The Temple of Yellow Skulls Page 22

  Anger flared in Albanon. Maybe he could give Shara the opening she needed to break away—and give Raid some payback at the same time. He flung out his hand, speaking the words of a spell.

  Raid saw him. His red eyes narrowed.

  Albanon’s horse shuddered under him, then suddenly reared up and lashed at the air with its hooves. The bright bolt of Albanon’s spell flashed into the darkening sky like a silvery star. His heart racing, the eladrin cursed and hauled at the reins with both hands as he struggled to keep his seat in the saddle.

  The horse slammed back down on to all four with enough force to rattle his teeth. That wasn’t the end of it, though. The beast kicked up with its back legs, bucking as if it had never been broken. Uldane, clinging to Albanon’s robes, almost flew free. Shara was struggling with her horse, too. Her face was white as she hung on with one hand, sword gripped tight in the other and waving wildly. Raid threw back his head and Albanon would almost have said that he laughed except that is sounded more like a roar of triumph.

  It was cut short by a shout from behind Albanon. “By the Book of Insight, let the light of the gods rise against this abomination!”

  As his horse thrashed back, Albanon caught a glimpse of Kri. The old cleric held his holy symbol in one hand and a harsh, unforgiving light played across his face. Even the cleric’s horse seemed to stand tall, tossing its mane and stomping one of its hoofs.

  Where that hoof struck the ground, brilliant light glimmered—glimmered and spread, racing through the dirt and branching out like earthbound lightning that refused to fade. The web of light surrounded Albanon, and the wizard felt a sense of protection wrap around him. An instant later it flashed around Shara. And Raid.

  The demon shouted and jumped away as if he’d been plunged into boiling water.

  Almost instantly, Albanon’s horse calmed under him. It still fought the reins, its eyes rolling madly, but it was no longer actively trying to throw him off. Shara’s horse calmed as well and she wheeled it around to face Raid. He came to his feet, axes up and ready to meet her.

  “Shara, no,” Kri said sharply. Raid hissed and jumped again, forced back as the blazing web of light slid ahead of Shara. Albanon looked over his shoulder to see Kri pressing his holy symbol gently forward, moving the web. The cleric’s wrinkled face was creased in concentration. “Come back to me, both of you,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  Albanon needed no further encouragement. Out in the camp, the four-armed monstrosities seemed to have figured out that they were needed and started forward, dragging their captives after them. The big crocodile snarled and moved in, too. There was a redness in its eyes that reminded Albanon uncomfortably of Raid—and if the demon had driven their horses wild, what could he do to the crocodile? The eladrin forced his horse to turn and canter back to Kri.

  In his arms, Uldane stirred. “Shara, listen to him!”

  Albanon heard her curse, then other hoofbeats joined his. Behind him, Raid hissed—a horrible, inhuman noise—then hissed again. Albanon glanced back and saw that he was trying to pace around the glowing web. Guided by Kri, the light just followed him. Raid stopped and glared at them. “Go,” he snarled. “Run. You can’t hold this spell forever. I’ll get around it. I will hunt you down.”

  Kri’s face tightened. He jerked his head as Albanon and Shara passed him on either side, urging them both to the broken bushes and the trail beyond. Albanon rode for the gap, his horse becoming easier to handle the further he got from Raid, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the demon. He twisted in his saddle to watch him. Raid and Kri glared at each other, the cleric still as a holy icon, the monster twitching and flinching. His misshapen face changed slowly from snarl to grin. His gnarled hands shifted on the handles of his axes. He sank back in a crouch, ready to spring.

  The web of light flickered and vanished. Raid leaped.

  And Kri thrust his holy symbol high, a prayer rolling from his lips. “All-Knowing Mistress, bar his way!”

  Light flared again, condensing out of the air in a storm of whirling, shining shards. Caught in the middle of them, Raid screamed in rage and pain. He stumbled back with blood running from a hundred cuts as the shards of light spread out into a long wall. Kri’s face tightened again and Albanon heard him whisper, “Aid me now, Mistress.”

  The holy symbol seemed to shimmer in answer to his plea. The wall reacted, the shards of light whirling faster and shining bright as the flame of a lamp freshly filled with oil. Kri turned his horse instantly. “Ride!” he shouted. “Ride and don’t stop!”

