The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III Page 22

  On the arena floor, the skinniest and least decayed of the five corpses sat up suddenly and Natrac realized with shock that he wasn’t looking at a body, but a living man on the very verge of death. Everyone else in the arena—even Dah’mir—seemed stunned. The emaciated man opened his mouth and another rasping cry emerged. “Dah’mir will succeed in Sharn!”

  His arm snapped up and pointed at Dandra. Silver-white light flared and seemed to coalesce around her in a swirling vortex. The air shivered and twisted. Dandra screamed as her body shivered and twisted along with it, then the vortex cracked and vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

  But not before there was a second crack, and Dandra was flung out of thin air halfway across the arena to stagger into Ashi’s path. The emaciated man collapsed again like rag doll with its stuffing pulled out. Dandra’s scream seemed to pierce Dah’mir’s power over Singe. The wizard shook his head and whirled around to stare at her. “Dandra!” he cried, and leaped for her. The box he had held tumbled to the ground. There was a yelp of distress from Vennet—but not from Dah’mir. The heron took to the air with beating wings and flew straight for the open gate, form swelling in mid-air.

  Feathers became scales. Hind legs grew and forelegs emerged. A beak became a muzzle filled with sharp teeth. A soft crest became a horny frill. Dah’mir had taken to the air as a heron, but he landed as a dragon. He slammed his mighty body against the open gate, and the stonework collapsed with a dull rumble, cutting off escape from the arena.

  Or at least that means of escape. Natrac clenched his jaw, threw himself at the stairs to the tunnels, and prayed that he still knew his arena as well as he thought he did.

  “If I let you go, you’ll just destroy them anyway.”

  Dandra glared at him and clenched her teeth, the chorus of whitefire throbbing in the air. Dah’mir was right. She’d rather have turned her power against the binding stones instead of using them as bargaining chips. If they could get away from Dah’mir, maybe she would—but they had to get away first. How stupid had she been to assume the arena was deserted! They should have left while they had a chance.

  She thrust back her fear and lifted her chin. “Maybe you should have stayed closer to them, then,” she said. They still had a chance, thanks to Singe’s quick thinking. There was an open gate nearby. She didn’t dare turn around to check Ashi’s escape from Vennet, but her crashing progress through the benches was getting closer. They wouldn’t get far with Singe still enthralled by Dah’mir’s command. She nodded at the wizard. “Release him.”

  The heron’s eyes narrowed as if Dah’mir were weighing his options. Dandra drew breath through her teeth. She couldn’t allow him time to think. She met Dah’mir’s eyes boldly as a thought sent the white flame burning in her palm blazing high.

  “No!” rasped a new voice.

  She turned as the kalashtar who wore the final version of Dah’mir’s vile bracers, sat up, flies swarming around him. Dandra’s heart leaped into her throat, and a horrid thought forced its way into her mind: the kalashtar’s spirit had found strength in madness. Just as Medala had, he had fought his way back to control of his body, murdering the piece of himself that had been his psicrystal in the process. Dah’mir had succeeded in creating another servant for the Master of Silence.

  Then the kalashtar spoke again, and she knew she was wrong. Dah’mir hadn’t created another servant. Someone else had taken residence in the kalashtar’s mindless body. More flies burst from the man’s mouth as he cried out, “Dah’mir will succeed in Sharn!”

  She knew the words. She knew the madness. It was Virikhad.

  Even as she thought the name, though, the man’s arm came up and pointed at her. Silver-white light flared bright in her vision. It felt as though she were being torn apart, her body being squeezed through the fabric of space like mortar between bricks. It was as if she were taking the long step, but against her will. She screamed, and her scream seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, squeezed out as well, until both she and it had been pressed so thin that not even the fabric of space could hold them. The silver-white light vanished, and she staggered free of Virikhad’s power halfway across the arena from where she had been standing.

  Strong hands grabbed her, and Ashi’s voice said, “I have you!” From somewhere else, Singe called her name. She looked up, saw first the kalashtar that Virikhad had seized, sprawled motionless once more, then Singe, charging across the arena floor.

  And then the gray metal box that held the binding stones, lying abandoned on the sand.

