“This is far enough,” Khouryn said, keeping his voice low.
“You don’t really think you missed a branching tunnel, do you?” Medrash replied just as softly. “You just wanted to go back far enough so that if the quicksilver dragon’s lurking at the top of that slope, it won’t be able to overhear us.”
“You’re right,” said the dwarf. “Although that won’t help if it oozes after us through another seam in the rock. But I think that if it actually has set up at the top of the rise, it’ll stay put for a while. Do you agree that it’s probably up there?”
“Definitely,” Medrash said. “The dragon’s servant creatures haven’t stopped us. Maybe it doesn’t expect them to. Maybe they’re just supposed to soften us up or give the wyrm a better idea of what we can do. At any rate, the rise is the perfect place for the wyrm itself to ambush us. When we’ve clambered partway up, it’ll stick its head over the edge and blast us with its breath.”
“Which is unfortunate,” Khouryn said, “because we have to climb the slope. If there is a way out, that’s it. The question is can you do anything to keep us alive while we try?”
Medrash frowned and reviewed all the feats he’d learned to perform by channeling Torm’s might. “Yes. Let’s start with a blessing. If we’re stronger, we’ll get to the top of the slope that much faster.”
He drew on his god’s power once again. It seemed to pour down from high above and well up inside him at the same time. A tingling surge of vitality washed the weariness and soreness out of his muscles. His thoughts focused into a sort of fearless clarity. Khouryn worked his massive shoulders and flashed his teeth in a grin as he felt the same effects.
“All right,” the sellsword said. “Let’s do it.”
They hiked back to the foot of the rise. Inspecting it anew, Medrash decided that parts of it were so steep that he’d never make it up without using both hands. He’d never make it without light either, but fortunately his broadsword had a martingale to bind it to his wrist. He let the weapon dangle from the leather loop, and he and Khouryn began their scrambling ascent.
It was more difficult than he expected. Some of the rock was soft. It crumbled when he clutched it or set his foot on it, then pattered down the slope. Hanging as it was, the sword kept bumping his leg in an irritating way.
But the chief problem was that in such an attitude the blade didn’t light up nearly as much area as when he’d held it aloft like a torch. Yet it was important that he spot the quicksilver dragon as soon as it appeared; otherwise it stood an excellent chance of killing Khouryn and him before he could react. Keeping his eyes moving, moving, always moving, as his clan elders and masters-of-arms had taught him, he watched the murk at the top of the rise.
Although he knew it was just an illusion of sorts, it seemed to take forever for Khouryn and him to clamber halfway up. Then they were perfectly positioned for an ambush, too high to retreat easily, yet still well below the top. If the dragon truly was up there, it was really going to make its move-
There! A stirring in the darkness! Medrash drew breath to bellow Torm’s holy name then saw at the last possible moment that nothing solid, nothing real, had moved. A shadow had simply shifted as the sword-lamp swung and bounced with the motion of his body.
Easy, he thought, easy. Don’t waste your magic. Don’t let the foul creature know you’re ready for it.
He hauled himself upward, through another stretch where it was essential to grip the rock with both hands to make any progress. The claws of his off hand made little scraping noises on the granite, and his armor clinked.
Then Khouryn shouted, “There!”
Medrash peered, still couldn’t see anything in the darkness overhead, and looked at the dwarf instead. Khouryn was pointing at the left side of the ledge. Medrash looked there and still didn’t really see the wyrm. But he felt it as a kind of festering malevolence.
That was good enough. He gathered his god’s righteous anger and his own and hurled them like a javelin.
White light flared at the top of the rise. Seared by the power, patches of its gleaming hide charring, the quicksilver wyrm thrashed and roared.
But it didn’t drop, and after a moment, when the light faded, it arched its neck over the top of the slope in a way that reminded Medrash of an angler about to drop his hook in the water. And Khouryn was the fish directly underneath jaws that were spreading wide.
Medrash channeled more of Torm’s power, clenched his fist, and jerked his arm backward. Made of silvery shimmer, a huge, ghostly gauntlet appeared in the air, grabbed hold of the dragon just behind the head, and yanked.
Medrash knew he hadn’t channeled enough of Torm’s power to break such a huge creature’s neck or tumble it from its perch. But the unexpected jerk at least pulled its head out of line just as the bright vapor of its breath weapon hissed out of its mouth.
Unfortunately, though, the smoke wasn’t like an arrow that had to be aimed precisely. It would still wash over a substantial area, and for a moment it looked as if the thickest part of it would still stream over Khouryn. But, risking a fall, he swung himself to the side and avoided all but the edge of the misty blast. And though he cried out anyway, Medrash dared to hope that he’d escaped mortal or crippling harm. In the gloom, he couldn’t actually tell.
Nor could he take the time to find out. He’d been lucky, but he couldn’t continue to contend with the dragon while clinging to the slope. He had to make it up onto the ledge quickly and simply hope Khouryn would join him in due course.
Luckily, since a foe had actually appeared, he could use another of his gifts to close the distance. As Khouryn retched, Medrash reached out to Torm, felt the power flow, then scrambled upward. His progress was twice as fast as before because he was flying as much as climbing, or at any rate, skittering like a bug. The Loyal Fury’s power negated his weight.
The effect lasted just long enough for him to heave himself onto the shelf. Instantly the quicksilver dragon snapped at him. He jumped back from the attack and almost fell back over the edge, and the huge fangs clashed shut short of his body.
He tried to riposte, but he hadn’t quite found his balance, and he was too slow. The wyrm snatched its head out of the distance and raked with its claws. He dodged and managed to slice one of its toes. But the wound was only a shallow nick.
The fight continued in much the same way for a few more desperate moments. He ducked and dodged attacks that otherwise would surely have torn him apart or mashed him flat. Occasionally he scored with a thrust or cut but never to any great effect. Even when he drew on Torm’s power to lend force to a stroke or to glue his foe’s feet to the ledge for an instant, his sword never reached a vital spot.
He doubted he could last much longer in that way. Either he’d make a mistake or he’d start to tire and slow, and the wyrm would destroy him. The realization didn’t frighten him, not with his god’s blessing clarifying his thoughts and bolstering his resolve. But it was maddening to know that Khouryn, Balasar, and his other comrades might die, that Tymanther itself might ultimately fall to Tchazzar’s army, if he didn’t find a way to prevail.
Jaws open wide, the dragon’s head hurtled at him. He dropped low, planting his off hand on the shelf. The wyrm’s head shot over him, and bellowing, channeling Torm’s might into the stroke, he cut at the underside of his adversary’s neck.
The blade sheared deep but not deep enough. Blood showering from the new wound, the dragon still didn’t falter. It instantly raised a forefoot to stamp. Medrash scurried, and his enemy pivoted, compensating. Realizing he wasn’t going to get out from underneath, he raised his point to impale the extremity when it hammered down.