Depths of Madness (15 page)

As the goliath joined the others, disappearing into the darkness, Twilight let a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she relaxed, and flashed Davoren a winsome look.

“Is anyone watching?” asked Davoren, flexing his fingers, around which little sparks danced.

“I think not,” replied Twilight, hand on her rapier hilt. The shadows came to her.

Davoren’s lip curled. “Good.”

Twilight’s rapier scraped out of its scabbard and she lunged, just as the warlock thtew ruby flames at her.

Twilight twisted in middive and the blast scorched across her back. Only her ring’s protective magic kept her skin intact. She landed lightly and kicked out. Davoren scowled and threw himself aside just in time to avoid the blow.

Feeling rather than seeing the miss, Twilight wasted no time reversing her momentum, spinning, and slamming an elbow into the warlock’s chest. Davoren recoiled and fell back a step, but his eyes were already blazing with ruby light. The warlock snarled an infernal oath and jerked his hands apart.

“Damn and burn,” Twilight snapped, throwing herself back, trusting instinct.

The elf maid somersaulted back as a fan of ruby fire cut over her chest. She flipped completely over, landing on her feet in a crouch. She rose halfway into a combat stance, keeping her eyes on Davoren. The man had backed away and was holding up burning, clawed hands, one forward, one at his ear.

“Come, fiend-spawn.” Twilight hissed as she dipped and wove. “You can do better than that, eh?”

The warlock grinned as they both circled. “You think you can elude my power, do you?” he said. “You await a strike, thinking you will dodge and I will be open, eh?”

“How clever.” Twilight never took her eyes off him. “And your solution?”

Davoren lifted his left arm. The diabolic race molded into his leather bracer chuckled for an instant. The air rippled and a chittering giggle floated forth that matched the gauntlets mirth. A tiny winged creature with night black flesh—an imp, Twilight realized—appeared a few paces at her back, laughing and hissing.

Summoned aid, Twilight thought. How original.

Davoren threw his blasts of flame past her, and she understood. With a curse, she sprinted toward the warlock.

The flames consumed the imp before it had the chance to move or even squeak in protest, then the heat arced from its ashen remains to strike Twilight in the back, blowing her out of her charge and slamming her body against the wall.

Davoren laughed uproariously. “Fool!” he said. “You think you can outwit Hellsheart?” He fell into the grip of fiendish power once again.

Fighting against the pain that ripped through her, Twilight struggled to her feet. Little trails of smoke rose from her back. The ring’s magic had absorbed much of the blast, but not all. Limping, she extended the rapier toward Davoren and bent low.

Davoren’s right gauntlet shimmered with magic. A second imp, identical to the first, appeared at her back. Wonderful.

Twilight didn’t give Davoren the chance. She straightened, pulling her rapier back to throw, and ran toward him. She might not cover the five or six paces between them in time, but her blade would. The warlock’s eyes went wide and he shot flame at her. Had he blasted the imp, it would not have arced to Twilight in time.

Even in panic, though, he had not abandoned all aim. The ruby ray struck her rapier’s hilt, superheating it in an instant and unleashing a tremor upon her hand with the kind of fotce that would have shattered bone had she not released the weapon to fly over her shoulder.

Cursing in pain and consternation, the shadowdancer watched as Betrayal skittered along the ground behind her. A thumb’s breadth lower, and his blast would have destroyed her hand to the wrist. Davoren cursed his missed blast and danced

back, power flickering in his eyes as he invoked his lord’s gifts again.

“I will destroy you, whore!” Davoren sneered.

Always insults about my lovelife—or my profession, she mused as he threw fire that consumed his imp. It darted for Twilight.

This time, the elf managed to dodge, but only by leaping onto Davoren. The flames jetted over her head and slammed into the wall, sending chips of stone flying. The elf and the warlock went down in a heap of bodies, kicking and scrabbling.

Davoren slammed Twilight to the ground, but she hit his stomach with her knee. The warlock reeled, rolling away, and Twilight seized the chance to pounce atop him, hands going for his throat. He caught her wrist in both hands and pried at her grip.

They locked, pitting wiry muscles against each other. She had his throat in her right hand. Her left slapped her belt, searching for some weapon. She knew she didn’t have the strength to choke the life from him or shatter his neck. One of her lockpicks would do; a quick thrust to the eye or temple would put the warlock down.

