wet steam mingled in the air. Bloodied and to all appearances berserk with rage, Eshcaz beat his gigantic wings and ascended to the high, domed ceiling. But the pinions didn’t rustle and crack or make any sound at all.
Jaws gaping, foreclaws poised to catch and rend, Eshcaz dived at those creatures who were making noise, murmuring ixitxachitls strangely hunkered on the floor, a few terrified gill-men arrayed to guard them, andDiero blinked. Was that the same demented shalarin who’d intruded here before?
A waterspout whirled up from the stone floor to intercept the plummeting Eshcaz. It caught him, engulfed him, and whirled him backward before dissipating as suddenly as it had appeared. The red couldn’t sort out his wings and the rest of his body quickly enough to resume an attitude of flight, and he fell ingloriously, slamming down on the stone.
At the same instant, other spells assailed him.
Branching and extending like flowing water, a lattice of ice formed on his skin, binding him, searing his scales with its frigidity, until he flailed and shattered it.
A black cloud boiled into the air above the wyrm. Lightning flared in its belly, and thunder would surely have boomed an instant later except for the field of silence. Rain hammered down, mingled with a harsher liquid that blistered the reptile’s hide.
Diero scowled. He’d wasted a moment in professional appreciation of the rather neat trap Tu’ala’keth and her allies had lain for Eshcaz, and to be honest, in enjoyment at seeing the arrogant dragon discomfited. But it was time to intervene. If the acidic downpour could burn the red, it was conceivable it could mar granite and deface the grand pentacle as well.
Fortunately, with a wyrm to occupy them, none of the sea folk had noticed him perched on the ledge. So long as he was quiet about it, he should be able to conjure without interference, and better still, his foes had emplaced their defenses in relation to Eshcaz on the other side of the hall. He doubted they had anything oriented to deflect an attack striking down from his angle.
Diero extracted a bit of lace from the pocket of his vestments. Tied up inside were bits of phosphorus and saltpeter. He swept the bundle through the proper pass and whispered the appropriate words of power.
Tu’ala’keth burst into flame. She reeled and dropped a stack of clattering rectangular plates. Gouts of fire leaped from her body to the nearest ixitxachitls and gill-men. They didn’t start blazing like torches in their turn. The spell wasn’t quite that deadly. But the secondary effect did sear whatever it touched, and the creatures thrashed and floundered at the pain.
The black cloud and its downpour wavered out of existence. It had required the concentration of one of the spellcasters down below to sustain it, and Diero had just disrupted that.
He could see that, in their shock, pain, and confusion, the sea creatures hadn’t yet determined where the attack had originated. He should have time to cast another.
It was a burst of glare, and he scrunched his eyes shut so his own magic wouldn’t blind him. Afterward, the rays and fish-men crawled or stumbled about helplessly, so bereft of sight they couldn’t even avoid Tu’ala’keth, still lurching to and fro like a living bonfire. Tendrils of flame lashed out at them whenever they blundered close to her, or she to them.
Diero waved Olna forward. “You see the water creatures,” he said. “They’re helpless for the moment. You make sure they stay that way, and I’ll dismantle the wards they set.” He glanced back at the remainder of his followers. “You fellows, watch for trouble coming up the stairs.”
Anton knew it would be stupid to outdistance his comrades, who possessed no supernatural means of enhancing their vigor and suppressing fatigue, or to make any more noise than necessary. Still it took an effort not to run up the steps.
He and the others had given a good accounting of themselves as they prowled through the caves. They’d killed a fair number of cultists and dragonkin, and because of his hatred of these particular foes, reinforced by the greatsword’s bloodthirst, he’d enjoyed every second of it.
But such accomplishments paled to insignificance the moment he peeked from one tunnel to the next and sighted Diero, wearer of purple, master wizard, and the whoreson who’d sent him to the rack. Diero had to die, to satisfy Anton’s need for retribution and, quite possibly, to ensure the defeat of the entire enclave of wyrm worshipers.
Peering upward, trying to penetrate the gloom, Anton skulked around a twist and beheld the uppermost section of the shaft, lit by the wavering glow of a single oil lamp set in a nook halfway up. At the top was an opening, and on other side of it, barely visible in the darkness, two men stood gazing downward. They spotted him and started yelling.
Anton charged as best he could, dashing up a crudely chiseled flight of stairs. The shadows above him shouldered crossbows. He bellowed, “Archers!” and threw himself down on the risers. The quarrels thrummed over him, but one thunked into the body of someone at his back. The fellow made a low sobbing sound.
There was no time to turn and find out who’d taken the wound or how bad it was. The erstwhile prisoners couldn’t stay where they were, or the enemy would shoot them all dead. Anton jumped up and scrambled onward.
Figures scurried in the natural doorway above as the crossbowmen, their weapons useless until cocked and loaded once again, yielded their places to two other cultists. The new men pointed spears down at the captives then jabbed with them to bar the way and halt Anton’s ascent.
They had the advantage of the high ground and weapons even longer than the greatsword. So long as they maintained their current defensive posture, it would be difficult to get at them, but it would be likewise difficult for them to score on Anton. That, however, didn’t matter. Behind them, barely visible between their shifting bodies, a woman with a long blond braid was chanting an intricate rhyme. The spearmen were simply giving her time to complete the spell unmolested.
Anton hacked at a lance. The greatsword sheared through the seasoned ash and chopped the point off. If the spearman knew his business, the remainder of the weapon could still pose a threat but not as deadly a one as before.
Anton paused for an instant, as if he’d overcom-mitted to the stroke and couldn’t come back on guard quickly. The second spearman took the bait and thrust at his exposed flank. The spy pivoted, used the greatsword to bat the lance out of line, and bounded upward, safely past the long steel point. He cut at the cultist he’d just outfoxed, and the dark blade smashed through his ribs and into his vitals.
At the same moment, though, the blond woman finished her incantation and sucked in a deep breath. Knowing he couldn’t free and lift the sword in time to threaten her, Anton averted his face and pressed himself against the wall of the lava tube.
The wizard expelled her breath into a searing conical cloud. Anton’s skin burned wherever the corrosive vapor brushed it, and on the steps below him, other captives cried out in pain.
He couldn’t let the shock of injury balk him, nor allow the witch to cast another attack spell. The greatsword agreed and steadied him with a surge of strength and anger. He jerked it from the first spearman’s body and cut down the second one then another cultist who rushed in with a short sword. That cleared a path to the magician.
He sprang out onto what he now perceived was one of the natural balconies overlooking the big cave at the top of the volcano. Smoke and steam swirled through the air, and fire flickered somewhere down below, but he couldn’t tell what was burning. Too many people were in the way.
The witch goggled as if astonished he’d survived her initial attack. She started jabbering a second incantation, and the words slurred into a gargling sound as the greatsword crunched into her skull.
Anton stepped deeper into the mass of cultists and cut at another foe. His enemies were all around him now, and even an enchanted sword wouldn’t save him from a stab in the back. Only his comrades could do thatassuming any were still alive and fit to fight.
Cries of fury and scrambling footsteps established that they were. They swarmed out onto the platform and ripped into the cultists. Jamark swung a mace. A cultist managed to catch the blow on his shield, but the force sent him stumbling backward to topple off the ledge. Stedd drove a sword into an opponent’s chest and laughed crazily. Then the eyes rolled up in his head as the other man, mortally wounded but not dead yet, thrust a blade into his torso. They took a lurching sidestep together, like spastic dancers.
