The Rage (6 page)

As they fought, drops of the drake’s corrosive slime spattered him. They stung his face, and he wondered again how well the potion was protecting him. Smoking and smoldering, the pasty stuff burned holes in his brigandine and even pitted the blade of the hand-and-a-half sword, enchanted though it was. Only the iron parts of him proved entirely resistant.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of frenzied struggle even though it had only been a few seconds, Raryn charged in on the dragon’s flank and chopped at it with his ice-axe. From that point forward, though his attention stayed focused on the wyrm, Dorn nonetheless caught glimpses of his comrades.

Raryn drove the axe into the creature’s body. It pivoted, jerking the weapon from his grip, and clawed at him. He jumped back, avoiding that attack, but the reptile wasn’t done. It kept turning, and its tail lashed the dwarf across his barrel chest. Raryn flew through the air and slammed down hard, hard enough, by the look of it, to break his bones. But he scrambled up and grabbed for the hilt, of his dagger.

Will darted under the reptile’s belly and jammed his curved sword through the scales, making a long incision as if he was gutting a deer. The wyrm slammed its stomach flat on the ground, sending a jolt through the earth. Its weight would have pulverized anyone caught beneath, but the halfling flung himself clear.

A translucent mace sprang into existence, and as if wielded by an invisible warrior, battered the ruff of jagged, bony plates behind the dragon’s blazing eyes and snapping jaws. Having seen the trick before, Dorn knew Pavel had conjured the effect. A few seconds later, the priest himself advanced on the creature, the mace of steel and wood in his own fist shining like the sun.

Dorn did his best to stay in front of the drake and attack relentlessly, trying to keep the reptile’s attention fixed on him while his friends hacked, bashed, and stabbed it from the sides and rear. He gradually cut its mask into a crosshatch of bloody gashes. Still, the wyrm wouldn’t even falter, much less go down.

Eaten away by acid, the bastard sword snapped in two. As he fumbled for the long knife he carried as backup or for fighting in close quarters, a column of dazzling yellow lire hurtled down from the darkening sky to strike the drake between the wings. Dorn knew Pavel wasn’t sufficiently learned—or wise, or saintly, however it worked—to cast such a powerful spell from his own innate capabilities. He’d used a precious scroll, divine magic the arcanists of Thentia couldn’t replace, because in his estimation it was the only way to put the dragon down.

The ooze drake convulsed, but only for a second. Then it rounded on the man it had plainly identified as the principal spellcaster among its opponents. Its head shot forward and caught Pave! in its jaws. Teeth gnashing, it reared high, on the brink of chewing him up and swallowing him down.

No time for the knife now, Dorn thought as he hinged in and ripped with his iron claws.

Heedless of their own safety, Raryn and Will attacked just as furiously.

At last, reeking of burned flesh, the wyrm collapsed. The three hunters scrambled backward to keep it from landing on top of them, then rushed to its head to determine if Pavel was still alive.

They couldn’t tell until they pried the fangs apart and pulled him free. Then they saw he was breathing shallowly, but might not be for long. His wounds were deep, bleeding profusely, and he was the healer. Who, then, would heal him?

Well, they had restorative potions, if he wasn’t too far gone to swallow. Dorn grabbed the one he carried in his belt pouch, pulled the priest’s jaws apart, and poured clear liquid into his mouth.

Pavel coughed most of it back out, but a little evidently went down, because his brown eyes flickered open, and he guzzled the rest of the pewter vial. It served to stanch the worst of the bleeding. Afterward, he gestured weakly for Dorn to step back.

For a moment, Dorn didn’t understand why his friend was shooing him away. Then he recalled the bubble of silence. Pavel couldn’t recite any incantations while Dorn was crouching over him.

Once he withdrew a few yards, the cleric cast one healing spell after another until his wounds closed, and he was able to stand upright. Then he wiped away the enchantment he’d cast on Dorn, and sound popped back into the world.

“You know,” panted Will to Dorn and Raryn, “if we’d moved just a little slower, we would have been rid of the charlatan’s useless arse.”

“You all have acid burns on your faces,” Pavel said. “They don’t look serious, out I have a few spells left. I might as well see if I can fix them.” He grinned at the halfling. “Though regrettably, I’ve no cure for simple ugliness. Or ugly simpleness.”

