The Ruin, page 23
The faerie dragon crooned, "We're your friends, come to help you. You have to listen."
The dwarf's bright blue eyes blinked as if in momentary confusion, and Will realized Jivex had attempted to color his thoughts and feelings with magic. It was a risky tactic, for if the captain or any of his command comprehended what had happened, they'd surely respond violently.
But no one threw a spear or axe, and after another heartbeat, the officer said, "I… speak your piece then. Quickly."
"AN right," said Will. "As I told you, the Ice Queen's dead, I swear by the Hand of Fellowship, she is, and if my oath's not enough for you, consider this: Didn't she used to appear to you, glowing and taller than a mountain in the western sky? Has she done it lately?"
The captain frowned. The warriors murmured.
"No, she hasn't," Will persisted. "Because she can't. She's gone!"
A towering, azure-haired frost giant came striding up, sword in hand, a bloody strip of linen knotted about his brow, and an empty quiver flopping on his hip. He was slimmer and not as coarse-featured as the majority of his race, with an air of youthful energy that the hardships of the campaign had yet to smother. On the Great Glacier, giants and dwarves were bitter foes, but perhaps their enforced servitude in the same host had stifled the traditional animosity, for his manner was brisk and matter-of-fact.
"We're about to move," he rumbled, his voice deeper than most any human's and certainly any halfling's. Then he caught sight of Will and Jivex, and stared in amazement.
"They claim," said the dwarf with the plaited mustachios, hope and doubt mingled in his voice, "that the Ice Queen is dead."
"She is," said Will, "and what's more, all the white dragons and landwyrms and such are here. Every hissing, slithering one of them! Do you understand what that means? Nobody's ruling over the Great Glacier anymore. Nobody's holding the kin you left behind hostage to coerce your obedience. You aren't obliged to fight this pointless war. You can go home."
The giant studied him for a time, then sighed and shook his head. "I think I could almost believe you, small one. Maybe because it seems unlikely anyone would have the nerve to peddle such a bold lie. But what does it matter? Whatever's happening back on the ice, the dragons rule us here."
"To the Abyss with the dragons!" cried Will. "They can't stand against all of you and all the Sossrim, too. We'll kill them together, and afterwards, you can depart in peace. All we have to do is find a way to stall the next attack while we pass the word from one company to-"
A horn blared, and others answered. The invading army lurched into motion, feet crunching in the snow. A few warriors shouted battle cries. Most just trudged with taut, grim, weary faces, their reluctance manifest. But everyone marched. As the sun touched the western horizon, Zethrindor was hurling every iota of his strength at the folk on top of the ridge.
Will cursed. Thanks to Jivex, the dracolich's captive warriors had actually listened to him, actually seemed as if they might believe him. But he was out of time.
Jivex narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth in a grimace of concentration. A dozen high-pitched, slightly sibilant disembodied voices, each sounding like his own but considerably louder, cried out at various points above the ragged ranks of striding warriors: "The Ice Queen is dead!"
"The Ice Queen is dead!"
"The ice Queen is dead!"
Startled, bewildered, people stopped to peer around. The advance ground to a halt.
Unfortunately, the phantom voices also brought Zethrindor leaping up from the center of the host. Vast, leprous wings beating, the undead white soared above his warriors, many of whom crouched and cowered despite the months they'd had to grow accustomed to him. Plainly, he was seeking the source of the disturbance.
We could hide, Will thought. Or Jivex could cloak me in another illusion, and turn himself invisible. But he doubted such measures would serve, and in any case, his instincts told him that if he showed fear, his attempt to sway the folk of the glacier would come to nothing. He needed to stand his ground and brazen the situation out.
"Hey, stinky!" he yelled, waving his hand. "If you're looking for us, we're over here!"
Zethrindor wheeled. Luminous in the gray, failing light, his sunken, silvery eyes glared. Will took care not to look at them straight on, lest they paralyze him, but tried his best not to appear to flinch, also. To look brave and confident as the gigantic, festering horror, his pallid scales slimy with pockets of rot, plummeted down at him.
"Don't worry," Jivex said, "this puny thing's not even as big as the dracolich I killed in the Gray Forest."
