The Ruin Read online

  He didn’t recoil sufficiently to release his prisoners, though. Rather, he pulled the corpse from his fangs with a flick of his forked tongue, spat the body out, and sneered, in his eerie, sibilant whisper, “Sun priest.”

  “Let them go,” Pavel said.

  “Have you gone mad?” Brimstone asked. “I saw you lying in wait for the savages as Karasendrieth’s music lured them in for the kill, and I decided to make your task that much easier by slaying some of them myself. Which is to say, I’m helping you.”

  “Well, actually—” began Will. The drake’s shining eyes shifted to him, and despite himself, he faltered. Even for a seasoned hunter of wyrms and other dangerous creatures, there was something particularly horrible about Brimstone, something Pavel, Lathander’s agent and thus a sworn foe of the undead, felt even more intensely.

  Will took a breath and began again. “Really, we hoped Kara’s song would lull the Nars into being friendly. We were only ‘lying in wait’ to protect her if it didn’t work out.”

  Brimstone snorted, suffusing the air more strongly with the hot, bitter stench of his breath. “Be that as it may, they meant to kill you. They’re enemies, and their deaths needn’t concern you.”

  “You know,” said Will, looking up at Pavel, “at this point, it probably is too late—”

  “Quiet,” Pavel rapped, without taking his unblinking eyes off the drake for even an instant. “Set them free, abomination.”

  “I weary of the blood of hobgoblins and yetis,” Brimstone whispered. “It’s poor stuff compared to the ichor of men. You have no legitimate reason to deny me this prey, and I intend to keep it. Be thankful I don’t take your blood instead.”

  “Back away,” Pavel said. He shouted the opening words of a spell. Brimstone bared his fangs and charged, hurtling forward with appalling speed.

  Curse it! Will thought. Over the past several months, he’d dodged death at the hands of countless foes, only, it appeared, to perish under the fangs and talons of a creature at least nominally an ally. He slung a skiprock at the huge ruby in Brimstone’s collar. It was supposed to be impossible for an undead dragon to wander far from his horde. Back in Thar, Pavel had conjectured that the choker contained the magic enabling Brimstone to break the rule, and that destroying it might thus slay the drake as well.

  The missile hit the gem, but to no effect, and Will had no time to fling another. Already Brimstone loomed over his intended victims. Already he was pouncing into striking distance.

  “Lathander!” Pavel shouted.

  Yellow light, hotter and brighter, blazed from the upraised amulet. Brimstone screeched and balked, though his momentum almost carried him right over the human and halfling. Patches of his charcoal-colored scales burned away.

  Will didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend conjure such a fierce light before, but then, Pavel had changed. The struggle to end the Rage had put a hitch in his walk, etched new lines in his handsome face, and maybe strengthened his faith as well.

  Still, though, the magic was insufficient. When the flare faded, Brimstone, blinking as though half-blind, his charred hide steaming, whirled back around toward the priest. His throat swelled, and his head cocked back at the end of his long neck, as he prepared to discharge his breath weapon. Pavel stood poised to try and dodge.

  Will darted between the dragon and the human. “Sammaster!” he cried. “Remember him?”

  Brimstone hesitated.

  “You hate him more than anything, don’t you?” Will continued. “That’s why you’re here, and why you need Kara and the rest of us, Pavel and me included. You’ll never get your revenge without us.”

  The wyrm sneered. “You have an inflated opinion of your own importance. I suspect that if the two of you died here and now, the search would proceed without you.”

  Maybe, thought Will, but the important thing is, you’re talking again instead of attacking. Your temper’s cooling a little.

  With an effort of will, he managed to turn his back on the drake and face Pavel. “And you,” the halfling said, “you’re acting just as stupid, though naturally, in your case, it comes as no surprise. Stopping the Rage is what’s most important, right, and to do that, we need Brimstone the same as he needs us. By the Hells, he already rescued Dragonsbane and saved your homeland, didn’t he?”

  “I still can’t stand idly by and watch him feed on human beings,” Pavel said. “My vows forbid it.”

  “Fine,” said Will. “You stopped him. Now let it go.”

  Pavel took a long breath. “Get out of here,” he said to the wyrm.