  A chill rose through Albanon. He twisted around in his saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. Shara led the way through the bushes, but Albanon was close behind her and Kri close behind him. The trail spread out before them, dark with the night’s gathering shadows, but none of them slowed down. Albanon tightened his arms around Uldane, bent low, and rode as fast as he ever had.

  Raid’s voice rose behind them, cracking and breaking with frenzied rage. “You can’t escape me. I’ll come for you—by the Voidharrow, I will come for you! I will not be denied!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When the first of the hulking, four-armed monsters had appeared at the Temple of Yellow Skulls, Tiktag had panicked and taken cover behind Vestapalk’s sleeping form, screeching for his master’s protection. The dragon, curled around the sack of golden skulls, had roused himself and inspected the creatures that stood before him, then given a satisfied nod.

  “They will be worthy servants,” he’d said in his strange double voice—then lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  Tiktag had been left stunned. “M-master?”

  An eye had opened again to fix on the monsters. “Do not harm Vestapalk’s wyrmpriest,” he added before falling back to sleep.

  That command seemed to be somehow relayed to each new brute that arrived at the temple, though Tiktag never heard the armored creatures utter anything other than inarticulate hisses, grunts, and roars. They ignored Tiktag while Vestapalk slept, recovering his strength after Raid’s transformation and twitching as if suffering strange and violent dreams. The kobold was certain he could have run up to one and unleashed his poisonous magic on it without consequence.

  At least he might have been able to at first. When he’d crept out from behind Vestapalk, he found the first few brutes in his master’s army as unresponsive as golems. Over time, though, a strange thing happened: The creatures seemed to come to life. The longer they were around the temple, the more aggressive they became with each other. A feral alertness appeared in their eyes. They fought, sometimes just snapping, sometimes with heavy fists and tearing claws. They bullied each other and especially the slow-witted new brutes that appeared out of the wilderness, sometimes only half-transformed and still suffering from the illness of the Voidharrow. After half a day or so, though, the new brutes would acquire the same savage gleam in their eye and start pushing back.

  Tiktag started to catch them looking at him as he might look at a skinny, slow-moving rat: good for nothing but torment. If not for Vestapalk’s command, he knew, he would be that rat.

  What had happened to the days when he had stood beside his master and read auguries for him? What had happened to Tiktag, wyrmpriest to the mighty Vestapalk? What had happened to Vestapalk?

  “Wrong,” Tiktag muttered to himself. “Wrong, wrong, very wrong.”

  He crouched in a niche far back in the ruins, almost at the dark archway that led to the underground passages. Four days after Raid’s transformation and departure, more than a dozen hulking soldiers roamed the Temple of Yellow Skulls. The niche was Tiktag’s refuge, his hidey-hole. The four-armed monsters seldom came so far back in the ruins. They seemed to prefer haunting the edges of the ancient temple or lingering close to Vestapalk—the most aggressive ones, especially. Tiktag couldn’t help wondering if they stayed close to the dragon because they were aggressive or if they were aggressive because they stayed close to the dragon. Even asleep, Vestapalk’s
very presence seemed to have an influence over the creatures. The weird crystal plates across their shoulders seemed brighter when they were around him, and the more of them that were around Vestapalk, the more brightly the red crystal liquid that oozed between his scales glimmered.

  If this was the transformation that the Eye had promised Vestapalk, Tiktag wasn’t sure he liked it. He scratched his claws along his tail nervously. “Oh, master,” he murmured. “What have we done to you?”

  Then he saw the drow.

  If he hadn’t been looking right at the archway to the lower ruins, he might not have seen the dark elf. She stood in the gloom just within the arch, hardly moving, her white eyes scanning the outer ruins. Tiktag froze. He’d never seen a drow before, but clutch-guardians told stories of them. Killers. Slavers. Torturers. Tiktag might have been worried about what was happening to Vestapalk, but he had no desire to be either tortured, enslaved, or killed. He just prayed—silently—that his niche was deep enough to hide him from the drow’s eyes.

