As he fought, Anton looked for Diero but at first couldn’t spot him amid the frenzied press. Finally, though, the master of the enclave, with his trim frame, purple vestments, and silvery hair, came into view. To the spy’s surprise, Diero was facing outward, away from the battle. His hands slashed through mystic passes, and it looked as if he might be trying to complete a conjuration begun before the escaped slaves intruded on the proceedings.
Anton struggled toward the wizard. If Lady Luck smiled, he might reach him in time to cut him down from behind and spoil the magic, whatever it was.
But he had to kill another cultist first, and it was too late.
A prodigious roar sounded from the floor of the chamber below. Flickering firelight cast a gigantic serpentine shadow on the wall. By the Lanceboard, had there been a wyrm down there all along? Why had the cursed thing kept so quiet until this moment?
There was no time to ponder that, either. Diero was the immediate threat. The wearer of purple called somethingAnton couldn’t make out the wordsto the dragon then turned toward his embattled followers and their assailants. His gaze fell on Anton. He murmured a word and extended his hand, and a bastinado appeared in it. He swept the cane through an occult figure.
Anton rushed in and made a chest cut. Diero hopped back, and the attack fell short. He flicked the bastinado through a final backhanded stroke, as if chastising a thrall.
Agony tore through Anton’s body. It was worst in his guts, and he doubled over. Tears blurred his vision.
Diero tossed away the stick to vanish in midair. He took something from a pocket and brandished that instead. Ripples of distortion seethed around his hand.
Anton had little doubt that the follow-up spell, if completed, would mean the end of him. He had to straighten up and strike. Had to. Had to. He sucked in a breath, bellowed it out, and heaved himself upright. The curse inflicted a final spasm, and the torment faded.
But perhaps it had delayed him long enough. Diero lifted the fist clutching the spell focus as if grasping a dagger in an overhand grip. It looked as if it must be the penultimate move in the conjuration. When he stabbed downward, the magic would blaze into existence.
Anton cut as the hand plunged down. The greatsword clipped the extremity off just above the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump. Diero’s face paled all at once, and his mouth fell open. Anton pulled the dark blade back for the death stroke.
“The torturer wanted to break you,” whimpered Diero, gripping his truncated forearm in a thus-far unsuccessful attempt to stanch the bleeding. “I saved you.”
“That was a mistake,” Anton replied. He decided to behead Diero, shifted the sword into the proper attitude, then hesitated.
Because somehow, in spite of all his hatred and anger, all the terror and excitement of combat, he’d abruptly remembered he was a spy. A gatherer of secrets, and it was certain no one on Tan knew more secrets about the Cult of the Dragon than its resident wearer of purple.
Still he yearned to kill Diero, and the greatsword urged him on. His arms trembled with the need to cut. He gave a wordless cry, denying the impulse, and kicked the wizard’s feet out from under him instead. Once his foe was down, he booted him in the chin then stamped on the fingers of his remaining hand. Even if Diero escaped death by exsanguination, the fractures should keep him from casting any more spells.
As Anton finished, he heard the wyrm on the cavern floor snarling what sounded like an incantation of its own. He rushed to the drop-off to see what was happening.
To his dismay, the dragon was Eshcaz, the most formidable of them all. The red bore a number of wounds, but if they’d weakened him, it wasn’t apparent from his carriage. Eshcaz declaimed the final syllable of his spell, and a soft, oozing, semitransparent wall appeared midway across the chamber. It looked like water piled up on top of itself, like a tall wave that refused to curl and break.
Rather, the mass simply lost cohesion, shattered, and all the liquid plunged toward the floor. It vanished into nothingness, though, before it could raise a splash. Eshcaz strode toward the opposite end of the cavern and the defenseless creatures gathered there.
Most were ixitxachitls and gill-men, crawling, stumbling, or gliding erratically about in manifest confusion and distress. One, however, was a shalarin shrouded in bright, crackling flame, as if someone had dipped it in oil and set it alight. That one rolled back and forth on the ground.
After her first clash with Kassur, Anton had explained to Tu’ala’keth that if she ever caught fire, dropping and rolling was the way to put it out. Was that her?
Maybe it was, though he couldn’t imagine how she could have returned at the head of an ixitxachitl army. As he understood it, the demon rays were hostile to the Nantarn Alliance. Still, what other shalarin could it be?
He reflected grimly that in another moment, it wouldn’t much matter who it had been. The shalarin and its allies were helpless, and Eshcaz was about to kill them. Even if Anton had cared to intervene on behalf of a creature who’d given him to the cultists to torture and enslave, he could only delay the inevitable for a moment or two at most, and that at the cost of his own life.
He knew it, jumped off the ledge anyway, and couldn’t even say why. He wondered if the sword’s irrational, implacable bloodlust had prompted him then decided it didn’t matter. Though he was committing suicide, it felt right: pure, in a black and ferocious way.
The final spell in his meager store allowed him to land softly as a drifting wisp of gossamer, without injury or even a jolt. He charged instantly.
Eshcaz must have been intent on the creatures who’d evidently managed to wound him previously, or else the ambient noise and stinks masked Anton’s approach, for despite the dragon’s keen senses, he didn’t notice the newcomer. Anton cut deep into his flank.
Eshcaz roared and spun around toward his foe, which meant the world shattered into a chaos of sweeping tail and trampling feet. Anton had to duck, dodge, and scramble just to avoid being crushed before the red even oriented on him and made an actual attack.
Eshcaz glared with eyes like hellfire. He opened his fangs, and his wedge-shaped head surged forward and down at the end of the serpentine neck. Anton waited until the final instantdodge too soon and a foe would simply compensatethen wrenched himself aside. The gigantic jaws clashed shut beside him, and he cut at the dragon’s mask.
His sword glanced off the wyrm’s scales. Eshcaz flicked his head sideways, and the great bony mass of it smashed into Anton like a battering ram, flinging him through the air and down on the floor. Claws loomed above him and slashed, and he rolled out from underneath. The dragon immediately leaped, trying to smash down on top of him. He scrambled back and just got clear. When Eshcaz slammed down, the cavern shook.
Anton got his feet planted, poised the greatsword to cut, then glimpsed motion at the periphery of his vision. He had to forgo his own attack to jump away from another sweep of Eshcaz’s talons.
Well, he thought, at least I managed to cut the bastard once. He feinted left then scuttled right, trying to get back on the red’s flank. Eshcaz sneered, and with a quickness incredible in a thing so huge, matched him shift for shift. Wisps of smoke seeped from his nostrils and between his fangs.
Tu’ala’keth rolled and rolled, and still fire clung to her like a horde of leeches. She wondered if Anton who had, after all, betrayed her in the endhad lied about the way to put out such a conflagration. Perhaps rolling intensified the flames.
But they finally guttered out, either because she’d smothered them or because the curse that had kindled them had run out its time. She tried to lift her head, and even with the fire gone, her entire body cried out in agony.
She slumped back down and might even have stayed that way, too daunted to try again, except that Eshcaz was roaring and snarling, and once she noticed, she remembered how wrong that was. She shouldn’t be able to hear the red. Silence was an essential component of the defenses against him.
Despite the torture of charred skin cracking and splitting, she managed to take a look around. The surviving ‘chitls and locathahs appeared as helpless as she was. Though she hadn’t truly been able to see through her shroud of flame, she’d had a vague impression of a succession of mystical attacks hammering them, and it was evidently so.
