The Rage (21 page)

Then, squinting, he spied something that stayed his hand. The section of floor outside the doorway was all roaring brightness. Somehow, flame had engulfed it in an instant. The human had realized it was going to happen and hauled Taegan aside to save him from being caught inside the eruption, which suggested that the stranger, grotesque appearance and unexplained presence notwithstanding, wasn’t the arsonist after all.

Aghast, Taegan started to check and see if the poor fellow was still alive, but at that instant, another strange figure appeared in the doorway. It looked like the leathery-winged, half-man/half-reptile demons the Wearer of Purple had produced to attack him before. But it was bigger, taller even than the human Taegan had just stabbed, and its scales were red. It crouched unharmed in the midst of the blaze, its own long, pointed stinger burning like a torch. Plainly, the brute was admirably suited to the task of arson.

Yet even so, it evidently didn’t mind using tools to speed the process along, for it wore a harness with loops for carrying objects. Though most were empty, one still held a flask. The demon freed it, pulled the stopper out, and poured the contents over its head. The oil called ‘alchemist’s fire” ignited on contact with the air.

Its entire body haloed in flame, talons and sting poised to rip and stab, the spirit pounced at Taegan.

He grabbed the hilt of his rapier, rolled aside, and scrambled to his feet, his back to the cot where one of the cook’s helpers lay slumbering. As the demon wheeled to face him, he brandished a scrap of licorice root and rattled off a charm. He grunted and jerked as the magic shrieked through his body, and the wyvern-faced brute’s movements seemed to slow. Even its corona of flame appeared to jump and writhe more sluggishly.

He knew that wasn’t actually the case. The reality was that the magic had accelerated his own reactions. He thought it might be enough to save him, until a second demon scuttled through the door.

Taegan believed himself to be one of the four or five best duelists in Lyrabar, yet even so, he doubted whether, fighting in such tight quarters, he could kill the two demons before either they or the heat and smoke incapacitated him. Then, however, the human reared up and punched the second brute in the knee. The knuckle spikes on his gauntlet must have borne an enchantment, for they nearly tore the creature’s limb in two. As it staggered, Taegan saw the puncture in the big man’s right shoulder. His rapier had driven all the way through but had evidently missed any major arteries. For the moment at least, the stranger could still fight.

Encouraged, Taegan resolved to slaughter his own opponent quickly, so he could help his newfound ally if need be. Still, it took an effort of will to press the attack against an opponent shrouded in flame. The heat blistered his exposed skin, seared his lungs with every inhalation, and infused the rapier until it pained him to grip the hilt. The real problem, however, was the glare. Even with heightened speed, it was difficult to parry the demon’s assaults when he could barely see them coming.

He hit the demon twice without disabling it, and it slipped an attack past his guard. The back of his calf burned. His foe had whipped its tail around to stab him in the leg.

The searing agony intensified. It was digging the bony point in deeper, while the flame cooked his flesh. He

wanted—no, needed—to grab the tail and jerk it out of the wound, yet he forced himself to let it be, because fumbling at the pain was surely what the demon wanted him to do. As soon as he diverted his attention to it, the spirit would rip him apart.

So he launched himself at his assailant instead, and his relentless aggression seemed to catch it by surprise. Its talons raked, and he twisted out of the way. It jerked on its stinger, striving to trip him but not quite succeeding. He feinted low and thrust high. The blade pierced the demon’s slit-pupiled eye and slid deep into its head, grating on bone as it penetrated. The brute collapsed, and Taegan used the sword to yank the fiery tail out of his calf.

Starved for clean air as he was, Taegan felt as if his strength was failing fast but also knew he had to keep moving. He pivoted to help kill the other demon, only to find that the big man had the situation well in hand. The dragon-faced thing was squirming on the floor and he was crouching on top of it, pulping its upper body with his iron fist.

It was in that moment that Taegan finally discerned something else. The stranger wasn’t actually wearing plate on the left side of his body. Though they moved and flexed like ordinary limbs, the iron arm and leg weren’t mere metal sheathes. They were prostheses, replacements for extremities their owner had evidently lost in battle or as a result of some terrible mishap. Even though Lyrabar had its share of wizards, and Taegan had some limited knowledge of magic himself, he’d never seen anything like it.