Then a thin blade appeared in Davoren’s hand, snatched from a sheath inside one of his demon bracers, and it darted for Twilight’s face. Her hand shot out and caught Davoren’s wrist. The warlock spit and slavered, straining against Twilight, the point of his stiletto just a hair’s breadth from her jugular.

The tip scratched her neck and a bright spot of blood welled

up.

“Almost, filliken.” Davoren hissed through clenched teeth. “Almost.”

“Almost nothing “she said.

Twilight squeezed the tendon in his wrist just so, and Davoren squealed in pain. She slammed his hand against the ground once, twice, knocking the blade free. The warlock, to his credit, kicked Twilight off him, but she was already extricating herself. She rolled free, over the fallen stiletto, and went for Betrayal where it lay.

Davoren struggled up, aimed his fingers at her back, and spat dark words, taking his time to articulate the brutish syllables.

In mid-roll, Twilight reversed direction and came up in a crouch, her hand crossbow pointing at the watlock’s face. Moving for the rapier had just been a distraction, meant to keep the warlock’s eye on the steel while he ignored the real threat.

By the time he saw the crossbow, the bolt was streaking for his face. Davoren wasn’t quick enough to flinch.

Or perhaps he had no reason to fear.

The crossbow bolt skipped off Davoren’s cheek, causing less damage than it would have to a mountainside.

“Sand,” Twilight swore. She had forgotten Davoren’s fiendish skin.

The failed attack allowed Davoren to complete his invocation, and a curtain of black-laced fire appeared around Twilight, trapping her in a circle that measured no more than five paces across. Discarding the crossbow in favor of the rapier she had collected, she growled at her foolishness.

“Davoren!” she snapped. “Face me, coward! I have steel in hand. Face me!”

The only response she received was the roar of the infernal flames, growling and laughing around her.

Twilight realized that he could be preparing any number of deaths for her, so she switched tactics. “Why not face me, warlock?” she asked. “I stand here, shaking, and you hesitate? Surely you do not fear me—a weakling wench like myself, eh? You don’t have the sand, perhaps—or maybe the sword?”

Davoren laughed derisively, a sound much louder than the fires. “Ah yes, the courageous Fox-at-Twilight, always so witty, always so much better than others,” he said. “Is that why you chose us, I wonder, because you think yourself superior?”

Ducking below the smoke that was filling the chamber, Twilight opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of that, but he was already rattling on.

“I wonder if Telketh and Arandon ever knew how little you thought of them. Or perhaps they were too distracted, having shared your bed. They were so eager to give their lives for you. I

wonder if they ever realized you meant them as little more than monster feed. I wonder about Quelin, the sniveling paladin, or even that bitch Galandra. Did you seduce her too, I wonder?”

His voice came from all sides, as though he were stalking about her fiery prison. She loathed evil monologues, but they were a typical consequence of an assault on a spellslinger’s pride.

“You disappoint me, Davoren,” Twilight said. Without any stealth—knowing that he couldn’t see her beyond the flames or through magic—she reached back with the warlock’s stiletto and slid it, point-first, into a flask at her belt. “I would have thought one such as yourself would recognize the value of ruthlessness.”

“Nevertheless,” Davoren growled, but said no more. Twilight was grateful.

“I thought I was hiring a spellslinger worth a dozen gold a day in Westgate,” she called, “but I see now you’re nothing but a pathetic worm. You’re too afraid to confront—what did you call me on the way to this expedition?—a ‘two-copper trollop with a flimsy metal twig she calls a sword’?”

“I’m sure I was more imaginative, whore,” came the warlock’s reply. “But I wasn’t far off the mark. Your meager skills and your pathetic powers are nothing compared to mine. Your sniveling changeling god is as nothing against the might of the Lord of Baator.”

“Why not stand and face me, and show me this supposed might?” Twilight asked. “If you are truly as great as you claim, there is little a poor lass like me can do to defeat you.” She stretched her back and grinned. “Unless, of course—you aren’t.”

Davoren strode through the flames, dark power licking at the fringe of his robe. His eyes pulsed with ruby energy and his face contorted with rage. Fire leaked from his fists as he bore down upon Twilight.

