And Riven had other weapons he could use.
He allowed the slaad to draw in close for another exchange, parried a crosscut designed to open his throat, and maneuvered his face nearly nose to snout with Azriim. Before the slaad could snap at him with his fangs, Riven shouted directly into Azriim's face the Dark Speech that Mask had taught him.
The word hit the slaad with the force of a war hammer.
Azriim hissed, took a wild swing with his blade, and staggered backward while trying to cover his ears. Riven bounded after him, driving the slaad back a few more paces with a flurry of two-handed slashes. Abruptly, he broke off the attack and retreated to his lost saber. He wedged his boot toe under it and flipped it up to his hand.
He decided then to show the slaad another gift granted him by the Shadowlord. Holding both blades before him, he intoned a prayer to Mask, asking for divine power to fuel his blows. When he completed the prayer, both of his sabers hummed in his hands with unholy energy; both leaked shadow. He advanced on Azriim, who shook his head to clear it of the damage caused by the Dark Speech.
"I did not know we were exchanging repartee," the slaad said as he parried a series of Riven's slashes. "I've a word or two for you, also."
With that, the slaad pronounced a word of power and Riven's world went dark. Azriim's spell blinded him.
He cursed and backed off several steps, his blades held before him. He tried to picture the corridor in his mind; he thought it perhaps eight paces wide, the slaad four or five paces before him.
"Having trouble with that eye?" Azriim said, laughing, still at a distance.
* * * * *
Dolgan writhed like a mad thing, clawed frantically at Cale's hands. Desperate, the slaad spoke an arcane word and a clashing rainbow of magic exploded around him and Cale, slamming into both of them, firing in all directions.
The chaotic play of colors made Magadon's head ache.
The shadows around Cale's body absorbed the beams that would have hit him, leaving the spell with no visible effect.
Cale gritted his teeth and strained. Veins rose on his arms. He leaned into his work. To Magadon's astonishment, the slaad's strength seemed to be no match for Cale.
Cale's thumbs sank deeper into the slaad's eye sockets.
"This ... is ... for .. . Jak!" Cale snarled.
Dolgan's eyelids gave way and he screamed as the orbs popped. Pink fluid poured from the sockets. The scream turned into a high-pitched wail of agony. He kicked, flailed.
Cale slammed the slaad's head against the ground as he drove his thumbs all the way into the creature's skull, deep into the brain.
Dolgan's screams became a slobbery gargle, then stopped. Cale rapped the slaad's bloody head into the stone twice more. The skull cracked and opened. Black blood pooled on the rock.
Cale sat atop the dead slaad, clutching Dolgan's skull in his bloody hands, breathing hard.
"For Jak," he said.
He pulled his gore-soaked thumbs from the eye sockets with a wet, sucking sound and stood over his kill. He looked at his bloody hands in surprise, as if they were not his own. Shadows covered him, swirled about him like a cloak in a gale.
Cale knelt and retrieved something from the ground-his mask. He donned it, drew Weaveshear, decapitated the slaad, and held the severed head in his hands. Then he chanted a prayer over Dolgan's corpse. When he pronounced the final syllable, a column of flame whooshed into being over the slaad, consuming his body. The fire lasted only an instant, but it left nothing but ashes and the smell of burned flesh in its wake. The slaad would not be regenerating.
"Erevis," Magadon called. His voice was soft but Cale heard him and turned. His eyes glowed yellow through the black, featureless velvet of his mask. The eyes narrowed.
Cale brandished Weaveshear and advanced toward Magadon.
* * * * *
Riven had often fought in total darkness but he did not want the slaad to know that. He put his back to a wall to narrow the field of approach and focused on his hearing.
Trying to make Azriim incautious, he feigned a stumble, an unassertive wave of his charged blades. Azriim did not take the bait. Riven could not even hear the slaad's breath. He knew the creature was picking his spot. Riven kept his blades up, ready. He was sweating.
He heard a sizzling sound a fraction of a heartbeat before a bolt of lightning slammed into his chest, melted flesh, and drove him so hard against the wall that several ribs snapped. His breath went out of him and he sank to the floor.
The hallway fell silent. Riven figured the lightning had affected his hearing.
And we could have been such boon companions, Azriim sarcastically projected into his mind.
Riven could not pinpoint the slaad's location-Azriim's mental voice originated in Riven's mind, not from an external direction-so he did the only thing he could. He shouted the Black Speech, filling it with his anger.
To his astonishment, no sound emerged.
The language trick again? Azriim mocked. How very unoriginal.
The slaad must have created a sphere of silence around Riven.
Using his blades to assist himself, he clambered to his feet.
All at once the slaad was on him, grabbing each of Riven's wrists in a clawed hand and sinking a kick with a clawed foot into Riven's already shattered chest. Riven's ribs scraped against each other and his breath went out from him in a silent scream. His sabers fell to the floor soundlessly. His body followed.
Did that hurt? the slaad projected, glee clear in his mental voice. He ground his foot into Riven's chest, causing the ribs to pierce organs. Agony tore through Riven and he screamed and squirmed in futile silence.
No cursing, Azriim projected, genuine annoyance in his tone. As punishment, I will eat your brain, though I suspect it to be rather bland fare.
Riven struggled to free a hand but Azriim's grip was stronger. The slaad's weight on his chest prevented him from moving, nearly prevented him from breathing. Riven knew he was dead. He imagined the slaad's huge, fang-filled mouth coming for his head.
He cursed a string of expletives-knowing Azriim could read lips-and awaited the bite of fangs.
* * * * *
Magadon saw his danger. Cale's eyes did not show recognition.
"Erevis!" he said, and held up his hands. "Erevis, it's me. You brought me here when you brought the slaad. Erevis, it's me, Magadon."
Cale showed no sign of hearing his friend.
Fueled by fear, Magadon dug deep in his mind for strength, found some, and projected into Cale's brain: Erevis! It is me, Magadon! Erevis!
Cale stopped. He shook his head. Weaveshear fell to his side.
"Magadon?" he said, his voice distant. "Mags?"
Magadon exhaled. He started to speak but the words came out slurred. His vision blurred, doubled.
Cale pulled off his mask, saw Magadon's condition, and rushed to his side. Magadon's last sight before losing consciousness was a double image of Cale's concerned face. For some reason, one of the images looked darker than the other.
He came back to consciousness with Cale kneeling over him. Cale held his mask in one hand. The energy from Cale's healing spell still warmed Magadon's flesh. The broken bone in his leg had reknit. Most of the other wounds in his flesh were also healed. He had his strength back.
Cale pulled him to his feet. His grip smeared slaad blood onto Magadon's hands.
"Are you ... all right?" Magadon asked.
Cale nodded.
"We need to go back," Magadon said.
"Riven," Cale said.
Magadon nodded.
Cale picked up Dolgan's head, left on the ground near his feet, as shadows gathered around them. Magadon felt cold in that darkness, exposed. The darkness intensified, deepened, and Magadon felt the telltale tingle in his skin that accompanied movement between planes.