Jo’orsh’s orange eyes remained fixed on Rkard. “I can’t tell you how to do it,” he said. “If you can’t find the answer within yourself, then Athas is lost.”
The dead lords pulled away a last rib. Liquid stone poured into the banshee’s chest, and the corpse with the huge pulsing eyes rode the viscous stream inside. Jo’orsh’s orange eyes began to dim.
The Dragon reached down to pick Rkard up, spattering the boy with droplets of fiery yellow blood. The young mul hardly noticed, for he was concentrating too hard on what Jo’orsh had said to him. If he could find within himself the key to slaying Borys, then it seemed most likely that the banshee meant it was a matter of knowledge.
Rkard’s thoughts automatically turned to the greatest source of dwarven knowledge, the Book of the Kemalok Kings. His favorite stories described the adventures of King Thurin, who always defeated his enemies by curing the grievous afflictions that had turned them into monsters in the first place. Afterward, the beasts always became either his devoted friends and servants, or they died peacefully, thanking him for releasing them from their eternal agony.
It struck Rkard that as a sun-cleric, his healing abilities were not so different from the way King Thurin had overcome his enemies. He wondered if that was what the banshee had been hinting at. Certainly, as one of Kemalok’s ancient knights, Jo’orsh knew the stories of King Thurin as well as the young mul did.
Borys’s claws closed around Rkard’s body. “So how will you destroy me, child?”
Rkard laid his hand on the seething puncture in Borys’s wrist. There was a brief flash as the red glow drained from the boy’s hand and into Borys’s scaly hide. The wound sizzled and smoked, then the drizzle of yellow fire slowly came to a stop. The hole’s jagged edges stretched toward each other and met, leaving a black, smoking scar where the injury had been.
A knot of anticipation formed in Rkard’s chest. His magic had sealed the wound-but had it healed the Dragon?
Borys lifted the young mul high off the ground and held him in front of a single black eye. “You are considerate, child,” he chuckled. “To show my gratitude, I shall let you live to see your parents-as I kill them.”
A sick, hollow feeling formed in Rkard’s stomach. The boy could not imagine how he was supposed to kill the Dragon. Back in Samarah, he had used the only other spell he knew when had cast his sun-beacon at Borys’s head. That had worked no better than healing the beast. And during the long trip to this place, he had tried punching, gouging, biting, kicking, and every other kind of physical assault he knew. Borys had not even flinched. If there was some way for a boy his age to kill the beast, the young mul could not think of it.
Far below, Rkard saw Jo’orsh lying in the fiery stream. The last glimmer of light faded from his orange eyes. His gnarled bones began to smoke. Finally, his skeleton disintegrated in a white flash, leaving nothing behind except a few crusts of black cinder. Within moments, the slow, swirling currents of boiling rock devoured even that trace of the banshee.
The dead lords waded to shore and stepped onto the black basalt at Borys’s feet. Orange beads of molten stone dripped from their bodies like sweat.
“The Usurper, Tithian, has the Dark Lens and has joined your enemies,” reported the corpse with the pulsing eyes. He was the one who had slipped inside Jo’orsh. “They want the child returned alive, but they are also determined to kill you.”
The Dragon nodded. “Good. If we present them with a choice between the two, they may hesitate at a critical moment,” he said. “Where will we find them?”
“Jo’orsh left them a day ago, so we cannot be certain,” the lord replied. “But the banshee thought that they would be entering the Baxal Shoals by now.”
“Less than a day from my valley,” hissed the Dragon. His grip tightened around Rkard’s chest, sending sharp pangs of agony through the boy’s lungs. “It is a dangerous thing to attack them so close to Ur Draxa. If they slip away and enter the city with the Lens …” Borys let the sentence trail off, shaking his head.
“Then what?” pressed Rkard.
“You cannot imagine, child,” the Dragon said. “Even your nightmares are not that terrible.”
“The Lord Mariner is lying off the shoals with his fleet,” said the corpse with the smoking horns. “With good fortune, he might intercept them-”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you, Lord Guardian?” spat the lord covered by chitinous armor. “After the Lord Mariner is destroyed, all his warriors-”
“The Lord Guardian is right. The Usurper and his companions must be intercepted,” said Borys. “But the Baxal Shoals are a vast labyrinth. Therefore, all my lords will join in the search. The Lord Mariner will divide you among his ships as he sees fit, covering as many channels as possible.” The Dragon looked at the fire-winged corpse. “You will inform the others, Lord Harbinger.”
“As you wish,” replied the lord, stretching his fiery wings.
“I have not dismissed you!” Borys snapped.
The Lord Harbinger froze in place. Even the flames on his wings did not waver.
“It will be difficult for you to reach the Baxal Shoals tonight,” said the Dragon. “If you fail, those who find my enemies must attack during the day.”
The dead lords cast uneasy glances at each other, then the Lord Guardian asked, “What of Sadira’s sun-magic?”
“She’ll destroy you,” Borys answered calmly. “But you have only one chance to attack. If you wait for night or pause to regroup, my enemies will escape and reach the valley in full force.”
“If we are likely to lose, why have us attack, Great One?” asked the lord with the chitinous armor.
“Your success will not be measured by victory, Lord Warrior,” the Dragon replied. “One of you must steal the mul’s sword. The blade was forged by Rajaat, so I cannot attack whoever bears it-but you can. If you can do this one thing, I will destroy my enemies.”
“In that case, perhaps we should also take King Hamanu,” suggested the Lord Harbinger. “His help-”
“Will be required at the Gate of Doom-along with that of the other sorcerer-kings,” interrupted Borys. “I must be ready in case you fail.”
Rkard frowned, curious as to what the Lord Harbinger thought Hamanu could accomplish in the battle. From what the boy understood, sorcerer-kings could not hit someone bearing the Scourge any more than could the Dragon.
“Remember that I created you for just such a time as this,” Borys said, glaring at his lords. “To survive without the sword is not to survive at all.”
THIRTEEN
THE SPIRIT LORDS
From his post atop the mast,Sacha cried, “Five ships!” Though Caelum heard the warning, he kept his eyes focused straight ahead and did not rise from his knees. The sun’s crimson rays were filtering through the tangled boughs rising from the shoal ahead, and the dwarf could see by the flat bottom of the orb that the red sphere would not rise completely for many more moments. He would not allow the appearance of a few ships to disturb his devotions-especially not when he had such need for the sun’s favor.
“Great Beacon, shine upon my enemy, so that his weakness will glare with a scarlet radiance that even my unseeing eyes will find,” intoned the dwarf.
Rikus stepped into the bow next to Caelum. “What do you make of those boats, cleric?”
Though he did not respond, Caelum saw the boats. Five of them lay dead ahead, sitting broadside in a single line. The vessels were all cutters. Their single masts billowed with gossamer sails shaped like bat wings and unsupported by any sort of yardarm. The decks bristled with catapults manned by half-decomposed corpses. The hulls were made of burnished basalt and looked far too broad to have navigated down the narrow channels that came together to form the bay.
Caelum returned his attention to the rising sun. “Kindle in me the fires of your vengeance, Mighty Punisher,” he said. “Let the flames of your fury pour from my raging heart and char my enemy’s flesh, melt his eyeballs, scorch his bones until they crack. I beseech you, let the inferno of my anger sear his body until it is a black and smoking cinder.”