Once the priest had eased the sting of their blisters, Raryn said, “What do you say we make camp and chop up the wyrm in the morning? A few teeth and talons should suffice to prove we killed it.”

“Fine,” said Dorn.

It occurred to him that he ought to be elated at the death of another dragon, but as was often the case, the feeling eluded him. Instead, he felt a glum mood settling in.

“What I want to know,” Will said, “is why we never catch the wyrms in their lairs. Seize one treasure horde and we could live like kings for the rest of our days.”

“They hide the lairs so folk like us won’t find them,” Raryn replied. “They build snares, too, and arrange the ground so that if they do have to fight, any intruders will find themselves at a serious disadvantage. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“You say that because you have humble tastes,” said Will.

“A mug of lager, a bowl of stew, and you’re happy as a crow in a cherry tree. I suppose it looks like luxury compared to the way you lived on the Great Ice. But I was meant for finer–”

Off to the north, something roared. An instant later, elsewhere in the swamp, another voice answered with a similar harsh, sibilant cry. A third responded, and a fourth. Startled, the hunters peered wildly about.

“What is this?” Pavel asked. “We knew other dragons lived in the Flooded Forest, but what could make them all screech like that, when judging by the sound of it, they’re nowhere near one another, or to us, for that matter? I’ve never heard the like.”

“I have,” snapped Dorn. “Listen to it carefully. See if you can make out any words in it.”

Just as the clamor was subsiding, the priest’s eyes opened wide.

“Oh, no,” he said. “The town.”

Dorn turned to Raryn and asked, “How far are we from Ylraphon?”

He thought he knew, but the dwarf’s sense of direction was infallible.

“A few hours out,” Raryn said. “As we trailed the ooze drake, we looped back around. I take it we’re going now?”

He plainly understood the gravity of the situation, for he didn’t question the wisdom of setting out when they were already so weary, or point out the hazards of marching over such treacherous ground at night.

“Yes,” Dorn answered.

“I don’t understand” said Will. “What about the fangs and claws?”

“Leave them. They don’t matter anymore.”

The apprentice scurried up a staircase, leaving the hunters in a workroom that took up the entire ground floor. On their left were piles of crates and bags of salt for packing fish, on their right, screw presses and amphorae for rendering them into oil.

After a time, Esvelle Greengate, wrapped in a quilted dressing gown, a nightcap askew on her graying curls, descended the stairs with the apprentice in tow. At first glance, she looked motherly, a plump, harmless dumpling of a woman. Then one noticed the hardness in her eyes.

“Goodman Graybrook,” she said, “what’s all this? If you killed the dragon, I’m happy, of course, but you didn’t need to haul me out of bed to tell me. I certainly can’t pay your fee until the whole council approves it in the morning.”

“The ooze drake is dead,” said Dorn, “out you’ve got a bigger problem. Do you know what a dragon flight is?”

Her eyes narrowed and she said, “I’ve heard of them. Once in a while, a pack of wyrms assembles and goes on the rampage all together. Why?”

“It’s happening. The rest of the drakes in the Flooded Forest are waiting to descend upon Ylraphon.”

Esvelle frowned and said, “If this is some ploy to inflate your price…”

“Forget our price,” Dorn snapped. “Keep every copper we’ve got coming.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Will throw up his hands in mock despair. “Before they gather, the wyrms of a flight call out to one another. They’re doing it now. Can’t you hear it, even here in town?”

“I heard something,” she said. “I didn’t know what to make of it. Are you sure you do?”

“Yes. I’ve made a study of such matters. It’s why you hired me.”

“True, out even if the dragons are becoming aggressive, who’s to say they’ll come here?”

“I am,” said Pavel. “I speak Draconic, and I heard them declare their intentions. It makes sense, doesn’t it? They go on these rampages to kill people, and Ylraphon is the town closest to their territory.”

“Well,” said Esvelle, “say they do attack. How much would you charge to protect us from them all?”

“You don’t understand” said Dorn. “When my friends and I are fresh and have a chance to make the necessary preparations, we can kill one dragon. One. How many men-at-arms can you muster?”

“Ten on the town payroll. Then, depending on the nature of their wares, some traders employ guards to ward off thieves. And some folk will volunteer. Maybe fifty?”