Will surprised himself by laughing. Because he'd been holding his breath without realizing it, the sound came out in a stuttering, strangled sort of way. "Thank you for that piece of information. It's very reassuring."
Folk babbled in alarm and scurried out from under Zethrindor's swelling shadow. One dwarf wasn't quick enough, and the white's hind foot pulverized him as he slammed down on the ground. The jolt made Will stagger a step.
"I thought I spotted you and your friends," Zethrindor growled, "fighting among the Sossrim."
"Your ice drake said you want to talk to us," said Will. Maybe it was the only reason the dracolich hadn't slaughtered Jivex and him on sight. "Right before we killed it. Well, here we are, and we'll be happy to chat, but I have some business to finish first. I thought your troops would enjoy hearing tidings from home."
He looked around. Dwarves, barbarians, and giants had all gathered round in a circle to witness the confrontation. In essence, he had the attention of the entire army.
"Iyraclea truly is dead!" he called. "I swear it by the Blessed One. She can't threaten you or your kin anymore."
Zethrindor sneered. "Is this ploy the best that doddering old druid could conceive?"
Trembling slightly, as though susceptible to the cold for the first time in his life, the youthful giant stepped forth from the crowd. "My lord," he said, his voice breaking, albeit, octaves lower than if a smaller creature were speaking.
Zethrindor's withered head jerked around to glower at him. "What?"
The giant swallowed. "Is Iyraclea dead? You have yet to deny it outright, and we've all noticed she doesn't appear to us anymore. Nor do her Icy Claws come bringing us her orders."
"Because," Will said, "the gelugons were her familiar spirits, and now that she's dead, they've gone home to whichever hell she whistled them out of. Come on, Zethrindor, tell your faithful followers the truth! You know better than anyone that the Ice Queen's dead, because you killed her, when you absented yourself from your army some tendays back!"
Though Will found it difficult to conceive, it was possible that some of Iyraclea's vassals-the frost giants, perhaps, whose fundamental natures partook of ice and cold-had served her out of honest devotion rather than fear. If so, he hoped this particular revelation would rouse a thirst for vengeance.
Zethrindor laughed, a nasty sound like stones grinding together. "All right, halfling, have it your way. I admit it. I killed her, for the crime of imagining she could dictate to a superior being, and that's why this witless little plan of yours will come to nothing. These folk understand that if I could destroy the ice Queen, favored of Auril, the tyrant and supreme terror of the Great Glacier, then I can annihilate them just as easily. Any one of them, or all of them together. Their only hope of survival is to please me."
If you were all that mighty," Jivex piped, "you wouldn't hang back and let them do all the fighting."
"it’s proper," said Zethrindor, "for thralls to fight and die for their king, just as it's proper for those who insult him to suffer for their impertinence."
Swift as an arrow launched from a bow, he lunged.
CHAPTER TEN
17 Uktar, the Year of Rogue Dragons
Will had plainly hit on some sort of scheme, probably a risky one, and Pavel was disinclined to let him and Jivex attempt it by themselves. He started after them, but at that moment, cold, swirling, milky fog billowed into existence around him, a magical effect surely intended to blind him and everyone else in the immediate vicinity. Hunter's instinct, or perhaps the Morninglord himself, warned him what was coming next."Get down!" he shouted, and flung himself to the ground. Some of the warriors around him did the same. Others failed to heed him, or moved too slowly.
A different sort of vapor blasted through what had formed previously. Lying on his belly, Pavel was underneath it, but its mere proximity chilled him. Those who were still upright and so suffered its touch screamed and staggered in pain, or toppled, frozen, hearts stilled by the shock of unbearable cold.
The air was still misty, though the jet of dragon breath had somewhat dispersed the fog. Pavel rose, then pivoted, squinting, trying to pinpoint the attacker's location. By the time he spotted it, it was charging.
"There!" he screamed, pointing with his crossbow. "It's coming."
He loosed a bolt and managed to pierce its mask. Warriors loosed their arrows. He swapped out the arbalest for his mace, then the dragon crashed into their ranks.