  “Someday,” Brimstone whispered, “we’ll finish our appointed task. Then you and I will enjoy the consummation we crave.” He flexed his legs, spread his immense wings, and sprang upward.

  Pavel watched the vampire, making sure he was really flying off, then strode toward the men Brimstone had held helpless beneath his claws. Scurrying to keep pace with the long-legged human, Will was amazed to discover the wyrm had managed to charge without trampling the Nars, and almost as surprised to see that one of the nomads was the chief.

  For the moment, the horror of his ordeal and the miracle of his deliverance had wrung all the aggression out of him. He stayed on the ground, trembling, staring ashen-faced at his rescuers.

  “It’s all right,” Pavel said, lifting the barbarian to his feet. “You’re safe now, and I can help any of your people who are wounded. You just need to order them to break off the attack.”

  Five Nars examined Dorn’s iron arm, testing the sharpness of the talons and knuckle spikes. One accidentally gashed his finger. He grinned and held it up for his companions to see.

  Unlike most civilized folk Dorn had encountered, the nomads didn’t seem repulsed by the ugliness of his iron parts. Rather, they admired them as weapons. Still, he hated being the object of anybody’s curiosity, and had to strain to bear it without discourtesy.

  But maybe it was easier than it used to be. If so, he knew he had Kara’s influence to thank.

  Of course, most of his partners were exotic by Nar standards, but they all seemed to be tolerating the barbarians’ gawking more comfortably than he. Preening, Jivex related stories of his battles against the wyrms, dracoliches, and demons that he had, to hear him tell it, slain more or less unaided. Taegan, meanwhile, displayed the particular blend of exquisite manners, wit, and swagger that had helped make him one of the most fashionable fencing masters in Lyrabar. The difference was, he no longer insisted on identifying himself as “an adopted son of Impiltur” or some such thing. He was willing to call himself an elf.

  Not an avariel, however. As best Dorn could judge, Taegan’s recent experiences had convinced him the elf race as a whole merited respect, but not his own winged offshoot of the family. If anything, the reverse was true. In the maestro’s estimation, the avariels, due to some defect in their fundamental natures, had wasted centuries hiding like timid savages in the wilderness while their cousins raised splendid cities and perfected subtle arts.

  Well, Dorn reflected with a fleeting, crooked twitch of a smile, if Taegan remained ashamed of his blood, it was too bad, but likewise his own affair. Malar knew, Dorn was about the last man on Toril to teach anybody else the trick of feeling easy in his own skin.

  That might be why he disliked meeting strangers, and exchanging pointless blather with them before getting down to whatever business was at hand. But the Far Quey were like other Nars and barbarians in general. You couldn’t rush through the exchange of courtesies without offending them.

  Finally, though, the most important men in the raiding party were ready to sit down around a fire with Dorn and his comrades. Raryn fetched a jug of brandy. The Nars broke out a straight, spindly pipe as long as a man’s arm and stuffed the bowl with the dried, ground remains of what was presumably a plant.

  The nomads displayed a calm, proud demeanor. A newcomer wouldn’t have guessed they’d recently tried to murder their hosts, or survived a clash with a creature out of nightma
re.

  Mibor, the chieftain, took a pull from the jug and passed it on. “We thought the night dragon was your ally,” he said in a voice as deep and harsh as Dorn’s own, “and that the bard meant to hold us helpless while it slaughtered us.”

  It was evidently as close to an apology as he intended to go. Maybe, since Brimstone actually was the hunters’ ally—a fact they all had better sense than to emphasize—it was more than they deserved.

  “We understand,” Kara said, human once more, lustrous eyes catching the firelight. “But I only meant to give you the song as a gift, and to signal peaceful intentions.”

  Taegan grinned. “I attempted to convey the same thing. It seems the Far Quey are warriors of such valor, they find it difficult even to fathom such a message.”

  Dorn wasn’t sure whether that worked out to a compliment or not, but Mibor accepted it as such, and inclined his head.

  “When you and the little drake first flew over our head,” the chieftain said, “you said you were looking for information, and that if we helped you, we would help ourselves as well.”