  Apparently it was. After long moments of inspecting her surroundings, the drow slipped out of the archway. She moved like a shadow. Tiktag watched her glide silently from cover to cover until she disappeared in the direction of the courtyard where Vestapalk slept. Indecision ripped at Tiktag. What if she was an assassin? What if she meant to kill Vestapalk in his sleep? Should he try to warn his master?

  In the stories, drow were never alone. The kobold’s gaze went back to the dark archway. Were those figures in the shadows beyond it?

  Vestapalk had the brutes to defend him, he decided. His master was protected. Tiktag could serve him best by staying right where he was and watching for signs of more drow venturing through the arch. The first drow might have been only an advance scout, the herald of an attack from the depths.

  But nothing else moved, and in only a short time the lone drow returned, hastening through the ruins as if eager to get back to her own hidey-hole. Her black skin had paled to more of an ash-gray and her mouth was set in a hard line. Tiktag counted forty heartbeats after she disappeared into the archway, then he crept out of his niche. There was no further movement from within the arch.

  He ran hard for the courtyard. There were no signs of combat or trouble. No brute monsters lay dead or wounded. Vestapalk was still curled up asleep. Tiktag darted around two of the most glowering solders and slid to a stop beside the dragon. He had to fight to keep his voice from breaking. “Master! Master, wake up. There are drow in the temple.”

  Vestapalk raised his head and opened his eyes. Tiktag flinched back.

  Where the dragon’s eyes had been rimmed with red before, now they were entirely crimson. The same liquid crystal that shimmered between Vestapalk’s scales filled his eye sockets. Tiktag was certain that he saw it shift and resettle itself when Vestapalk blinked, as if the eye was nothing more than a thin, transparent film over an entirely fluid interior. Tiktag’s legs trembled under him, then gave out altogether. He collapsed before his master. Vestapalk tilted his head to look at him sideways.

  “Wyrmpriest, you disturb Vestapalk’s rest.” His voice had changed, too. The weird ringing quality that had entered it with his transformation seemed even stronger. “What is it?”

  Tiktag managed to find his voice. “Drow, master,” he said, and choked out a description of what he had seen. The four-armed brutes gathered around as he spoke, but Tiktag wasn’t certain whether it was because of what he said or because Vestapalk was listening to him. They all stared at him, monsters and dragon, so many burning red eyes in so many large creatures.

  He’d never felt so small in all his life.

  When he finished telling his tale, Vestapalk blinked slowly. “Some city or colony must lie below us. They want to know who has arrived on their doorstep. They’re curious. And afraid.”

  The dragon rose to his feet. He had grown bigger while he slept, Tiktag was sure of it. Bigger—and somehow even more lean. The blisters that had swollen his limbs had burst, leaving behind menacing spurs of red crystal. He padded around the courtyard, Voidharrow oozing and dripping from his jaw. The brutes moved for the first time, stepping aside to let him pass. A couple shifted closer to Tiktag. Their looming presence was enough to force Tiktag off the ground. He trotted after Vestapalk, sticking close and trying to avoid the Voidharrow that spattered his trail.

  “What are you going to do about the drow, master?” he asked.

  “Do about them?” Vestapalk turned and paced back down the length of the courtyard. Tiktag had to run to keep up with him. “There is nothing that needs to be done. Let the drow lurk in the shadows. Let them fear Vestapalk. They should. There is nothing they can do to stop the age that comes.”

  A tremor ran down Tiktag’s back and into his tail. “Did the Eye tell you so, Master?”

  Vestapalk stopped immediately and swung his head around to look down at Tiktag. “The Eye?” he said, then turned his red gaze to the sky. For a moment, the ringing in his voice seemed even stronger than it had been. “The Eye … has served. There is little left that it can tell Vestapalk. Now it does what an eye should.”

  Tiktag felt his legs starting to give way beneath him again. He clung to his staff to hold himself up. “Which is?” he asked.

  “An eye watches. It is witness.” Vestapalk sat down on his hindquarters, tailed twined around his shrunken belly, and looked at Tiktag again. “Wyrmpriest. Tiktag. You have served, too. You have been loyal. Vestapalk called you a talon and said that a talon cannot be blessed. But a talon can be sharpened. You will serve me into the new age. Raise your face to your master, wyrmpriest.”