It struck, and a spearman tumbled in pieces from its jaws. A lash of its tail hurled a soldier through the air, and the slap of a wing smashed another to the ground. Other Sossrim stabbed and hammered at its flanks, but the strokes failed to penetrate the alabaster scales.
Pavel conjured a whine of concentrated sound, and the magic punched a bloody rent in its snout. He edged forward, waiting for the drake to pivot away, for a chance to spring in and strike with his mace.
Dorn planted himself in front of the reptile, and it swiped at him with its claws. He tried to dodge, failed, and caught the blow on the iron side of his body. The clanging impact hurled him back and dumped him on the ground.
The white flexed its legs to pounce after him, and other adversaries, Pavel, Stival, and Natali among them, rushed in to cut, thrust, and pound at it. Pavel's mace failed even to scratch the pale, gleaming beauty of its hide, and though he scarcely dared look away from the drake to make a proper assessment, it was his impression that none of his comrades was faring any better.
But perhaps the dragon disliked being surrounded, having too many men assailing it all at once, for it snarled and whirled. The maneuver wasn't even a deliberate attack, but the reptile's size and speed, its stamping feet and sweeping tail, made it a hazard even so. It left another warrior sprawled bloody, smashed, and lifeless in the snow.
The white bounded away, distancing itself from the Sossrim, no doubt to resume attacking at range. Perhaps its breath weapon had renewed itself. To all appearances, the sword strokes, axe cuts, and spear thrusts it had just endured had scarcely even bloodied it.
But at least it was no longer ripping its way into the formation. Pavel could return to the matter of Will and Jivex. Or so he imagined until a fallen warrior, a gangly, half-grown adolescent boy with acne spotting his brow, moaned and gestured feebly from the ground. Rime, the residue of the white's breath, encrusted much of his body, and patches of his exposed skin displayed the dead-white pallor of frostbite.
Pavel couldn't ignore his plea for succor. He stooped down, murmured a prayer, grasped his amulet with one hand and laid the other on the stricken boy's chest. Lathander's warmth flowered inside him and streamed into his patient, thawing frozen tissue, mending damage, restoring ruined arteries and veins and thus enabling fresh blood to pump to points it hadn't reached before.
The lad smiled and closed his eyes. Pavel squeezed his shoulder, then jumped up to hurry on his way.
By that time, though, Stival had discerned his intent, and came striding up to accost him. "Where are you going?" the stocky captain asked. "We need you!"
"I'm following Will and Jivex," Pavel said. "They've got some sort of idea, and it might be our only hope. I thought I'd try to help."
Stival's brow creased as he thought it over. Then he turned, spotted one of the seasoned veterans under his command, and called, "Gant! You're in charge!" He looked back at Pavel. "Let's go."
They hurried deeper into the formation, away from the roars of attacking wyrms, the booming, hissing blasts of their breath, the drone of arrows in flight, the shouts and screams. Natali and Dorn fell in behind them.
At first Pavel feared Will and Jivex had too much of a lead, that he and his companions wouldn't be able to find them amid the scurrying confusion of the embattled Sossrim host. Then, however, he observed that while people were still fighting desperately in the rear, where the drakes were attacking, it was strangely quiet in front. There, people were no longer shooting arrows or jabbing with lances, just staring down the hill. He hurried up to the ramparts to find out what everyone was looking at.
"They were all coming up the rise," said a warrior with the loose skin of someone who'd been fat before the privations of campaigning put him on short rations. He'd taken advantage of the lull in the hostilities to dig out a hunk of venison jerky, and gnawing and drooling, spoke through a mouthful of the leathery stuff. "Every stinking one of them. Then there was a funny kind of yelling-I couldn't make out the words-and they just stopped."
Not all of them, Pavel observed. Zethrindor was flying above his minions, and even at such a distance, the sight made the priest's muscles clench in revulsion. Ignoring the feeling as best he could, he peered intently, trying to locate his missing friends, but it was Natali, with her glaring inhuman eyes, who pointed and said, "There."