  “It’s true,” Pavel said, his hands and jerkin still smeared and speckled with the blood of the men he’d tended. “I imagine that over the past few months, you’ve at least heard about flights of dragons ravaging the land, even if you’ve been lucky enough to escape their attentions yourselves. A circle of metallic drakes and wise wizards has formed to cure the wyrms of their madness, but to do so, they must first recover certain secrets.”

  Mibor frowned. “Secrets known to Nars?”

  “It’s possible,” Kara said, “you can at least point us in the right direction.” She accepted the pipe, inhaled, held the smoke in her lungs for a moment, then puffed it out in a perfect blue ring. “Do the Nars have tales of a time when elves—folk like my friend here, but most likely without wings—dwelled hereabouts?”

  Mibor shot an inquiring look at Shabatai, the small wizard, presumably a custodian of tribal lore as well as the Far Quey’s spellcaster. Shabatai hesitated, and Dorn sensed that, like many a civilized arcane practitioner, the Nar disliked admitting to ignorance on any subject whatsoever. But at length he smiled wryly and said, “No. Once, powerful mages ruled this country. Our memory goes back that far. But they were humans, not elves.”

  “Do you have any mysterious ruins?” asked Will. “Preferably haunted, accursed, or riddled with mantraps. So far, that’s been the pattern.”

  “The cities of the wizard-kings lie buried in the earth,” Shabatai replied. “Once in a great while, someone finds a way down to one or another of them. But I know of none, and even if I did, the old lords were human, as I said.”

  “Still, they may have known the Tel-quessir,” said Kara, “and left records in one form or another.”

  “Indeed,” Taegan said, “but if our friends can’t point us to one particular site, someplace associated with elves, dragons, or famed as a repository of ancient lore, I’m not sure how to proceed. It’s late in the game to dig up Narfell at random.”

  “What about the Hermit?” asked a young Nar woman, her swarthy, sinewy forearms tattooed with lines of high-stepping horses rendered in white ink.

  Shabatai snorted. “It’s not an old town or fort, and has nothing to do with wyrms or elves. On top of that, if it truly exists at all, it’s certain death to seek it out. Why, then, would we speak of it now?”

  “Because,” the female warrior replied, “if the stories my grandmother told me are true, it knows the answer to every question.”

  Will grinned. “It sounds like just our kind of trouble.”

  The ogre smashed Dorn’s human leg out from under him, and he slammed down on the ground. Around the arena, the spectators who’d bet on the giant-kin cheered, while those who’d wagered on the half-golem boy clamored in dismay. Dorn tried to scramble back up, but his thigh was broken, with jagged bone sticking through the skin, and a burst of pain paralyzed him. Smirking, its long, bestial face studded with moles, the ogre raised its greatclub and swung at its opponent’s torso. Dorn tried to roll and catch the blow on his armored half, but the weapon pulped flesh and shattered ribs. The huge creature hit him again. Again. Again—

  Dorn’s eyes sprang open. The pummeling, however, continued, though it was far less painful than it had been in the dream. He turned his head.

  Kara had taken to sleeping nestled against his human side. At the moment, she writhed and flailed, trapped in a nightmare of her own. He shook her gently, she started to rouse, and he spotted Brimstone, his ember eyes glowing, looming over them. Dorn cast off his blankets, jumped up, and interposed himself between Kara and the vampire, iron half forward, vulnerable flesh angled back.

  Brimstone sneered, revealing the long fangs at the front of his jaws and giving Dorn a whiff of his smoky breath. “Easy,” he whispered. “If I meant you or Karasendrieth ill, you’d already be dead.”

  “Your presence poisons her sleep,” Dorn growled, keeping his own voice low. “And anyway, you shouldn’t be in camp. If the Nars see you talking to the rest of us, it could turn them hostile again.” It was amazing that one of the sentries hadn’t already noticed the huge reptile crouching in their midst.

  “It’s the Rage tainting her dreams,” Brimstone said, “and my magic will keep each and every barbarian, the guards included, slumbering till dawn. Now help me rouse the others. We should talk.” He turned, his tail swishing through the grass, and stalked away. He took care to step over the men sleeping around the dying campfires, and if he presently thirsted for their blood, nothing in his manner betrayed it.

