But the wyrm’s head slammed down beside her. His body listed ponderously to the side then toppled. His limbs flailed, feet clawing, tail lashing, but not at any target. After a few moments, the thrashing subsided. He shivered and lay dead.
Tu’ala’keth surmised that as Eshcaz had prepared to strike at her, Anton must have scored a final, fatal blow. She started around the enormous corpse to find the human.
CHAPTER 12
Anton slumped over, panting, the end of the greatsword resting on the floor. For the moment, he was too exhausted to hold it up.
Cheering sounded from overhead. He looked up at the ledge. His fellow captives had won the fight against the cultists. Good for them. He didn’t blame the survivors for declining to climb down to the cavern floor and fight Eshcaz. The Red Knight knew, it was the craziest, stupidest thing he’d ever done, and the fact that he’d somehow prevailed didn’t make it any less idiotic.
Tu’ala’keth stalked around the great mound of Eshcaz’s carcass to remind him he hadn’t prevailed unaided. As was often the case, he couldn’t read her expression. Behind her, some of the afflicted ixitxachitls had finally recovered from whatever magical effect had ailed them. Bodies rippling, they glided forward.
He had no idea what to expect of the comrade he’d attempted to murder, or of her allies either. Until now, he and his band had avoided contact with the ixitxachitls. Partly it was because they were afraid the ‘chitls wouldn’t be able to distinguish between human captives and human cultists. But it was also because of the ‘chitls’ reputation as raiders and vampires. Under normal circumstances, they were hostile to mankind.
Still the current situation was far from normal, and he felt an obligation to try to look after his comrades. “My friends,” he said, pointing, “fought alongside you, even if you didn’t notice. They helped me kill the wearer of purple. I ask that they be allowed to take the cog on the beach and depart in peace.”
“The ‘chitls,” said Tu’ala’keth, “have no use for slaves who cannot live underwater. I expect I can persuade them.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “What about me? Where do I stand?”
“It appears,” she said, “that you have resumed your role as Umberlee’s champion.” A ixitxachitl with blistered hide and a cut above its eyes came flying up beside her. “How, then, can I do anything but accept you as my ally?”
He smiled. “I can think of one or two other things I might do in your place. So thank you again.”
“Eshcaz is dead. But it is possible some wyrms and cultists are still holding out. Let us rest for a while then go kill them.”
Despite the handicap of broken fingers, Diero had managed to fumble the belt from around his waist, loop it around his stump, pull the makeshift tourniquet tight by clenching the end in his teeth, and stanch the bleeding. It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done, and now he wondered if it had been a waste of effort.
For a quick death might have been preferable to his current circumstances. The victors had locked him in the bare, stony misery of a slave cell. Tu’ala’keth had used her magic to, in effect, cauterize the end of his mutilated arm. But she’d done nothing to mend his fractured jaw and fingers, and all his injuries throbbed in time with the beating of his heart.
He suspected the pain, severe as it was, would pale in comparison to torments to come.
He needed to escape, which meant he needed his magic. He tried to articulate a simple cantrip, but garbled the words. He strained to crook his swollen fingers into an arcane sign, and that was hopeless, too.
“I respect a man,” a bass voice drawled, “who doesn’t give up easily.”
Startled, Diero jerked around. Anton and Tu’ala’keth stood outside the iron grille, looking in at him. He realized he was so weak from blood loss, shock, and dehydration, so sunk in his own wretchedness, that he hadn’t even noticed their arrival. He struggled against an unfamiliar impulse to cringe from them.
Anton recited a charm then swung the rasping door open. “I still haven’t found the key to this thing. I’m lucky I never needed it.”
Tu’ala’keth approached Diero where he slumped on the granite floor. “I am going to heal your jaw,” she said. “If you then attempt to conjure, Anton and I will kill you.” She recited a prayer, took his chin in her webbed blue fingers, and gave it a little jerk.
A bolt of agony stabbed through his head. But afterward, his jaw didn’t ache as it had before. He worked it gingerly, and it clicked. The bone seemed intact and in its proper place.
“We brought you a drink, too,” Anton said. He pulled the cork from a waterskin and held it to Diero’s lips. The magician gulped the lukewarm liquid. For a moment all he could think of was how wonderful it felt to slake his thirst.
Anton took the sloshing pigskin bag away. “That’s enough for now.”
“I know,” Diero sighed. He’d watched thirsty men guzzle too quickly and make themselves ill.
“Now,” said the spy, “let’s take a walk.”
Diero felt another jab of fear and struggled to mask it. “Where to? What do you want with me?”
“Explanations,” said Tu’ala’keth. She hauled him to his feet, and they marched him out of the cell, catching and steadying him when, in his weakness, he stumbled.
A miscellany of bodies littered the tunnels. Here and there, ixitxachitls glided and fish-men shambled about but not in great profusion. Diero suspected that after the battle, most of them had returned to the sea, thus conserving the magic that enabled them to function above it.
At one intersection lay the shredded carcass of a fire drake, still radiating warmth hours after its demise. “We only killed some of the wyrms,” Anton said. “The rest flew away when they realized the outcome of the battle was in doubt. Not very loyal to their devoted worshipers, are they?”
“No,” Diero said. He wished the invaders had killed them all. Had Eshcaz only heeded him, none of this would be happening.
His captors conducted him to the upper levels, where the cult’s mages, priests, and artisans had labored to produce dracoliches and where their conquerors had heaped amulets, swords, scrolls, battle-axes, quivers of arrows, vials, wands, and books atop a worktable. The pile seemed almost to glow, to radiate a palpable tingle of arcane force.
Diero recognized many of the items but not all. He inferred that in addition to plundering the shrines, libraries, and conjuring chambers, the invaders had located Eshcaz’s hoard wherever it lay hidden deep in the mountain. The bastards were clever, he had to give them that.
“Given time,” said Tu’ala’keth, “I could study these articles and learn all about them. But I do not have time, so you will help me. You will tell me what they are, how they work, and how they can best be employed to kill dragons.”
Despite repeated efforts to muster his courage,
Diero still felt weak and afraid. But if he hoped to help himself, now was the time. “Why should I?” he replied.
“The rack survived the battle,” Anton said. “I checked. Maybe you’d like to find out how it feels to be stretched. Or what life is like without any hands at all.”
Diero gave him a level stare. “You can certainly torture me. I’ll break eventually. Everybody does. But I’ll hold out as long as I can. Perhaps long enough to ruin the shalarin’s plans. Or maybe the stress will kill me outright. At present, I’m not strong.”
“What do you want?” asked Tu’ala’keth.
“Freedom, once I supply what you need.”
“No,” Anton said. “Even leaving my personal feelings out of it, my chief would flog me if I agreed to that. But I will offer this: When my fellow captives leave the island, you’ll go along as their prisoner. They’ll hand you over to the Turmian navy and earn themselves a bounty. They deserve some recompense for their suffering, and the ‘chitls won’t let them carry away any gold.
“From then on,” the spy continued, “my superiors will decide what becomes of you, and they just might spare your life if you cooperate. I’ve heard it said that one Cult of the Dragon coven knows nothing of the others. That way, no matter what calamity befalls it, it can’t betray them. But you’re a wearer of purple, and reasonably clever. I suspect you possess some information you shouldn’t, and in a season when everyone’s frantic to ferret out your conspiracy wherever it hides, you may be able to parlay it into soft treatment.”