  “No,” she choked, fighting to put strength in her voice. “No! The stones!”

  The warning came too late. Dah’mir was already in the air, his thin black heron form growing larger as he moved. At the same moment that Singe threw himself across the sand to embrace her, the dragon landed and threw himself against the open gate.

  The impact of his body smashed the stonework. The gate collapsed, taking the last of the optimism Dandra had felt only moments before down with it. Dah’mir turned to stare at them. At her.

  A thin squeaking whine filled the silence that followed the rumble of falling stones. Up in the private box, the big hobgoblin who had fought Ashi stood stiff and pale, his eyes fixed on Dah’mir, his toothy mouth hanging open in stunned panic at the sight of the dragon. Vennet turned around and slapped him. “Be quiet, Biish!”

  Ashi put herself and the bright sword of her ancestor between Dandra and Dah’mir. Singe’s arm slipped from Dandra’s waist, and his hand clasped hers as he turned to face Dah’mir as well. The burning acid-green orbs of the dragon’s eyes were fixed entirely on Dandra, however. His muzzle peeled back from his massive teeth and he spoke.

  “How did you do it?”

  The question was so utterly unexpected that she could only look back at Dah’mir in stunned silence. Nor did Singe or Ashi have any answer. The wizard’s grip on her hand tightened. The hunter just eased back at little closer to her. But Dah’mir appeared to take their shock for defiance. His voice rose in a roar so loud that the arena shook and the dust rising from the collapsed gate shivered as if the air had been slapped. “How did you do it? How did you rouse my master’s servant?”

  He took a step to the side, then whirled and paced the other way, the great blue-black Khyber shard set in his chest and the smaller red Eberron shards set along his forelegs flashing as he moved. His body turned and flowed like a cat’s, but his eyes never left Dandra’s. “It isn’t possible!” he screamed. “It shouldn’t be possible. Not now. Not here. How did you do it?”

  He meant the kalashtar Virikhad had seized control of, Dandra realized. He’d assumed the same thing she had at first—that the interaction of the binding stone and the psicrystal had done its work, that a new servant for the Master of Silence had been born.

  And he still believed it. Singe’s guess had been right. Dah’mir knew nothing of Virikhad’s survival. But why should he be surprised at the apparent success of his device?

  Whatever the reason, at least he hadn’t pounced on them. They were still alive—for now. Dandra pulled her hand out of Singe’s grasp and stepped forward, pushing in front of Ashi to face Dah’mir. “Let Singe and Ashi go and I’ll tell you.”

  Singe started to protest. Dandra thrust a hand at him, gesturing him to silence. Dah’mir stopped pacing. “You,” he said, “are persistent.”

  He drew the word out into a hiss, then bit it off savagely. He stepped toward her and the others. “You continue to bargain when you have nothing to bargain with. Do you think that because you’ve found a way to resist me, you’re now my equal?” His leathery wings rattled against his sides. “I have many questions, Dandra. And you—or Singe or Ashi—will answer them. Unconditionally.”

  The talons of his forelegs tensed and dug through the sand with a slow, coarse grinding. Dandra glanced down—and Dah’mir lunged, his teeth clashing together. He was still several paces away from her, but Dandra flinched back in spite of herself. Behind her, a gasp o
f shock escaped Ashi. Dah’mir lifted his head and looked down on them with a mocking smile. A wave of anger burst in Dandra’s belly.

  “The kalashtar elders know about you!” she shouted at the dragon. “They know what you plan to do.”

  “Lies!” came a scream from above. Vennet looked like he was ready to throw himself over the edge of the private box. “Master, we just came from Overlook! The kalashtar expect nothing.”

  “Silence, Vennet!” Dah’mir roared without looking around at him. “Get down here and take charge of the box! Check the bracers.” His eyes flashed as he looked back to Dandra, Singe, and Ashi. “Persistence will only carry you so far. Any damage you’ve done—”

  His threat broke off as a new sound, a sudden rattle of chains, filled the air. Dah’mir’s gaze went past Dandra. She turned, as well.