  Swallowing a spasm of loathing, Dorn lifted Kara to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, “it was just a dream.” But she avoided his eyes, and in so doing, proved Brimstone correct, for in Dorn’s experience, only the Rage had ever made her feel ashamed.

  “Don’t be upset,” he said, feeling awkward as usual when trying to give reassurance. “You’re still sane.”

  “For now.”

  “For always. You know I’ll look after you. Now come on. Pavel was sleeping over this way.”

  They found the priest snoring in the tattooed arms of the female warrior. By the time he pulled on his clothing, Brimstone had gathered the others by the wagon.

  “So,” hissed the smoke drake, “the Nars proved informative.”

  “We’re not sure,” said Will. His mouth gaped wide in a yawn. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

  Brimstone didn’t deign to answer the question directly. “I couldn’t hear everything they said.”

  “Then you missed a diverting tale,” said Taegan, running a comb though his black, silky hair. The bladesinger’s comrades generally kept a certain distance from Brimstone, but as usual, Taegan lounged within easy reach of the drake’s fangs and claws. “In the foothills of the mountains to the west, the hobgoblins breed like maggots in the belly of a dead cow. But there’s one patch of land where they never venture. Thereon dwells a mysterious entity so sagacious as to approach omniscience. Alas, it’s also thoroughly malevolent and reclusive—hence the appellation ‘the Hermit’—traits that disincline it to share its wisdom with others.

  “In times past, people in desperate need of answers used to seek it out,” the avariel continued. “They carried treasures with them in hopes of striking a bargain. But only one ever returned, and as a warning to others, the Hermit sent him back with an affliction, an ungovernable craving for the blood of his kin. He wound up killing his entire tribe.”

  Will grinned at Brimstone. “Sounds like someone we know.”

  The vampire’s eyes flared brighter. “I’ve killed the equivalent of many tribes.”

  “I have every confidence,” said Taegan. “But have you heard of the Hermit? None of us has, not even Kara.”

  “No,” Brimstone said. “But like the rest of you, I’ve never visited Narfell before.”

  “Many people across Faerûn,” Pavel said, “have legends of all-knowing
oracles, but it’s questionable that any such seers exist. Even individual gods don’t know everything, though perhaps they do in the aggregate.”

  Perched on the seat of the wagon, tail flicking, Jivex made a spitting sound. “We don’t need the Hermit to know ‘everything,’ just how to wash the dirt out of my head.”

  “Fair enough,” Pavel said, “but the details of the Nars’ legend make me doubt the Hermit truly exists at all. Which is to say, it’s possible some dangerous creature dwells in the hills, but it may not be a learned sage. Because, if it kills everyone who enters its territory, how would anybody ever find that out and pass the report along?” He frowned. “Though it’s possible that over time, some of the tale has been forgotten, and the missing piece explains what seems nonsensical.”

  Will snorted. “Thank you, bookish idiot, that’s very helpful. Say no with one breath, yes with the next.”

  Pavel sneered. “It’s better to be able to think two contradictory thoughts than none at all.”

  “So,” said Raryn, tufts of his silvery mane sticking out every which way, “it comes down to this. Maybe the Hermit is real, maybe it isn’t. The only way to know is go look.”

  “If we think the trip worthwhile,” Kara said, “and I do. I suspect we’ve learned all we can on these steppes.”

  “And ‘all,’” said Will, “wasn’t much. But we could swing south. Head toward the Great Dale.”

  Taegan grinned. “At least it would be warmer. We could enjoy another taste of genuine summer before the season passes away. But the one thing we know about the ancient elves’ citadel is that it stands somewhere in the far north. We’re more likely to find clues to its whereabouts if we poke around in the same vicinity.”

  “I agree,” said Dorn.

  “Sounds like we’re all of the same mind,” said Will. “Go hunt the Hermit, and if it turns out we’re dropping our bucket in a dry well, we’ll just have to hope Azhaq, Llimark, or one of our other partners finds the lost castle, or whatever the place turns out to be.” He glanced toward the eastern sky, where black was beginning to lighten to gray. “No point trying to go back to sleep now. Want to start breakfast?”