“It isn’t enough. You have to evacuate everyone who can’t fight. Send some out on the Reach in boats. The rest can hike south and east. Those folk who can brace a spear or draw a bow will stay behind as rearguard. If we’re lucky, all the non-warriors will get clear before the wyrms come. Then the rest of us can run away, too.”

“Just abandon the town? Surely there’s another way.”

“If this was a great city, with a standing army and stone fortifications, maybe. As it is, your only other option is to die.” “But…” She shook her head. “Won’t the dragons just chase us down?”

“Even if they do, some folk are likely to escape. It’s a better chance than staying here. And the dragons may not pursue. They might linger to level the houses or tear off in another direction all together. Ordinarily, they’re sensible in their way, but when this fit takes them, it’s difficult to guess what exactly they’ll do.”

Esvelle turned to the apprentice and said, “Run to the other members of the council, then to the captain of the watch. Tell them I need them here immediately.” She glanced back at the hunting party and added, “You’d better be right about this, or were all going to look like idiots.”

The next two hours offered up a little taste of the Hells as Dorn and his comrades made the same arguments over and over again, often to merchants more skeptical than Esvelle. Gradually, though, the bullying and pleading had an effect. A ragtag little militia gathered. Other folk began to flee the town, though far too many remained, either because they disbelieved, were wasting precious time packing their valuables, or simply hadn’t yet heard that anything was amiss. Up until

that point, Dorn had thought of Ylraphon as a hardscrabble outpost populated by rugged men—loggers, trappers, and outlaws—but it gave him a pang to see how many frightened, bewildered women and children were scurrying through the frigid dark.

Finally, after he’d talked himself hoarse, he wound up leading a band of what an optimist might call men-at-arms with Will at his side to serve as his lieutenant. Raryn and Pavel were commanding another squad to the west, closer to the harbor. Dorn had considered assigning each member of his band to direct a different troupe of militiamen. The hunters were, after all, the only people there who knew anything much about dragons, but he was loath to order any of his friends into peril without even one trusted, seasoned comrade to watch his back. They didn’t owe Ylraphon that much valor.

Come to think of it, having slaughtered the ooze drake as per their contract, they didn’t owe the place anything. They could have hidden safe in the Flooded Forest while the dragon flight had its bloody way with the town. No one, not even Will, had so much as suggested the possibility.

Warsling dangling in his hand the halfling studied the sky above the swamp, looking for the bat-winged shapes that, as they beat their way south, might momentarily cut across Selűne’s silvery crescent or block the light of one or another star.

“I don’t see anything yet,” Will said.

“Nor do I,” said Ailon Finch. The balding, heavyset cloth merchant’s voice sounded a little strangled. He’d squeezed himself into a cuirass a couple sizes too small, a family heirloom, perhaps, and his neck and arms fairly bulged out the openings. “I think this is all foolishness. We’re going to catch our deaths standing in the cold waiting for dragons that never appear.”

“They’ll appear,” said Will. “We explained, that’s why the ooze drake was acting strangely. It was slipping into frenzy. It’s also why the other wyrms called out.”

“They’re not roaring anymore.”

“Because they don’t need to. They’ve already found one another.”

Just then Dorn saw a shadow blotting out a section of the sparkling motes trailing the moon, the bright haze people called her Tears.

He pointed and said, “Get ready.”

It was dark, and the onrushing wyrms were still some distance away. Human eyes could barely make them out. Still, the sight panicked some of Dorn’s command. Screaming, they broke from the blind they’d built at his direction, a makeshift fortress of stacked crates, timbers, barrels, and empty carts.

Their terrified flight caught the notice of a wyrm, which swooped after them. As Dorn might have guessed, it was a black dragon, another marsh-dweller like the ooze drake. Even in the dark, he could tell the species from the bony, almost skull-like appearance of the head, and the spikes jutting from the lower jaw.

The black spat a stream of liquid. The targets shrieked as the acid seared the flesh from their bones. Some of the men clustered behind Dorn moaned and sobbed in horror.

“Shoot it!” the half-golem yelled.

The wyrm was still moving, still on the wing, but had dived low and close enough that Dorn hoped his remaining troops had some slight chance of hurting it. Some of them obeyed his order. Others stood frozen.