The Ruin Part 8

But when the three ice wizards started conjuring, the lich swept one hand through a mystic pa.s.s. A high, chiming sound split the air, loud enough that folk made of flesh winced or covered their ears. The transformed mages cracked and shattered into pieces.

On the Great Glacier, the warlocks Iyraclea captured, altered, and enslaved were even harder to come by than gelugons. Truly furious, she chanted in a voice like a shrieking blizzard, then thrust out her hand.

A blue-white beam streaked from her fingertips to strike the lich in the breastbone. It should have frozen him solid, but he simply shrugged, as if to convey that it hadn't discomfited him in the slightest.

She howled words of power, sketched glowing sigils with slashes of her hands. A bright, ragged rift opened in midair and spewed an immense, streaming wave of snow, an artificial avalanche to crush and bury the cloaked, cadaverous figure in its path. But he raised his hand and the onrushing ma.s.s divided, rumbling past to either side but leaving him untouched.

Iyraclea silently spoke to the castle. The barbican heaved itself up, tearing away from the rest of the fortress and reshaping itself into a colossal and vaguely humanoid form. Most of the folk who'd been standing in their mistress's vicinity hunkered down and hung on desperately. A few slipped off and fell screaming.

Iyraclea sent the giant lumbering at the lich. The fused, oversized fists at the ends of its long arms swung up and smashed down, jolting and breaking the surface of the glacier, and surely annihilating the spindly figure of old brittle bone and decay caught in between.

Finally she bade the giant stop the attack, so she could verify the results. But on first inspection, she couldn't see anyone lying amid the broken chunks of rime.

"I'm about to reveal myself," whispered a calm, oddly accented baritone voice. "When I do, have the construct pick me up."

Startled, Iyraclea cast about. No one had sidled up next to her, and it was plain from the oblivious att.i.tudes of her retainers that they didn't hear the voice.

"I didn't want to fight," the whisperer continued, "but the gelugons insisted-vicious brutes, aren't they?-I was obliged to defend myself, and the situation deteriorated from there. I realize that at this point, with your va.s.sals watching, the confrontation can't end unless you win it. Any other outcome might undermine your authority. So win it you will, but by capture, not slaughter, then we'll palaver. Agreed?"

She hesitated. His condescension rankled, but thus far, his confidence appeared justified, and as a practical matter, it might indeed be wise to bring this public spectacle to an expeditious conclusion. Besides, she was still curious about who he was and what he wanted.

Accordingly, she'd take him into the castle, which was likewise her temple, the sacred ground where she was strongest. Then, if she didn't care for what he had to say, she'd destroy him there.

"Show yourself," she whispered. She separated the giant's right fist into three fingers and a thumb.

The lich shimmered into view at the construct's feet. Iyraclea instructed the colossus to scoop him up.

"I yield," the dead man said. "I plead for mercy."

Iyraclea had him, and she felt tempted to tell the giant to squeeze and squash him in its grip. But she had the unpleasant feeling that might not incapacitate him, either, or else he likely wouldn't have risked such a betrayal.

"First we'll speak," she declared. "Once I take your measure, I'll deal with you as you deserve."

It took a little while to relieve the lich of his staff, conjure chains of ice to secure his wrists and ankles, turn the giant back into a barbican, and conduct the prisoner to the roof of the highest keep, where they could converse in private. The undead wizard endured it all patiently, but as soon as the guards withdrew, he gave his arms a little shake, and the frozen manacles shattered.

"This has all been more trouble than I antic.i.p.ated," he said, "but I trust that when we're done, we'll both feel it was worth it. I'm told folk call you 'the Ice Queen,' so I a.s.sume I should address you as Your Majesty."

"And who are you?" she asked, trying to remain impa.s.sive. Up close, his shriveled, crumbling features and faint stink of dry rot were disgusting, even disquieting. She might serve one of the so-called powers of darkness, might even create undead herself when it suited her purposes, but she still shared the common human loathing for the things.

"Sammaster," he said, "First-Speaker of the Cult of the Dragon."

She hesitated. "Sammaster's been dead a long time."

Much of the flesh had rotted from his face, and what remained had dried to something akin to strips of thin, crumbling leather. It was essentially impossible for such a countenance to show a change of expression, but nonetheless, she had the feeling his stained grin stretched wider.

"Well, obviously," said the lich. "But if you recognize my name and are familiar with my history, you know death has never prevented me from resuming my sacred task."

Iyraclea realized she believed him, for if legend spoke true, Sammaster had indeed fallen only to rise once more, and certainly, the stranger's wizardry was formidable enough to lend credence to his claim. For an instant, she wondered if she'd made an error by agreeing to confer with him in private, with no guards at hand, then scowled away her misgivings. Her own magic and the favor of Auril would protect her against any menace, even this one.