Still, it was no time to pause and marvel. When the demon stopped squirming, Taegan limped to the human and hoisted him to his feet. The stranger had bloody claw marks to go with his sword wound.

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” the avariel wheezed. “It was a misunderstanding. How badly are you hurt?”

The big man shook his head as if to indicate it was a stupid question, that they had to press on no matter how injured or exhausted either of them was.

“Wake the girl,” he said.

“Right, but the doorway’s impassable. Can you—?” “Tithe fire hasn’t spread too far, I can make a way around. Go.”

Taegan hurried to the cook’s assistant and slapped her to consciousness. Meanwhile, his ally smashed down sections of wall to circumvent the blaze raging just outside.

They sent the girl running toward safety, did the same for everyone else in that portion of the building, then descended to the first floor themselves. There the fire ruled absolutely.

Taegan found a narrow, rapidly shrinking path through the patches of flame and started toward the other end of the house. His companion grabbed him by the arm and turned him toward the nearest exit.

“There’s another stairway.” Taegan had to shout to make himself heard over the endless bellow of the conflagration. “With more people living at the top.”

The big man tried to answer, doubled over coughing, then managed to force out: “My partners already went that way to help whomever they found. We have to get out. We’re out of time.”

“If they met more of those demons…”

“Then the demons are dead. Come on!”

“Very well.” Taegan hesitated. “No. You go. I have something to do.”

“I’m telling you, the whole place—”

“I’ll be all right. Save yourself.”

The human eyed him dubiously, then gave a brusque nod and turned away.

Taegan hobbled past the pantry to the cellar steps, or rather, to the shaft they’d occupied earlier that night. The shaft was empty except for a pile of red-hot embers at the bottom.

He jumped and beat his wings. For a creature larger than a bird, genuine flight was impossible in such a confined space, but he managed to touch down on the far side of the burning rubble.

Unable stop coughing even for a moment, he dashed on past forgotten crates and battered old fencing dummies. The far end of the cellar held wrought-iron wine racks loaded with costly vintages that were boiling into worthless swill. He jammed the rapier into the crack between two of the stones in the floor then pried. His first effort failed, and shouting—well, croaking, really—he threw all his weight against the weapon. One of the blocks hitched up to expose the leather bag beneath.

Inside was a grimoire, vital if he was to renew his spells each day; his savings, though they didn’t amount to much; and lastly, the cult’s book and folio.

He felt a sudden vicious impulse to leave the secret writings, the cause of so much calamity, to burn, but he disregarded it. He snatched up the bag as blazing chunks of the ceiling rained down. He could tell it would all come down in a second to smash, burn, and bury him. He had no hope of escaping back the way he’d come.

He began the incantation that would fling him instantaneously from one point to another, no matter what barriers stood in the way. The need to cough burned in his throat and chest, doing its utmost to spoil the recitation, and he strained against it.

The avariel wheezed out the final word of power, and with a great roaring crash, the entire ceiling plummeted. Uncertain whether he’d succeeded in working the magic or not, he threw himself to the floor and covered his head.

He landed in a snowdrift. For an instant, it was strange to feel cold air, as if he’d never experienced it before. Then he realized the outside world wasn’t all cold. His sleeve was on fire. He slapped it out.

Taegan turned and looked at the blazing shell of his school some thirty feet away. The sight engendered a numb, sick fascination. He might have lain on his stomach and stared at it for quite a while, if not for his duty to those who’d shared the ruin with him. He dragged himself to his feet, coughing still, his burns and torn leg throbbing, and limped to see if everyone else had made it out alive.

Ches, the third month, was commonly called the Claw of the Sunsets in honor of the vivid reds and golds that bloomed in the west at dusk. Actually, though, the dawns were often equally gorgeous, and Lathander had served up just such a spectacle that morning. Taegan found himself incapable of appreciating it. Rather, it felt as if the god was mocking him.

For certainly, the splendor in the sky made a cruel contrast to the misery on the ground. Miraculously, only three people had perished in the fire, but many of the survivors were burned, shaken, filthy with soot and ash, and coughing and shivering in the cold. Silver-robed priestesses of Mime from the temple down the street ministered to them, dispensing healing spells, medicinal salves, blankets, water, and mugs of hot vegetable soup. Though he looked in need of tending himself, the stranger with the sun medallion, evidently a priest of the Morninglord, assisted, forgoing his customary early-morning celebration of the deity to ease the suffering of mortals.