“Insolent, mongrel bitch!” he growled. “I shall see you beg!”

“Many have spoken thus,” said Twilight. “All are dead.” “You’ll join them!” Davoren lunged, power streaming from his hands and eyes.

Twilight put out the dusky rapier and dropped, a low stop thrust that would have spitted any sword-dancer foolish enough to charge thus. Davoren, however, merely sent the sword clattering aside with a pulse of his power and loomed over Twilight. She spun with the blow and buried the stiletto in his side.

The darkness abated and the wall of flames flickered out, leaving an eerie, vile smoke hanging at the edges of their vision.

Davoren, shaking off his surprise, gave her a mocking grin. He looked down at the little trickle of blood making its way down the stiletto’s edge. “Not cold iron this time, eh?” the warlock asked. “I hardly feel it.”

“Not the blade.” Twilight smiled. “The poison.”

The warlock blinked in confusion—once, then a second time slowly, then a third time, in which he fought to move his eyelids. He felt it then, a subtle chill that flowed through his veins. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened, but he could not move.

Twilight glared in his face. “My nar’talas venom. Locklimb, humans call it,” she said. “Brewed from the juice of a rare breed of centipede native to Evermeet. Causes mild euphoria when inhaled and instant paralysis when introduced to the blood.”

She yanked the dagger free. Davoren didn’t flinch—couldn’t, Twilight thought—and wiped it clean on the warlock’s robe.

“Only a little bit flows in your veins, enough to keep you frozen a few moments—enough to silence your spit hole while I make a few things perfectly clear. Understand?”

She knew Davoren could not reply. His outraged eyes, though, said enough.

“Before we get to business, while I’ve got you transfixed, perhaps you can help me understand something I’ve always wondered about.” She paused. “If you’re the descendent of demons, how is it you serve Asmodeus?”

That got his attention, and Twilight saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eye.

“I wonder,” she said. “The grandson of a demon prince, a

servant of archdevils, who takes his power from both the Hells and the Abyss? Which was it, by the way—Graz’zt or Orcus? I’m curious. The latter, I bet. You look like the son of a cotpse.”

Unsurprisingly, no reply was forthcoming.

Twilight knelt down to stare into Davoren’s eyes. “Hear this now,” she said. Her voice was soft. “You cannot comprehend what it would mean to cross me. Your master does not frighten me—I have spat in his eye myself.”

Silence for a heartbeat. Twilight knew he believed her. The truth of that mattered not at all.

“And if you think for a single moment that your power frightens me, you are making a fatal mistake.”

He offered no response but a hateful glare.

“Now then, to the real business at hand,” she said. “I know you had something to do with Asson’s fall. I heard the magic, the word of command. I could have been mistaken, perhaps, but if it were just me, I’d gut you right now and leave your entrails for the scavengers, just to err on the more pleasant side.”

Twilight paused, allowing Davoren to drink in her entire meaning.

“But it’s not just me. I have to think of us all, and if we’re going to get out of here alive, we need to work together. We all need allies to survive this, and you’ve got none—not even your own tongue.” Her eyes narrowed. “So let me make this clear— from here on, you’re either with us, or you’re dead. Savvy?”

Twilight could tell from the way the color began to bleed out of Davoren’s face that the poison was starting to dilute through his blood, and he could feel his body once again. Soon, he could speak. “Ye-yes,” he managed. “Yes, that’s clear.”

Twilight slammed him against the wall again. Though she was not a big woman, or a strong one, she knew exactly what angles to ply for sufficient leverage.

To further emphasize her point, she stabbed him again for good measure.

“Aack—” Davoren managed. Then he could only look at her, stung and furious.

“I wasn’t finished,” she said.

She wrenched the dagger out, causing Davoren’s eyes to water, and raised it before his face. His dark blood mingled with an amber jelly smeared along the blade. Then she reached down and pulled out the vial of poison, to wave it in front of his face.

“I carry more of this than you might think. If you try something like that again—if you even think it—I’ll pump you so full of venom you’ll be able to do nothing but lie helpless while the vermin of this hellhole start with your eyes and work their way toward your brain.” Her eyes bored holes into his face. “How does that sound, Lord Hellsheart, servant of Asmodeus?”