"What's your business in my realm?" she asked.

"That will take a bit of explaining. Before, I alluded to my work. Do you understand its purpose?"

"According to the stories, you and your cult seek to create dracoliches, which will then conquer Faerun and rule forever-more. A truly demented dream, which you've failed to realize time and again."

He glowered at her with his dry, sunken eyes. "I've seen the future, Majesty. It will take the shape I've predicted, and sooner rather than later. We stand on the very threshold."

"I understand why you think so," she said. "I have ways of gathering news from distant lands, and I know you and your followers have seized on the current Rage of Dragons as an opportunity. Hoping to produce dracoliches in unprecedented numbers, you're trying to convince chromatic wyrms to turn undead with the promise it will render them immune to frenzy. Some are heeding you, and you're laboring frantically to accomplish their transformations before they run amok and kill their own worshipers. Rest a.s.sured, the plan, like all your others, will come to nothing in the end. Somehow, the paladins, Harpers, gold dragons, and their ilk have learned of your efforts. One by one, they're finding and destroying your fellowship's hidden strongholds."

"Not all of them."

"Enough, I suspect, and in any case, the Rage must surely end soon. Then most of the chromatics will lose interest in becoming liches. I'm actually surprised they're interested now. In times past, they've embraced frenzy as a natural phase of their existence."

"Rest a.s.sured, Majesty, you don't truly comprehend the grand design transforming the world, nor am I free to enlighten you. But I am prepared to strike a bargain."

"What sort of bargain?"

"You've jeered at my defeats, but your own career has been less than completely successful. Oh, it started out auspiciously enough. A child in Halruaa-"

"How do you know that?"

"Like you, Majesty, I try to stay informed. A child in Halruaa discovers a love of the cold, even though, in those southerly climes, it virtually never is cold. She senses-and adores-the ent.i.ty who lives behind frigid downpours and chill winds." Sammaster's voice took on a bitter edge, as if he was recalling some comparable epiphany from his own life, but one that ultimately led to misery. "She runs away to the mountains to dwell at the highest elevations, but even they aren't cold enough. So, heeding Auril's call, she treks north, from one end of Faerun to the other. The journey takes considerably more than a lifetime, but the Frostmaiden's generosity preserves her youth like a frozen blossom. Obviously, the G.o.ddess has chosen her to accomplish some vital task.

"When the child-now a child no longer, but a woman three hundred years old, though still vital and fair in appearance-matures into a mighty priestess, Auril reveals the nature of this ch.o.r.e. Our heroine is to establish herself as the tyrant of the Great Glacier, and rule in her deity's name. In time, she's also supposed to extend her dominion, and the ice itself, to neighboring lands. To every every land, ultimately, if she can manage it. Because that's Auril's 'truly demented dream,' isn't it? To me, raising up dracolich kings seems a modest scheme by comparison." land, ultimately, if she can manage it. Because that's Auril's 'truly demented dream,' isn't it? To me, raising up dracolich kings seems a modest scheme by comparison."

"Be warned: You mock the Frostmaiden at your peril."

The lich shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Auril is a small G.o.ddess in the scheme of things. I've spat at bigger ones in my time. But to continue the tale: You set out to conquer the people of the glacier, and enjoyed some initial success. You forced some of the human and frost giant tribes to bow to your authority. But other folk resisted you, and your campaign stalled well short of total victory."

Iyraclea scowled. "I've only been here a few years. I simply need more time."

"Perhaps, but I wonder if Auril is content with your progress. She invested centuries teaching you powerful magic, gave you gelugons to fight on your behalf, and still, it takes you more than a decade to seize control of a spa.r.s.ely settled wasteland? In her place, I'd be waxing impatient."

"Auril loves me!"

"Interesting. I thought it an axiom of your faith that she doesn't truly love anyone."

Iyraclea had to clamp down on her anger to keep from lashing out at him. "If there's a point to this prattle, I suggest you make it quickly."

"Very well. I'm prepared to loan you a weapon that will bring all your defiant ice dwarves and what-have-you to heel: Dragons."

She made a spitting sound. "No, thank you. I already had a pair of wyrms in my service, until they went mad, killed and devoured a number of my finest warriors, and flew off to parts unknown."

"But I propose to lend you a whole company of wyrms, guaranteed impervious to frenzy, with a dracolich at their head. They'll serve you until the Feast of the Moon. Direct them intelligently and that should be plenty of time. In addition, I'll give you my word that in the Faerun to come, the undead drakes will leave you and your dominions alone. They'll have the rest of the world for their empire. They can get along without this one dreary patch of ice."

