Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,49
doesn’t turn into full-scale war.”
“Have you heard anything yet? Has she been in touch?”
” ‘Soon,’ was what she said, the last time we spoke.” Kâras wiped mud from his face with a sleeve. “I pray she’s telling the truth. A tenday-plus-two is long enough. This is worse than Maerimydra.”
A kobold burst out of a nearby hovel, skidded to a stop as he spotted the two drow, and tried to duck back through the door. Valdar whirled and threw; his knife buried itself in the slave’s throat. A snap of his fingers brought the knife back to his hand, even as the kobold fell.
“May the Masked Lord grant that prayer,” he said as he wiped the blood from his blade with a white silk handkerŹchief. He tucked the weapon back into its wrist-sheath. “I’m certainly ready for her call. My bunch is slurping out of the palm of my hand. Ripe for Gathering, you might say.”
Kâras shook his head. Valdar actually seemed to be enjoyŹing this mission.
They paused to listen. The shouts and cries of battle conŹtinued. Over them came a distant gonging: the call for House Philiom’s priests to return to their keep. The larders were once again full, and the Gathering was at an end.
“Time for me to go,” Kâras said.
“Me too.” With a wink, Valdar vanished. One moment he stood next to Kâras; the next, he had teleported away, as silently as he’d come.
Kâras picked up his tentacle rod. He glanced around. His own lizard had curled against the wall of a hut to chew off what remained of its tail. But Molvayas’s mount was whole. Kâras ran over to it and sprang into the saddle. He drove his spurs into its flanks and hissed. The lizard scuttled away, climbing up and over the nearest hovel. As it descended the opposite wall, he heard shouts of triumph: the priests of House Abbylan had discovered Molvayas’s corpse.
Kâras rode away from the hovels, onto the field that sepaŹrated the two keeps. The House Philiom priests were just ahead, forming up their mounts. This done, they rode hard for their keep, following the line of bubbling black pools left behind by the tentacles’ return to the earth. Some of the priests were wounded and clung to their saddles. One sagged, then tumbled backward across his lizard’s tail. His body dragged for a moment, but then his foot slipped from the stirrup, and he fell away. The other riders ignored him and continued to ride.
Kâras rode with them. The priests of House Abbylan followed for a time, hurling spells at the retreating group, but soon gave up the chase. Eventually the priests of House Philiom reached their own, now empty fields. The slaves, rightfully fearing they might be gathered along with the slaves of House Abbylan, would have fled when the line of tentacles sprouted from the earth. Kâras rode past the hovels, to the keep, and over its drawbridge. When the last of House Philiom’s priests was inside, House boys sprang to the capŹstans and cranked the drawbridge shut.
Kâras dismounted. The surviving priests glanced around, taking stock. They’d lost five of their number, including Molvayas.
“Where’s Molvayas?” asked Shi’drin. He was their second-in-command, a stunted drow with a pustule-crusted face. “Did anyone see him fall?”
“I did,” Kâras answered. “One of House Abbylan’s priests killed him.” He flicked his rod, sending a shiver through its three black tentacles. “I dealt with him in turn.” He didn’t bother explaining why he was mounted on Molvayas’s lizard. Those who followed Ghaunadaur’s creed took what they needed, scorning those who were too weak to keep it.
Shi’drin nodded. He touched the eye on his tabard. “Ash to ash; mud to mud,” he intoned. “May the Ancient One consume what remains.”
The other priestsall but one, who had collapsed after dismounting and was being eaten by his lizard, bringing the total lost to sixtouched their tabards. Kâras did the same, doing his best to ignore the wet rip of flesh and the gulps of the lizard as it bolted down the dead priest. He wanted desperately to escape to the solitude of the room he’d been assigned after he arrived on House Philiom’s doorstep, claiming to be from Skullport. He wanted to cleanse his body of mud, shroud himself in magical darkness and silence, block out the shrill screams that echoed constantly down the keep’s foul-smelling corridors, and pray. Pray for the strength to continue this blasphemous charade and see his mission through.