  The tremor in Tiktag’s tail wrapped around to his belly. His hands gripped his staff so tightly they hurt. Only a few days before, he would have done anything to be granted Vestapalk’s blessing. Then he had watched Raid’s transformation. He had seen the brutes Raid had infected at the dragon’s command. He didn’t want to be like them.

  It was easy to keep his face turned to the ground. It was harder to find the words that would appease Vestapalk. “Master,” he said, “I am not worthy. Do not expend your strength on me. I am your servant—I seek nothing greater.”

  “Tiktag.” Vestapalk’s voice was thick. The kobold could imagine the concentrated red liquid gathering on his master’s tongue. “Raise your head.”

  The words carried the magic of command. Tiktag squeezed his hands around his staff and tried to resist. “You are too generous, master!” he yelped. “You’re still weak. I won’t let you do this.”

  Around him, the four-armed brutes started to shuffle and growl, as if in reflection of Vestapalk’s displeasure at his reluctance. Tiktag squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the command that would finally force him to raise his head to Vestapalk’s blessing.

  It didn’t come, and after a moment, Tiktag realized the growling of the brutes wasn’t directed at him. He cracked an eye open and looked around. The creatures were all turning to look toward the outer ruins. Vestapalk had raised his face as well, his attention drawn to something new. Tiktag swallowed. If something else had captured Vestapalk’s attention, perhaps this was his chance to escape. He slid cautiously to one side.

  Vestapalk’s tail came curling around him. “Do not go, wyrmpriest,” Vestapalk said without looking at him. Tiktag froze as the watching ranks parted to permit the approach of more soldiers. Eight of them, several carrying two struggling lizardfolk, a slim green-scaled darter and a big blackscale. Striding at their head was Raid.

  He stopped before the dragon, not sparing even a glance for Tiktag. “Vestapalk!” he called. “I bring more warriors for your horde, and here”—he swept a long arm in front of his terrified captives—“the first of those individuals worthy of commanding your horde.”

  The dragon rose to his feet once more and moved forward without saying anything. The scales of his tail made a dry rasp as it unwound from around Tiktag. A little voice inside whispered urgently to the kobold, reminding him that while eyes were on Raid and the li
zardfolk, they wouldn’t not be on him. This was his chance to run.

  And when Vestapalk noticed he was missing? The brutes would probably be dispatched to hunt him down. Raid as well, and Tiktag knew the transformed human would use his claws on him. He would be infected with the Voidharrow as surely as through Vestapalk’s blessing.

  He stayed where he was and tried to keep himself from trembling as he watched Vestapalk inspect Raid’s lizardfolk prisoners. Raid guided his attention mostly to the big blackscale, praising the strength and prowess he had displayed in battle. However large and strong the lizardman might be, though, it seemed to Tiktag that he looked ready to faint with fear. Vestapalk examined him closely, pushing Raid out of the way to stroke the blackscale with one long talon.

  Then, quick as a whim, he hooked his claw into the lizardman’s belly and ripped.

  The blackscale’s scream as his guts burst out through his scaly hide was terrible. It ended in a bubbling wheeze as Vestapalk’s claw snapped his ribs and ruptured his lungs. The dragon jerked back and flicked away the scraps of flesh that clung to his talon. A murmur of interest passed through his hulking minions. Those holding the dying lizardman glanced at each other. One showed its teeth and growled, yanking the corpse close like a dog ready to fight for a bone. Raid stared, then swung around, wide mouth open to protest.

  Vestapalk snapped huge teeth in front his face before he could even speak. “Vestapalk told you to bring him exceptional individuals,” he snarled. “That one was big, but nothing more.” The dragon lowered his head to look into the eyes of the greenscale. Although clearly as frightened as the blackscale had been, the other lizardman stood his ground, facing Vestapalk as if ready to spit at him. “This one is exceptional. He could become one of Vestapalk’s exarchs.”

  He straightened his neck and glanced at the soldiers holding the greenscale. “Hold him for now,” he said, then he looked at the other soldiers. “Collect posts and pillars. Find strong vines and bring them here. There will be others.”