The dragon backed away from him, its heads weaving at the new threats. Roghar scrambled back and rose to his feet. His friends and the Tigerclaws were closing on the monster from both sides. Vestausan and Vestausir darted and ducked, hissing and threatening but never actually striking. So many targets seemed to confuse the creature. Some of the Tigerclaws paused to shake their weapons and taunt it.
“Don’t!” said Roghar. “Just attack. Don’t give it a chance to-”
The warning came too late. The heads struck fast, one to either side. Each rose with a screaming shifter between its jaws. Vestausir flung its prey away and grabbed for another. Vestausan simply crunched down so that blood and severed limbs spattered onto those below. “You would attack this one? Your doom will be slow!”
It lunged-or tried to. The enormous body heaved, then tumbled as its rear legs failed to keep up with its forelegs. Its wings flailed in an attempt to recover and the two heads wove back and forth in consternation.
The wreckage of the battering ram had tangled between the dragon’s hind legs when the thing crushed it, Roghar realized. Then he saw that it was no accident as Uldane, unnoticed in the chaos of battle, came darting out from under the thrashing bulk. The ropes had been skillfully looped around the dragon’s feet and legs like bootlaces tied together.
“All yours!” the halfling said, sprinting for someplace safe.
Roghar almost felt his old habit of singing in battle coming back to him. Almost. His wrist and his arm still burned. His blood throbbed in his head. He squeezed the hilt of his sword and the grip of his shield. Watch over me, Bahamut, he prayed silently, then he shouted aloud, “Now! Attack now!”
He charged, bowling aside Tigerclaws as they fell back. Vestausir’s neck was close. Roghar whirled his sword over his head and chopped down.
The dragon shifted at the last moment. The blade sliced through scales and bit into flesh beneath but the wound was shallow. Vestausir bellowed and lurched sideways, knocking him back. Then the dragon reared up. The massive, flashing wings swept air down on him and the others like a storm gust. With the remains of the ram still dangling from its hind feet, the monster rose up beyond the reach of their weapons. Tempest and Quarhaun continued to blast it with smoky fire and crackling darkness, but they seemed to have no more effect than his own glancing blow.
“More!” Roghar ordered the warlocks. “Hit it with the strongest spells you know!”
The drow and the tiefling exchanged a glance across the battlefield. Each raised a hand into the air, Tempest gripping her rod, Quarhaun his black sword. The greasy fire that had burned around Tempest’s rod changed and became cold and white, like the light of the gods but far harsher. As Tempest chanted hard and chilling syllables, streaks of similar light started to spin around Vestausan and Vestausir. At the same time, the darkness surrounding Quarhaun’s sword seemed to squirm as if taking on a life of its own. The drow hissed and writhing shadows made darker by Tempest’s light gathered around the dragon.
The two heads roared. The vast wings beat hard as the monster struggled to climb higher, but the magic dragged at it, pulling it back down. Roghar found Shara beside him, her eyes flashing as she readied her greatsword. “Don’t waste time on a neck if you can’t reach it,” she said. “Go for the belly while it’s exposed!”
Roghar nodded. The web of magic seemed to tighten. He could feel the chill of Tempest’s spell, smell the deathly stink of Quarhaun’s. “No!” howled Vestausan. “You will not defeat this one!”
“You cannot defeat this one!” shrieked Vestausir-and it twisted toward Quarhaun just as Vestausan turned to Tempest. Twin jaws stretched wide. The creature’s broad chest expanded.
Shara called Quarhaun’s name, but she was too far away to be able to help. Roghar knew what was coming. So did Tempest-he could see it in her face. But he could also see that the tiefling knew she was in an impossible situation. If she abandoned her spell to try and save her life, the dragon would slip free. Tempest’s expression hardened even as the first green wisps drifted from Vestausan’s mouth. Her voice rose in pitch. The light of her spell grew even more intense.
Roghar whirled and drew back his arm. His sword wasn’t one of Uldane’s knives. It was never intended to be thrown-but then the dragon’s belly wasn’t that far above him and even a glancing blow might draw the monster’s deadly breath away from Tempest.
“ Bahamut! ” he shouted, and he hurled the blade.
“Listen!” said Kri sharply.
Albanon stopped, his voice catching in his throat. For a moment, it didn’t seem there was anything to hear, then he picked out the sounds that penetrated the double-layered stone of the great doors and the wall that sealed them. Roaring. Shouting. Nothing distinct, but enough that he could guess what was happening.
“They’re under attack,” he said-then his voice caught again at another bellow, loud even through the muffling rock and probably deafening outside. He stepped back and stared at the loosened stones of the wall. “Was that a dragon?”
“Vestapalk?” asked Kri.
There was something eager in the way he said the name. Albanon turned on him angrily. “I don’t know! Whatever it is, we have to get out there and help them. Do something!”
“The light of the gods can sear flesh and spirits, but it’s far less potent against rock,” said Kri. “I’ve seen you call forth a blast of force. That’s what we need.” The old priest raised the purple lantern high and considered the wall, then touched the stones. “Here,” he said. “It’s weakened from the other side. Strike it hard enough and you’ll bring down the wall and the door together.”
Albanon looked from Kri to the wall. The stones that had been put up to seal the door were loose enough that the spell he knew would probably bring them down, but the door was another matter. “I don’t know if I can,” he said. “The spell isn’t powerful enough.”
“ ‘Isn’t powerful enough?’ ” asked Kri. He laughed, the sound mingling with another roar from the unseen monster outside. “That’s not a problem and you know it. You’re as powerful as you need to be, Albanon. You said you drove off a horde of plague demons with a lightning storm. I’ve watched you fill rooms with fire. You defeated me while I was filled with the power of a god!”
He’s right, whispered the voice inside Albanon. You know how.
And he did. He barely had to think about it and he knew. It was simple really, easier than increasing the volume of flame or extending the power of lightning. The same amount of force in the original spell, focused into a smaller area, would have a greater impact. Feed more power into the spell, like opening the floodgates in a dam, and the force produced would increase yet again.
Albanon shook his head, trying to dislodge the knowledge that welled up in him. He held those gates closed for a reason. “No. That’s Tharizdun’s way.”
“The Chained God offers freedom from your limitations,” said Kri.
“The Chained God offers madness! I won’t do it!”
The priest shrugged. “Then listen to your friends die.”
Albanon froze, his heartbeat loud in his ears. There was another roar from outside, the loudest one yet. Kri touched the wall again in the same place, then moved away.
The power is yours, said the voice in Albanon’s head. Shape it. Give it purpose. It’s not madness without reason. It’s not madness without control.
Albanon grasped that idea and held onto it. Tempest and the others didn’t need to die. He could help them. Tharizdun taunted him with power, but he could master it. He had to master it. “I’m in control,” he told himself. The spell rose in his mind. Power came with it, his to command. He focused on the spot Kri had indicated. “I’m in control. I’m in control.”