"An interesting offer," Iyraclea said. "What do you ask in return?"

"One small service," said the lich. "Sometime over the course of the next several months, strangers may venture onto the Great Glacier."

"What sort of strangers?"

"I wish I knew. They could be metallic dragons, humans, or almost anything, really. But whatever they are, I need them found and killed."

"Why? What's it all about?"

"It's about dragons, Majesty. About you possessing the means to finally satisfy your ambitions and your G.o.ddess's requirements. Do you really need to know more?"

It only took her a moment to consider. Then: "No, I don't suppose I do."

Over the years, Iyraclea had learned to her cost that ice dwarves were a brave and stubborn folk. Thus, watching from the battlements, she rather relished the sight of the wyrms herding the small, squat, ruddy-skinned prisoners through the gate and into the courtyard. Some of the defeated Inugaakalakurit marched with heads high, clinging to pride even then. Many, however, overwhelmed by the terror wyrms inspired in lesser creatures, cowered and cringed. Likewise enjoying their fear, the whites with their beaked snouts and spiky dewlaps repeatedly executed short, sudden lunges or lifted their claws to make the captives jump.

But Iyraclea's amus.e.m.e.nt turned to anger when one of the wyrms s.n.a.t.c.hed up a screaming dwarf in its jaws, chewed him, and swallowed him down.

"Stop that!" she shouted. At the same time, she commanded the castle, and a portion of the wall flowed into a moving ramp to deposit her on the ground.

The dragons loomed over her as they did everyone else, even the gelugons, and their dry, astringent odor p.r.i.c.ked her nose. She glared up at Zethrindor.

If the whites were frightening, their dracolich commander was a stalking nightmare. He was larger than any of the others, and despite the hide hanging loosely in some spots and withered drumhead-tight in others, revealing his gauntness either way, and the slimy rot mottling the ivory, gray, and pale blue scales, his every move bespoke prodigious strength. His scent mingled the harsh smell of a living white with the carrion stink of decay, and his sunken silvery eyes glittered with a scalpel-sharp intelligence his subordinates generally lacked. Those eyes peered back at her with unconcealed dislike.

"Control your underlings," she said. "Unless the prisoners resist, they're not to be harmed."

Zethrindor sneered. "We've stuffed your castle full of hostages. What's one dwarf more or less? His kin back in his village won't know Ssalangan had him for a snack."

"You'll do it," Iyraclea said, "because I tell you to." She commanded the walls surrounding the courtyards, and they groaned and grated, shifting slightly, dropping pellets of rime, reminding Zethrindor of their ability to reconfigure themselves into any deadly shape required. Some of the younger whites glanced about uneasily.

Zethrindor tossed his immense shredded wings in the draconic equivalent of a shrug. "Have it your way, but only so long as my folk have enough to eat. Thus far, my minions have killed enough to fill their bellies in the course of subjugating the tribes and villages, but who now remains to terrorize? The Great Glacier is yours."

"Yes, it is. So I'm giving you a new task. To the east lies Sossal. I've tried for years to bring it under my sway and cover the land in Auril's sacred ice. But the druids there are powerful, they resisted me, and my rebellious subjects closer to home prevented me from bringing my full strength to bear. Now it's finally time, and you wyrms will fight in the vanguard."

"In the vanguard of what, precisely?" Zethrindor replied. "I've seen your troops. They're adequate to control the settlements now that we dragons have hammered the fight out of them, but too few to overrun a more populous land."

Iyraclea sneered, and the air grew colder. "Are you afraid to attack Sossal?"

"Of course not. Drakes are a match for any foe. But only a fool would rush to bear the brunt of an actual war for someone else's benefit. Besides which, I wonder how you can possibly hold the place once our term of service is complete."

"You needn't fret over any of that. You'll have a substantial force at your back, and they'll occupy the newly conquered territories after you depart. You see, all these hunters and warriors you've been rounding up are more than prisoners. They're conscripts."

Zethrindor c.o.c.ked his crested, tapered head. "Do you really think they'll serve a queen they hate?"

She smiled. "What choice do they have? You dragons and the Icy Claws will command them, and they're too afraid of you-and me-not to obey. Even if they weren't, their kin here on the glacier stand hostage for their good behavior, just as the folk left in the villages grovel for fear of what we might otherwise do to those we marched away to an unknown fate. It's a clever arrangement, don't you think?"

The dracolich regarded her for a moment, then conceded, "It isn't bad. We'd better determine how soon we can march, as well as which wyrms will go, and which will stay."