  A short distance away, closer to Dandra and the others than to Dah’mir, the floor of the arena seemed to collapse. The sand that covered it went sliding, some of it puffing up in a cloud of reeking dust. A head poked up through the hole.

  Natrac’s head. “Here!” the half-orc yelled. “Run!”

  The screech that erupted from Dah’mir made his previous roar sound like a song, but Dandra hardly heard it. Never mind how Natrac had come to be under the arena floor—if they ran, Dah’mir would be on them before they could reach safety.

  But with a distraction, the others might make it. She grabbed Ashi and shoved her toward Natrac. “Go!” she ordered, then pushed off from the ground and, with a thought, sent herself skimming across the sand with all the focused power of her will.

  Right past Dah’mir. Right toward the gray metal box lying on the arena floor.

  She caught a glimpse of Dah’mir’s startled expression as she darted by him, saw his head twitch from his fleeing captives to her, heard his screech change to a snarl as he realized exactly what she was racing for. Sand slithered and a huge shadow flashed over head like a bolt of darkness. Dah’mir’s lithe form struck the ground with such force that the entire arena floor shook. His feet dug into the sand, scattering work table and corpses, and he twisted around to stand protectively over the precious box, forelegs spread wide, head low, teeth bared, all of his furious attention on her.

  Her heart racing, Dandra met his blazing eyes—and pushed with her mind at the space around her, thrusting herself through it, taking the long step. In less than instant, she was twenty paces away from the dragon and dropping down through the hole in the arena floor.

  Which was, she realized, a ramp down into a passage running beneath the arena. A hand—Singe’s—grabbed her and pulled her away into darkness. Natrac’s voice hissed beneath Dah’mir’s frustrated roar from above. “This way!”

  The dim light of the arena didn’t penetrate far from the ramp and Dandra felt rather than saw stone walls rush past her as she was pulled along. A thunderous crash and a shaking of the walls marked Dah’mir’s pounce at the ramp. Wood cracked. New light pierced the gloom as he tore the hole wider.

  Ahead of her, Singe stopped so suddenly she ran into him, and Natrac spoke again. “Ashi, help me!” Metal grated against stone just as the faint light from behind them dimmed sharply. Another roar echoed, deafening within the tunnels. Dandra twisted around and saw acid-green eyes smolder in the shadows. Dah’mir had thrust his head down the ramp. White teeth flashed as he opened his mouth and drew a deep breath.

  The green of his eyes wasn’t the only thing acidic about the dragon. Dandra had seen the effects of his corrosive venom on the battlefield before the Bonetree mound. Trapped in the passage, they were easy targets. “Natrac!” she shouted.

  “Down!” said the half-orc, and it felt as if they all moved at once, tumbling through an unseen hole into an even deeper darkness that reeked of filth.

  There was no rain of venom, but Dah’mir’s final roar of fury followed them.

  Events on the floor of the arena unfolded too quickly for Vennet to react. The sudden opening of the ramp beneath the sands, Singe and Ashi’s flight, Dandra’s break for the box containing the precious bracers, Dah’mir’s leap to intercept her—and Dandra’s reappearance beside the ramp in the blink of an eye. All he could do was thrust himself against the rail of the box and scream down, “No! No! Storm at dawn, no!”

  Dah’mir’s second leap—to the gaping hole of the ramp—sent such a shudder through the structure of the arena that Vennet felt it in the rail beneath his hands. His roars and the splintering of the arena floor as he ripped at it brought the voices of the wind whipping around Vennet’s ears.

  They must not escape! If they escape, your reward goes with them. They mock you, Vennet! They mock you!

  “They won’t escape!” He pounded his hands against the rail. “Kill them, Dah’mir! Kill them!”

  But the dragon extracted his head and neck from the hole in the floor with a slow dignity. His muzzle was wrinkled. “They’re in the sewers,” he said.

  “Let me go after them!”

  “There is no point. There are too many places for them to go or to hide.”

  “Then let me send the wind!” Vennet’s chest felt hollow with desperation. “The wind will find them wherever they go. By the powers of Khyber, I’ll turn the very stink of the sewers against them!”