Natali having indicated the proper direction, he made out a hovering, glittering mote that might well be Jivex, and a spot on the ground that could be Will, toward the front of the enemy army. Somehow they'd made their way down there without getting shot full of arrows in transit, or cut to pieces immediately on arrival.
But it seemed Lady Luck had stopped smiling, for Zethrindor furled his ragged, decaying wings and plummeted at them. Pavel cried out in the anguished certainty that the reptile was about to kill them. But the huge white didn't smash down on top of them, instead alighting a short distance away. Resembling a swarm of ivory-colored ants, his army started to form a circle. To listen as he, Will, and Jivex palavered?
Pavel wheeled to face Dorn, Stival, and Natali. "I don't know what's happening," he said, "but it can't last. Whatever that idiot halfling has to say, Zethrindor won't tolerate his insolence for long. We need to get down there immediately."
"We'll never make it in time," Dorn growled, "not running, even if they don't start shooting as we charge down the slope. We need magic to shift us there."
Pavel cast about, and failed to see a druid or warlock anywhere nearby. Naturally. The invaders had left off assaulting the front of the formation, and all such folk were in the rear, fighting dragons. He took a stride in that direction, and someone wheezed, "No. Gather round me."
He turned to find Madislak Pemsk leaning on a spear, and looking as though he'd topple should someone deprive him of the makeshift crutch. His skin was ashen, much of his ratty brown robe, dark and sodden with blood, and more of it bubbled on his lips.
"Master," Stival said, "you're badly hurt."
The old man closed his fierce gray eyes_ "Why," he rasped, "is everyone stupid but me? Didn't you hear Lathander's priest say we're out of time? Gather close! Even wounded, I think I can manage the five of us."
They grouped in around him. Arm shaking with strain, he swept a bronze sickle through a mystic figure and whispered words of power.
Magic burned through Pavel's body. The wind howled, picked him and his companions up, and swept them down the hill. Or perhaps they had themselves become the wind, for their bodies had altered into something as light and translucent as mist.
Dorn felt as if it was sheer yammering hatred as much as Madislak's magic that was sweeping him along. With Kara slain, the chance to fight her killer was the only thing left to desire in all the world, and after tendays of frustration, it had come to him at last.
But his fury yielded to a pang of dread as the wind carried them over the rings of spectators, and Zethrindor sprang at
Will and Jivex. Dorn was still flying yards above the ground, still a phantom made of vapor. His friends were about to die, and he couldn't do anything about it.
Then Madislak's will jerked the newcomers to earth so violently that Dorn felt his misty body stretch taller, like dough in a baker's hands, and retract back into shape. The sudden drop served to interpose the travelers between Zethrindor and his prey.
At the moment, they were still intangible. The dracolich could plunge right through them if he chose. But evidently the abrupt appearance of their ghostly forms made him wary, for, with an agility almost inconceivable in something so huge, so slimy, shriveled, and stinking with the ravages of death, he stopped short.
Dorn felt his form congeal into solidity. For an instant, his returning weight seemed too heavy to bear. Then his perceptions adjusted, and he was simply his normal self again.
He took a stride toward Zethrindor, looming like a whitewashed plague house in front of him, and Pavel grabbed him by his human arm. "Not yet!" the blond man snapped.
Dorn tried to pull free. Even on his right side, he was stronger than Pavel, but somehow his friend managed to hang on anyway.
"Damn it!" said the priest. "If I can bear to be this close without lashing out at the thing, so can you. Something's happening here. Don't muck it up!"
Dorn took a deep breath. "Get off me," he said. "I'm all right."
Pavel studied his face, then, somewhat gingerly, released his grip.
Meanwhile Zethrindor, his pale eyes gleaming, took stock of the new arrivals. "This," he said, "is an unexpected bounty. Everyone I ever sought in vain to capture, now standing at my feet." His head whipped around to peer directly at Madislak. "Though you, old man, don't look as if you'll be standing much longer. Humans are so fragile. One little poke with an arrow or knife, and you're done."
"Yes." Madislak coughed blood. "Here we are, and if you want a parley, you'll have to do it properly. Order the dragons up on the high ground to leave off attacking. Otherwise, I can whisk us all away from here as easily as I brought us."
