The air suddenly sizzled with magic. Lorcan spun around, reaching for his sword, when the fabric of the planes split, and a path to the Hells appeared.
Nemea and Aornos stepped through the portal, undisguised and heavily armed. Surging out from behind them came a pair of Glasya’s hellwasps.
“Well, well, baby brother,” Nemea said. “Looks as if you’ve finally gotten Mother’s notice.”
“There’s been a mistake,” he said, holding his arms up in a gesture of surrender.
“Has there?” Nemea drawled. “We’ll have to sort that out another time.”
“Exonerate you after death,” Aornos added.
“Or not,” Nemea said. “Whatever you’ve done, Invadiah is furious. She says we don’t need to be careful. She says Rohini can have your little warlock.”
Shit and fire, Lorcan thought. What did Invadiah think he’d done? The orc? Not hellwasps for a bloody orc whose soul Asmodeus couldn’t claim as fast as he wanted.
“And then we can help Rohini finish things.” Aornos grinned, her pointed white teeth as sharp and hungry as any predator’s. “In proper fashion.”
“So thank you, little brother,” Nemea said. “If you hadn’t gotten all those cultists killed, we would still be on guard duty.”
“Cultists?” Lorcan said. He twisted the ring. Nothing. “I haven’t killed any cultists.”
Nemea clucked her tongue. “Seems you might have done something foolish.”
Aornos drew her sword. “Something that gave some Ashmadai the idea they ought to be killing Glasyans. Hmm?”
Lorcan turned the ring again, and still he was standing on Toril, his half-sisters advancing on him with naked blades, and a pair of hellwasps circling them. He let loose a stream of curses, spinning the ring over and over. Nothing.
“Perhaps,” Aornos said, waving her blade, “Asmodeus will resurrect you. Then we can hear the full story.”
“Or perhaps not,” Nemea said drawing her own blade.
“Adaestuo!” Lorcan shouted. The sizzling blast struck Aornos, and gave him time to pull his own sword. But in that breath between the casting and drawing his sword, the hellwasps struck.
He was fortunate-not every devil’s blood burned hot enough to temper the poison of a hellwasp, but, even tempered, the pain was excruciating, so bad his arms and legs refused it and went briefly numb. He flung his sword outward, missing the darting hellwasp but forcing Nemea to step back.
He could not defend against all of them. Aornos slipped into the breach and slashed across his back, while the second hellwasp closed and drove its saberlike arms into his shoulders. Nemea sprang forward again, this time aiming at the joint of his left wing. Lorcan twisted, and her blade struck the hellwasp instead.
The creature screeched as Nemea’s sword smashed through its carapace as if it were no more than an eggshell. The hellwasp’s sharp forelegs slid from Lorcan’s wounds and the devil vanished in a gust of flame.
Lorcan stood no chance against Nemea and Aornos, let alone against a hellwasp. He loosed another dart of fire at Aornos as she broke forward, but it only gave Nemea another chance to crash her sword against his armor, the hellwasp a chance to sting him again.
The poison flooded his veins once more and Lorcan’s knees buckled. He threw his sword up to block Nemea’s, and Aornos’s sword forced past his leather armor and into the muscles of his back.
This was how he’d always suspected he’d die.
Shit and ashes-if he died now, not only would Farideh be dead for certain, but she’d be right. He’d be a useless bastard.
Blood weeping from his many wounds, Lorcan drew on everything he had. The powers of Malbolge poured into him and burst out in a ring of flames that burned his sisters and threw the hellwasp back. The magical explosion propelled him into the air, his wings catching the hot air and launching him forward.
He flew, one hand pressed against the deeper wound to his shoulder, one wing rapidly stiffening from the poison. Nemea and Aornos might not be able to pursue, but the hellwasp would be winging after him-and without Aornos or Nemea, he couldn’t count on an accidental ally. He had to slow the hellwasp down.
He headed toward the Chasm.
Along the wall he spied a stretch where no soldiers patrolled-just beyond a jut of broken bricks. He pulled the straps of his armor tighter, making sure what was left of the leather pressed against his wounds to staunch the blood. Landing unevenly, he glanced back. The hellwasp was closing.
Lorcan had no time to cast the spell gently.
Every inch of his skin felt as if it were full of nettles and sparks. He bit down on his lip to keep from screaming and broke through, filling his mouth with scalding hot blood.
He held his hands out in front of him as the pain ebbed, starting at the core of his body and spreading to his limbs. At the edge of the agony, his skin faded from red to tan, his nails turned pink. His wings collapsed into nothing, rocking him off-balance as he lost their weight. He ran his fingers through his hair, noting the missing horns. It had worked, hopefully enough to fool the hellwasp that was diving straight toward him.
The hellwasp halted, hovering in the air ahead of Lorcan. Darting back and forth, peering at him with each of its multifaceted eyes. It might have scented Lorcan, or something like him. But with the Chasm so close, whatever magical trace it might have tasted was obscured. And there, before it, was a man who looked nothing like a cambion. Agitated, its darting paths took it wider and wider as it tried to discern where its prey had gone.
Lorcan drew his sword, quickly-the hellwasp heard and focused on him, but its moment of disorientation had served its purpose.
With a great cry, Lorcan swung the sword into the narrowest part of the hellwasp’s abdomen, shearing through the carapace. Like its sibling, the hellwasp screeched and burst into flames, to be reborn-like its sibling-in the Hells.
Lorcan collapsed bleeding onto the brick wall.
Ashmadai killing other cultists … Rohini and his mother’s plans in Neverwinter in jeopardy … that bloody orc could only be blamed for a portion of this catastrophe. For while Goruc’s murder by the Ashmadai hands might have incited them to kill Glasyans, only Sairche would have the wits to tie it to Lorcan.
He pulled himself up and limped to the nearby tower, a cracked and damaged thing still being built. He had to get Farideh out of Neverwinter. He had to get himself back to the Hells. And now in addition to Ashmadai, mad Rohini, and bloody Sairche, he had Nemea and Aornos to worry about.
Lorcan hobbled down the stairs, taking little solace in the suspicion that in this case, Havilar would be exactly as much trouble as her sister.
Brin left a trail of chalky white footprints across the flagstones of the entry hall. He paused, weary, and regarded the mess. The thought that he should do something about it slipped in and out of his thoughts again. He rubbed the back of his neck with a blistered hand and glanced around the empty corridors.
Brother Vartan had talked at him for what felt like ages before Rohini had come and insisted the priest come with her and that Brin get to clearing the courtyard …
Which he’d done, for ages more, until it occurred to him he hadn’t eaten or rested since Rohini left, and he didn’t recall how the grounds had been cleared of so much rubble, or when he’d emptied the barrow that must have carried it out to the rubble pile beside the Chasm wall. It was as if he’d been entranced.
He stared at the footprints again, still feeling muzzy and hating the feeling of stonedust on his skin. Change of clothes. But first, put his feet up. No, first get some food.
The cooks tried to make him sit down and eat something, but Brin only took a bit of bread and cheese and a jug of cider as he shuffled back toward his room. He was too tired for company, even just the cooks talking over him.