  “Be silent!” Dah’mir’s voice was like a crack of thunder. Even the voices of the air fell silent. Vennet’s arms fell to his side. Dandra, Singe, and Ashi might have escaped, but at least they hadn’t captured the box. And, he reminded himself, there was still the unconscious kalashtar lying on the terrace outside the arena. He had a partial prize to present Dah’mir at least.

  But the dragon didn’t seem as angry as Vennet might have expected. Dah’mir settled back on his haunches, his great eyes thoughtful. “That was Natrac that aided them.”

  New rage seethed in Vennet. “Natrac!”

  And behind him, Biish’s ears flicked, and he spoke coherent words for the first time since Dah’mir had revealed his majestic true form. “Natrac?” he asked. His lips twitched. “But that’s not possible.”

  Vennet turned on him. “You know Natrac? How?”

  The hobgoblin glanced at Dah’mir. “Mazo,” he said finally. “He … he used to own this arena, until I ran him out of Sharn and took over his gang. I found out he was back in Sharn last night. I tracked him down and took him prisoner. He should still be in his cell at my headquarters.”

  A rumble rolled out of Dah’mir’s throat. “Obviously, he escaped.” His huge eyes narrowed. “How did he know to come here?”

  Biish shook his head, his ears lying back flat against his head, and Vennet realized just how pathetic and frightened he looked. “Maybe Natrac overheard something,” the half-elf suggested.

  Biish’s eyes snapped to him. “Impossible!”

  “Yet he was here. And if he knew to come here, perhaps he overheard something more. And if he knows more than he should, then Dandra and Singe will soon know it too.” Dah’mir rose and stretched, wings sweeping out. “Biish! Are your people ready to move?”

  The hobgoblin flinched back at the demand. “Mazo, lhesh!”

  “Then we strike before there can be any interference,” said Dah’mir. He bared his teeth. “We strike now.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  The door had apparently been carved into the wall of the sewer by some enterprising goblin. It was goblin height and goblin width and, once Ashi had forced it open with repeated kicks against the old wood, a tight squeeze for any of them to wriggle through. A heavy curtain, powdery with mold, dragged against Singe as he pushed himself through the doorway and into the cellar beyond. He cursed between his teeth and tore the rotten fabric away to allow the others an easier passage. The curtain and the cellar were both musty and foul, but they smelled like a temple compared to the wet stink of the sewers or the stench of the decaying bodies back in the arena.

  “Have a good sniff when a battle’s over,” Robrand d’Deneith had told him more than once, “and remember
that no matter how bad things smell, you’re still breathing.” Singe wrinkled his nose, brushed the thick dust from the curtain off his shirt, and raised one hand. The magical light that glowed from his ring—he’d cast the cantrip when the footing in the sewers had become too treacherous for them to depend solely on Natrac’s darkvision for guidance—shone on a room long abandoned to dampness and filth. The outline of a trapdoor showed among the low beams of the ceiling. There was no ladder, but it didn’t look like it would be difficult to haul themselves up through the trapdoor.

  As Natrac squirmed through the small doorway, Singe bent down and helped the half-orc to his feet. “I wouldn’t have expected the blustering merchant I met in Yrlag to turn out to be a notorious ganglord from Sharn.”

  “Former ganglord,” Natrac grunted. “That ended when Biish decided he wanted to start building the Longtooth into something to be reckoned with, Keeper take the bastard. This route through the sewers saved my life once before. We’re well across Malleon’s Gate now.” He looked around. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this room too. Kuv, I feel stupid for letting Biish get his hands on me. I should have told you about my past before this. I was putting all of us at risk.”

  “What if you had told us everything?” Singe asked him. “We wouldn’t have let you come down to Malleon’s Gate alone. If Biish hadn’t gotten his hands on you, you wouldn’t have found out what he and Vennet were up to.”

  “And,” added Dandra grimly as she drew herself through the door, “you would have been with us when Virikhad tried to lure us into Dah’mir’s claws. We would all be trapped.” She stood up, pressed her hands together, and bent her head over them in a gesture of thanks. “Bless your secrets, Natrac. Virikhad had the rest of us off balance trying to understand the killing song.”