"You're all going. Your work on the glacier is done, and I mean to make the most of you during the time remaining."

Zethrindor hesitated. "One or two of us might stay, to make sure the villages stay cowed."

"I've told you what I want, and Sammaster instructed you to do my bidding. Besides, I can't believe any of you would consent to stay behind. In Sossal, you'll find plenty of human flesh to eat, and an abundance of treasure to plunder."

As well as an outlet, she thought, for the urge to slaughter engendered by the Rage.

Sammaster had somehow dampened it, but he hadn't cured them of it. At odd moments, she felt it simmering inside the living whites, waiting to break free, and perhaps it was what made them hiss and roar in approval of the prospect she offered.

Zethrindor grimaced at his minions' b.e.s.t.i.a.l display. "So be it, priestess. Let's plan our campaign."

"I notice," said Pavel, when the story was through, "that you didn't keep your promise to kill outlanders. In fact, I suspect you sent every last dragon to Sossal partly so you could capture and interrogate wayfarers without the wyrms interfering."

"Of course," the Ice Queen said. During the course of her tale, she'd slipped her gown back on. "Because Sammaster's pledge is meaningless. If by some bizarre chance he does succeed in creating a horde of dracoliches, they'll seek to conquer all Faerun, the Great Glacier included. His mad prophecies require it. Thus, I need to find out exactly what he's up to, so I can defend against it, and I think you and your companions know. It's part of the reason he wants you dead. Now stop stalling and tell me all about it, or I swear by the Icedawn that I'll fling you from the tower and seek my answers from one of your friends."

Pavel had little doubt that once Iyraclea understood Sammaster's designs, she'd want to thwart them. The problem was that in her own way, she was equally crazy and wicked, with her own poisonous dream of the future. He couldn't believe she'd be content simply to dismantle the mystical structure generating the Rage. She'd probably prove just as eager as the lich to twist the power to her own purposes.

Yet he truly had no option but to talk, and she was sufficiently shrewd that only something approximating the truth was likely to satisfy her. Accordingly, he spun his own essentially factual tale.

He withheld some key bits of information, though, including the fact that Kara was a song dragon. Thus far, her captors had presumably only seen her in human form, and he didn't want them to know what a formidable ent.i.ty they'd brought into their midst.

When he finished, Iyraclea said, "I've always been curious about the ruined cities in the Novularonds, but I've never had the leisure to investigate them."

"Well, one of them is the heart of the Rage. We were sure of it before, and Sammaster's pact with you proves it. He knows-or at least fears-he has enemies looking for the place, so he found a p.a.w.n-"

Iyraclea stiffened. "A what?"

Pavel shrugged. "I apologize, Your Majesty, but the word fits. He found a p.a.w.n to guard his secrets for him. He attempted pretty much the same ploy in Damara. He's too busy calming frenzied dragons, and a.s.sisting with their transformations, to do all the guarding himself."

"Well, this time he tried to manipulate the wrong person, and I'll make certain he regrets it."

"You'll need our help."

"Don't be presumptuous. I need need no one. I'm first among Auril's priestesses!" no one. I'm first among Auril's priestesses!"

"Congratulations. But my comrades and I have been investigating this matter for months. We explored the ancient sites, overcame the dangers, unearthed the lore, and conferred with the sages who interpreted it. Glories of the dawn, you wouldn't even understand what's happening if it wasn't for us. You'd be stupid to reject our aid if you can get it. And you can, so long as you treat us decently, because we share a common goal."

Iyraclea gave a grudging nod. "Perhaps so. I a.s.sume you want to see your companions and make certain they're all right."

"Yes, but before even that, I'd like my breeches back."

21-27 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons Like the tumbling snowflakes, Zethrindor floated on the wailing wind out of the west. Strangely, despite her avowed determination to conquer Sossal, Iyraclea had yet to take the field, but she had cursed the land with a fierce and premature winter. The a.s.sumption was that frigid temperatures and relentless blizzards would hinder and demoralize the defenders far more than it would the invaders from the Great Glacier, who faced such conditions every day of their lives.

Zethrindor was watching a huge white wolf lurking behind a stand of brush on a ridge. The beast scrutinized the string of poorly guarded ox-drawn supply carts slogging along the snow-choked trail below.

Sossal had turned out to be a country possessed of more than its fair share of skinchangers. The druids mastered the art in the course of their training, but apparently certain other folk were simply born with the knack. Zethrindor was reasonably certain the s.h.a.ggy creature below was one such, a warrior wearing animal form to scout the convoy and evaluate whether his war band ought to attack.