Taegan still felt dazed and kept wanting to stare stupidly at the black husk of the school and the column of smoke dirtying the sky. Eventually, though, he noticed the clerics weren’t the only folk moving among his associates. Buxom Halonya Clayhill, owner of the largest brothel on the waterfront, her plump face a mask of paint and black paper beauty spots, whispered in the ears of the younger and prettier whores and slipped them coins depending on what they whispered back. Even worse, Maestro Zalan, resplendent in green velvet despite having gotten up hours earlier than usual, stood chatting with Stedd. The two of them passed a silver flask back and forth.

A surge of anger stabbed through Taegan’s befuddlement. He hadn’t issued a challenge in years, but by sweet Lady Firehair, he thought Zalan had earned one.

Lady Firehair, he thought Zalan had earned one. He arranged his features into the sneer appropriate to the occasion, then

sauntered forward, avoiding any appearance of haste or agitation.

“Don’t,” Corkaury said.

Taegan turned. The wizened Milling had come up behind him and stood half-hidden by the folded wool garment in his arms.

A crier passed under my window, bawling the news of the fire,” Corkaury continued. “I came as quickly as I could. Now take this thing. I’m afraid it’s not your usual style—I was lucky to Lay hands on any elf-sized tabard at this hour, and had to cut it up myself to make room for your wings—but it’s still more stylish than what you’re wearing now.”

Taegan dropped the blanket in which he’d awkwardly wrapped himself and replaced it with Corkaury’s gift. “Thank you. Now I have business.”

“Don’t,” the bookkeeper repeated. “It’s pointless. You’ll see that when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“The ashes of the school aren’t even cold, these vultures come circling to loot the wreckage, and my staff, folk I just saved from a horrible death, are eager to listen to their blandishments. it’s disgusting.”

“What would you have them do? They still have to eat. Can you continue paying their wages?”

“Don’t you see? If Zalan hires Stedd to be his provost, he’ll require him to disclose all my secrets.”

“You once told me swordsmanship doesn’t actually have any secrets. I ask you again, can you go on supporting Stedd and the others?”

Taegan felt his wrath turn into something heavy and impotent, like a chunk of lead inside his belly.

“Of course not. As you must know better than anyone, I’m ruined.”

“You had nothing when you first came to Lyrabar.” “Whereas now at least I have my debts.”

Corkaury scowled and said, “What I’m saying is you climbed the ladder once. You can do it again.”

“Perhaps.”

But perhaps not. The first time around, he’d managed to become fashionable. He had some notion as to how he’d accomplished it, but he knew luck had played a part as well. Only Tymora knew whether it would favor him once more.

“I suppose I have no choice but to try.” He gave Corkaury a wry smile. “I daresay you need to seek new employment yourself.”

“Until you find your feet, you won’t need a clerk. When you establish a new academy, I’ll be glad to return if you’ll have me.”

Taegan extracted most of the gold from his leather sack and said, “Do one last chore for me. Take this and pay everybody off to the extent you’re able. Don’t. neglect yourself.”

“I may not work for you at the moment, but I’m still your friend,” said the halfling. “You can live in my house for as long as you like.”

“Until I bash my brains out bumping my head on those low ceilings. Still, you’re a staunch friend to offer, and perhaps you’ll see me later on. For now, though, I’d like to be alone. Maybe it will clear my mind.”

“As you wish.”

Though he looked reluctant, Corkaury turned away.

Taegan spread his wings to escape into the sky, whereupon the man with the iron limbs spotted the motion and waved for him to stay put. The avariel saw no choice but to comply. He owed the stranger and his companions too much to flout their wishes.

The big man approached with his friends trailing along behind. He carried a hand-and-a-half sword, a longbow, and a quiver of arrows. Apparently he’d discarded them before entering the burning school for fear they’d get in his way. With the exception of the slender woman with the long moon-blond hair, his partners were equally well armed. That, their rugged clothing, and the confident yet watchful manner in which they carried themselves gave them the air of folk accustomed to peril and hardship.