“Or die for nothing,” the tanner said.
“Damn you all,” Anton said. “Half of you would be dead already if not for me. But forget that and ponder this instead: This is our one chance. The opportunity we yearned and prayed for, never believing it would ever really come. I plan to make the most of it, even if I have to fight alone. If anyone wants to help, I’ll be glad of the company. If others are so cowardly they can’t bear to leave the cage, that’s all right, too. Just stand aside while I pull out the knives.”
Jamark made a spitting sound. “Ah, to Baator with it. I don’t care if I die, as long as I kill a dragonkin first.” Some of the others muttered in agreement.
In the end, almost everyone followed Anton away from the cage, even Stedd, sweaty, eyes darting, one of the knives clutched tight in an overhand grip. For his part, Anton still lacked a blade. Since they didn’t have enough to go around, he’d decided to trust his sorcery to protect him for the time being.
“Where are we headed?” Jamark whispered.
“An armory,” Anton answered, “not too far away. It was never practical to steal from it before, but now the cultists are in the middle of an emergency. They may have left it unlocked and unattended. There may be some weapons left inside. We’ll find out.”
In his time, Diero had been a military man, serving as a war mage and officer in baronial armies and mercenary companies around the Sea of Fallen Stars. Drawing on his hard-won expertise, he had, despite the constant press of his other duties, made time to plan the mountain’s defense, and to explain everyone’s assigned duties in the event of an attack.
Accordingly, it exasperated him to see the dolts all running around in confusion instead of proceeding briskly to their proper stations.
Part of the difficulty was that most of the others lacked military training. Even the dragonkin were barbarian raiders, not veterans of a civilized army. Their human counterparts tended to be spellcasters with an unhealthy attraction to the forces of shadow, outlaws, and a motley assortment of malcontents, some every bit as deranged as dragons cultists were commonly held to be.
The real problem, however, was that the wyrms they served were ordering them out onto the mountain just any old way. Eshcaz was a case in point. Crouched in the center of the half-finished pentacle in the center of the great hall, shrouded in a haze of acrid smoke leaking from his mouth and nostrils, he bellowed commands, and lesser beings scurried to obey, more terrified of displeasing him than of any possible threat awaiting them outside the caverns.
Diero murmured an incantation. The world seemed to blink like an eye, he experienced a sensation of hurtling like an arrow loosed from a bow, and he was standing at Eshcaz’s immense and scaly feet. The smoke stung his eyes, and the heat was unpleasant.
But he didn’t permit his discomfortor his annoyanceto show in his expression. He might be the most accomplished human spellcaster on Tan, but even so, he wouldn’t wager a copper on his chances if the red opted to chastise him for what he interpreted as a show of disrespect.
“Sacred One,” the wearer of purple said, “may I ask what you’re doing?”
Eshcaz twisted his neck to sneer down at him. “What does it look like?”
“It looks as if you’re rallying your troops for battle. But I wonder if you’ve considered that you’re sending them forth from a strong defensive position into the open.”
“I’m sending them where the enemy is.”
“If that’s the strategy you’ve chosen, so be it. But it might work all the better if you conducted a proper reconnaissance first. Or at least gave your servants time to form up properly.”
“To what end?” Eshcaz replied. “Odds are they won’t even have to do any real fighting. The other wyrms and I will annihilate the intruders all by ourselves. I just want you worthless mites to witness our wrath and to kill any nits on the other side who might otherwise scatter and hide well enough to escape our notice.”
With that, he wheeled toward an exit large enough to admit his colossal frame. Diero had to scramble to avoid being pulped by his swinging tail. The red rushed forward, occluding the stars framed in the natural arch as he passed through, then leaped up into the sky.
Diero took a long breath, struggling to quell his irritation.
It wasn’t that Eshcaz was stupid. That might actually have made his attitude less irksome, but in fact, like all mature dragons, he was cunning. Yet he was also impatient, reckless, and possessed of a fundamental wildness that made him favor boldness, instinct, and improvisation over caution, system, and analysis.
Olna sauntered up to Diero. Her straw-colored hair gathered in an intricate braid, the witch was slim and rather pretty, with bright eyes and a generous mouth made for laughter and frivolity. When he’d first met her, it had rather surprised Diero to learn she’d committed a magical atrocity so heinous she’d had to flee hundreds of miles from her native Damara to escape retribution.
“Well, this is a mess,” she said.
Over the course of the past few months, they’d learned they could speak candidly to one another, for neither suffered from an inability to distinguish wyrms from gods, or the delusion that Sammaster’s interpretation of a cryptic prophecy necessarily constituted the final word on the destiny of the world. Rather, they’d each reasoned their way to the conviction that dracoliches, if produced in sufficient numbers, might well conquer a significant portion of Faerun, and when it happened, their supporters would reap rich rewards.
“It’s ridiculous,” Diero agreed. “The dragons see no need for strategy or tactics. They assume their sheer might will suffice to obliterate any threat.”
“Well,” said Olna, “to be fair, they’re almost certainly right.”
He felt his lips quirk into a grudging smile. “I suppose you have a point.”
“So, do we go outside, too?”
“Mist and stars, no. There are still dragonkin and such in the tunnels. Perhaps enough to defend the key entry points, and if things go wrong outside, the dragons will be glad we stayed inside. Let’s get to it.”
Sharkskin satchel bouncing at her hip, Tu’ala’keth drove her trident into a human’s chest. Another man fell with a ixitxachitl covering him like a rippling mantle, fangs buried in his throat.
That finished clearing the way… to a granite wall. Yzil scowled in irritation and started to turn away from the carnage.
“Wait,” said Tu’ala’keth.
“Why? It’s a dead end.”
“Perhaps not. This passage is large enough for one of the smaller wyrms to negotiate, and it appears to me that the stone at the end displays a less intricate grain and texture than the granite to either side.”
She walked forward and probed with the trident. The coral tines sank into the rock without the slightest resistance. She stuck her face into the illusion and found it to be no thicker than a fish scale. Beyond it stars gleamed, surf boomed and hissed at the base of the island, and the deep, rough voices of koalinths shouted and shrieked somewhere closer at hand.
She turned back around. “It is an entrance. Someone has simply concealed it with a phantasm.”
“You have a keen eye.” Yzil turned to one of his fellow ‘chitls. “You and your company will defend this place. If any humans or dragonkin happen along, you’ll need to kill them, but your primary concern is to destroy any wyrm that tries to pass through in either direction.
Hide as best you can, and hit it hard the instant you see it, before it senses you. Use your most damaging spells, and some of you, get your teeth in it. With Ilxendren’s help, your bites may cripple even a dragon.”
The ‘chitl curled itself smaller. “Yes, Devitan,” it said glumly.