“And you will free me?” the demon asked, its watery eyes blinking.
“Yes,” Pharaun lied. “As soon as we reach the Abyss.”
The demon’s whiskers twitched.
“The mouth is in the belly of the ship,” it said.
“In the hold?” Pharaun asked.
The demon nodded.
“How do we reach it?”
“Use her wand,” the demon said, flicking a finger at the forked wand in Quenthel’s belt. “The hatch is hidden by magic, but the wand will show you its location.”
Pharaun’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the sly smirk in the demon’s eye. A wand of location was easy to recognize by its distinctive forked shape, but it was almost as if the demon wanted Quenthel to use it. Was there some additional property of the wand that Pharaun had missed—something the demon hoped to turn to its advantage?
“Just a moment, Quenthel,” Pharaun told her. “We’ll use my wand, instead.”
Reaching into the slender case that hung from his belt, he drew one of his four wands and waved it in a slow pass in front of him, level with the deck of the ship. A hatch that had been previously hidden by magic suddenly became visible, its edges limned with a faint purple glow. The ring-latch that would open it was recessed into the hatch itself, flush with the deck. Nodding, Pharaun tucked the wand back inside his case.
Quenthel chuckled and reached for the latch, then paused as her whip vipers hissed a warning. She glanced at Pharaun, parted her lips as if to speak, then decided against whatever order she’d been about to give.
Instead she turned to Jeggred and commanded, “Open it.”
Obediently, the draegloth bent forward.
“Jeggred, wait,” Pharaun barked.
He had no love for the draegloth, but Pharaun was still suspicious of the demon’s motives. Waving Jeggred back, the wizard motioned for the demon to open the hatch, instead. It was just within the demon’s reach. By straining, the uridezu was able to hook its fingers into the latch.
Be ready, Pharaun signed to the others behind the demon’s back, reaching for a different wand. Somethings going to come out.
He was right. As soon as the demon yanked open the hatch, a wave of rats scurried out, tittering and squeaking. And no ordinary rats but gaunt, half-rotted caricatures of life—a swarm of tiny undead.
With a speed born of long practice, Pharaun fired his wand. A lightning bolt exploded from it and careered along the deck, turning nearly a dozen of the creatures instantly to charred flesh and blackened bone.
Quenthel and Jeggred were equally quick to react. Quenthel lashed at the rats with quick flicks of her whip, and Jeggred batted whole handfuls of them away with powerful sweeps of his fighting arms.
Pharaun chuckled as he blasted the last of the swarm with his wand. Was that the best the demon could do—summon up a few undead rats?
The laughter died in his throat. He’d been expecting a complicated trick worthy of a sava master and had felt somewhat disappointed when the demon had done nothing more than send a swarm or undead rats against them. Then Pharaun realized the demons real plan—one so simple it had slipped under Pharaun’s guard. The undead rats’ attack on Pharaun, Quenthel, and Jeggred was just a diversion. All the demon needed was for a single rat to survive. That animal’s true target, as directed by the imperative telepathic commands of its demonic master, was the chain.
The soft lead chain.
An instant later the rat’s sharp teeth parted the chain, and the demon was free. Whirling in place, it lashed out with its tail once—knocking Jeggred headlong down the slanting deck, through the dome of force and out into the whirling sea—then again, sending Quenthel tumbling after him.
It turned to face Pharaun, whiskers quivering.
“Wizard,” it squeaked. “You are mine.”
Pharaun made no answer as his free hand plunged into his pocket, whipping out a glove. As the demon bared its fangs, then leaped for his throat, Pharaun was silently thankful it had chosen a simple frontal attack, rather than to use its magic—it would give him the instant he needed to cast his spell.
Demons really were predictable.
Sometimes.
Chapter Thirty-four
As the mouth of the tunnel came into view, Ryld’s heart sank. Fresh snow lay ankle-deep on the slope that led up to the surface, and enormous flakes of white were falling into the tunnel so thickly it was impossible to see more than a few paces beyond the opening. How were he and Halisstra ever going to find their way across the Cold Field in that curtain of white? Without landmarks to guide them, they were likely to wander in circles until the cold finally claimed them.
Over and above that small problem, Ryld was already tiring. His House insignia allowed him to levitate, so that Halisstra could tow him through the air like a child’s floater, but the concentration required to sustain the brooch’s magic was wearying him. Allowing it to lapse, he sank gently to the ground and contemplated the snow falling into the tunnel.
Halisstra shivered, making him aware of just how woefully inadequate her clothes were to ward off winter’s bitter chill.
“Do you have any magic that will keep you warm?” Ryld asked.
She nodded and answered, “Eilistraee will grant me a spell that will help me resist the cold, but...”
“But what?” Ryld prompted.
Halisstra sighed and said, “It only lasts a short time. I’d have to recast it—several times—to keep warm all the way to the edge of the Cold Field. And that would mean not being able to recast the spell that’s keeping you alive.”
“Then leave me.”
The look Halisstra gave him needed no words.
“How long do I have?” he asked instead of arguing.
“The spell I cast on you should last the rest of the night, at least—until just after the sun rises,” she told him. “I’ll use my magic sparingly until then and count on the sun to keep me warm afterward. That should leave enough magic to slow the poison a second time. Let me know—immediately—if your pain worsens. The spell’s duration isn’t that precise. It could wear off suddenly, without warning. If the poison returns full force to your body, the shock could kill you. The fewer times I have to recast the spell, the better.”
Ryld nodded.
Halisstra shivered, then added, “Let’s get moving. I’ll be warmer if I’m walking.”
Once again Ryld levitated. Halisstra trudged up the slope and onto the open plain, boots squeaking in the fresh snow, towing him behind her, then she broke into a jog. After no more than a dozen steps Ryld was unable to see the worm hole behind them. Ahead lay a thick veil of falling snow that hid the landscape from sight. No stars or moon could be seen overhead. The sky was a solid, sullen gray. Thick flakes landed on the weapons master’s close-shaved scalp, melted, and froze again.
For a time, the rapid pace Halisstra set kept her warm. But by the time the snow had deepened to calf level, she was shivering. She pressed on until her teeth began to chatter, then at last she paused and whispered a quick prayer to Eilistraee, her breath fogging in the bitterly cold air. When it was done she breathed easier. Gradually her shivers subsided.
As she’d predicted, the soothing effects of the spell didn’t last long. Halisstra was able to continue for some time more, her jog slowed to a walk by the deepening snow, but then she began to shiver again. When she raised a hand to her lips, blowing on it, Ryld saw to his dismay that her fingertips had a grayish tinge. The surface elves had a word for it: frostbite. Ryld was coming to understand why they’d chosen such an odd term. His own fingers and toes—and the end of his nose—felt raw, as if invisible creatures were gnawing on them.