Yet nothing balked them for more than a moment. After which they assailed the invaders as fiercely as before.
She realized bitterly that nonetheless, she and her comrades were accomplishing all Yzil expected of them. They were keeping the wyrms busy and enticing them to exhaust their breath weapons and sorcerous capabilities. They were softening them up for the confrontation to come.
In her folly, Wraxzala had dared to hope the diversionary force might somehow accomplish more, might actually defeat the foes counterattacking down the mountain, or failing that, that she might at least outlive the struggle. Now, however, it was clear just how unlikely that was to happen.
In her eyes, the contest became absolutely, incontrovertibly hopeless when the colossal red dragon conjured eight orbs of seething, crackling lightning, which then streaked down to strike and blast every third thrall in a ragged formation of koalinths.
The reptile then oriented on a squad of locathah crossbowmen, ostentatiously sucked in a breath, swelled its throat, and cocked back its head. The warriors discerned that the red’s snout was pointing a little to the left, so they madly scrambled right. Most of them escaped the booming flare and kept right on running until the dragon furled its wings, slammed down immediately in front of them with a thud that started loose stone clattering down the mountainside, and roared into their terrified faces. The locathahs blundered about and fled in exactly the opposite direction.
The red was so certain of victory, and so contemptuous of its foes, that it was playing with them.
Enough of this! Wraxzala thought. If she disobeyed her devitanand he survived to condemn her for it her rank and life were forfeit, and that was why she’d lingered as long as she had. But it was plain she would surely die if she didn’t get away.
Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to save a spell for the purpose. She declaimed the prayer, and darkness swirled and whispered into being all around her. For an instant the touch of it chilled her skin.
By day, a blot of inky shadow would itself be conspicuous against the sky, but by night, it would make Wraxzala effectively invisible. It was inconvenient that she couldn’t see through it either, but that wouldn’t be necessary just to distance herself from the island. She’d flee until she heard and smelled water below her; then she’d dive for the safety of the depths.
She wheeled, sped away, and a rhythmic flapping sounded somewhere above her. She wondered if she should change course, or dodge, but how, when she couldn’t tell exactly where the dragon was in relation to herself? She was still trying to determine its exact position when gigantic claws punched through her body. Dazed with the shock of it, she dully remembered hearing that all a dragon’s senses were acute, and the wyrm pulled her apart as if she were no more substantial than a jellyfish.
It took a lot of killing just to reach the enormous chamber at the top of the mountain. Tu’ala’keth observed that by the time they cleared it of enemies, most of Yzil’s thralls were dead. But that was all right. They’d served their purpose.
Weary from fighting, she cast about, making sure the cave was as she remembered it. Then she pointed, noticing as she did so that her hand was spattered and tacky with gore. Fighting on land was a filthy business.
“Eshcaz has to come in either there,” she said, “or over there. Those are the only holes big enough to admit him. So we’ll set up by that wall, as far as possible from both of them.”
Hovering, body rippling, Yzil studied the corner in question. Blood oozed down from a superficial cut above his eyes, and he blinked and swiped it away with a flick of his tail. “We’ll be boxed in,” he said.
“It does not matter,” she replied. “Either we will kill the red, or he will kill us. It is unlikely we could retreat and get away.”
“I suppose so.” The devitan raised his voice. “Follow me, warriors of Ixzethlin, and be quick about it. We may have very little time in which to prepare.”
The other ‘chitls, who’d been either gliding about, investigating the chamber, or feeding on dead or crippled cultists and dragonkin, obeyed him. When everyone was in position, Tu’ala’keth opened her satchel and pulled out the book inside.
The heavy volume consisted of plates of horn inlaid with characters of onyx, agate, and obsidian, and perforated on one edge so a chain of worked coral like her silverweave could bind them together. It was plain from the construction that someone other than ‘chitls had made it. They were literate, but books of the sort employed by shalarins and sea-elves were awkward for them. For an instant she wondered again where and how her allies had obtained the precious thing then put the irrelevant question aside.
Straining, she snapped the coral chain, gave one page to each ‘chitl cleric, and kept the remainder for herself. Perhaps some of ‘chitls resented a “slave creature” retaining most of the magic, but it was in accordance with Yzil’s orders. He understood that just as she, by virtue of her anatomy, had been best suited to carry the tome, so she, possessed of hands, would be best able to flip from one leaf to another as circumstances required.
She started to read the trigger phrase of one of the preserved spells, and others did likewise, their voices muddling together. The carved stones glittered, flashed, and sometimes crumbled as they delivered themselves of the power stored inside. The gathering magic made everything look somehow too vivid, too real, and therefore frightening, like looming, leering faces in a delirium. The granite groaned beneath her feet.
Eshcaz watched his troops form into squads then tramp forth to scour the island. If any of the invaders had escaped the massacre, the dragonkin and humans would find and kill them. They were competent enough to manage that, anyway.
Once certain his minions were setting about their work with sufficient zeal, he then prowled over the battleground in search of plunder and morsels to eat.
Considering how many had fallen, the latter were surprisingly different to locate because, for the most part, the dragons had sensibly kept to the air, out of reach of the enemies’ hand weapons, and annihilated them with spells and breath effects. Which was to say, burned the corpses to charcoal, poisoned them with acids and other malignancies, or blasted and ripped them to such small fragments that it would be awkward and undignified for a creature the size of Eshcaz to bother with the crumbs.
Fortunately, he wasn’t actually hungry. It was simply his custom to sample his enemies’ flesh after any fight. It made the victory seem complete.
Something flopped feebly on the ground before him. He scrutinized it then grinned. He’d discovered a still-living ixitxachitl, and eating a live enemy was even more satisfying than devouring a dead one.
He scooped the ixitxachitl up in his jaws. It writhed and shrieked for a second as he chewed; then it was too maimed for even that bit of impotent resistance.
He swallowed it whole then turned to the black-robed, skull-masked priest of Velsharoon who’d been trailing him about, awaiting orders. “Tastes like chicken,” he said. It was a human joke, and he didn’t really understand why it was supposed to be funny, but the cleric laughed dutifully.
Then a ghostly, grayish figure wavered into existence between the two of them. With a twinge of unease, Eshcaz saw that it was Diero, or rather, a conjured semblance that would allow the two of them to speak over a distance. The wearer or purple’s snowy hair, which he always kept neatly combed, now dangled over his sweaty brow. He was breathing hard, too, his shrewd features taut with urgency.
“What’s wrong?” the dragon asked.