MALBOLGE, THE HELLS

THE PALACE OF OSSEIA

LORCAN OPENED THE PORTAL TO THE NEEDLE OF THE CROSSROADS and stepped from the courts of Amn to his mother’s treasure room in the Hells. Bloody djinn, he thought. What a mess. At least he’d managed to convince his Phrenike heir to get out of Calimport. There might be a half-dozen others like him, but Lorcan had better things to do than hunt down another one and convince him to take up the pact. A day or so of reminding the Phrenike heir what he stood to lose, what his foremother would have done, what Lorcan was going to do if he didn’t start packing his things before the bloody genasi realized they very much wanted the Phrenike heir dead—well, it had been time better spent.

And it had kept him busy and away from the scrying mirror.

He stood before the iron mirror and scowled at his reflection. As crowded as Calimport and Amn were, he’d had no choice but to alter his appearance. The face that looked back at him was built on the same bones as Lorcan’s, but he didn’t look like himself. His skin was no longer red, but a middling tone that was acceptable most everywhere on Toril. His hair a dark, murky blond. His eyes were still black, but the whites that surrounded them made him look as if he were goggling like an idiot. No horns, no wings, no pointed teeth—everything devilish stripped out of him, and only the human left behind.

And, he thought glancing down at the back of his hands, though it wasn’t supposed to, the spell that shifted his appearance hurt like the Hells. He reversed the enchantment slowly, wincing against the pain. It took him nearly a quarter hour to change back, and left him sweating and sore—but still, it hurt less than doing it quickly. When he opened his eyes, the backs of his hands were red again. He sighed. Someday he ought to put a little more effort into learning that spell properly.

But not today. Fidgeting with the scourge-pendant, he waved the activating ring over the mirror. After that night in the forest, he’d decided to leave her to her own devices for a while. See how she liked things without her “sword.”

With any luck, Goruc would have caught up with them, dealt with the priest, the acolyte, and Mehen, and Farideh would be nothing but grateful to see Lorcan turn up again.

The mirror’s surface swirled. It started to form a mountain road. Then stopped, swirled again. Started to form the gates of a city. Stopped. Swirled. The city again. A broken-down temple. A street. The city.

And no Farideh.

Dread coiled in his stomach. Goruc would not have gone against him, not after seeing all Lorcan threatened. Lorcan waved the ring over the mirror again. This time it showed him Goruc, wild-eyed and storming down a street, his axe still clearly in hand.

Lorcan cursed under his breath and waved the ring over the mirror. This time the image closed in on a building—a shop with a large sign he had no time to read—before leaping back to the gates.

“Godsdamned, piece of—”

“Troubles, Lorcan?”

Lorcan cried out and spun around, fire in his hands. Rohini raised an eyebrow at the spell—a spell that would not so much as singe a succubus.

“Not at all,” Lorcan said, more calmly than he felt. He shook the flames out. “You surprised me.”

“Not as much as you surprise me.”

Lorcan eyed her a moment. Rohini’s voice was no longer a purr but a growl, and she looked more ready to physically tear his heart out than to break it. “What do you mean?” he said carefully.

“What is your warlock doing in Neverwinter?” she asked.

“Neverwinter?” he said, trying hard to sound puzzled. The mountain road. The city gates in a towering wall. Oh, shitting Hells, Farideh, he thought. No, no, no!

“Invadiah didn’t tell me you were involved.”

“I’m not,” he said. “If one of my warlocks has gone off to Neverwinter, it’s simply a coincidence.”

“A coincidence?”

“There are a lot of cities in the world. Is there any reason she shouldn’t be in Neverwinter?”

“You know damned well there is,” Rohini said. She jabbed a taloned finger into his chest. “You pretend like you don’t know or care what happens in the Hells, but you haven’t fooled me at all, half-blood. You know Invadiah’s plans. Are you acting on her orders?”

“I know you’re in Neverwinter,” he countered, stepping back, “and I know Mother’s very unhappy with you. And I don’t want to know more.”

“I think you’re waiting to see how things fall out so you can swoop in and grab the glory.”

“To what end? I have more to lose and nothing to gain. I’m not playing your games, succubus.”

She leaned in close, baring her teeth before speaking in barely a hiss. “Then why are your toys all over my board?”

He shrugged, trying to look insouciant. Trying to look like the careless, accidental son of the most powerful erinyes in Malbolge and nothing more. “As I said: coincidence.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you’ll believe anything I tell you to believe,” he said, harder. “Because I’d hate to tell my mother you destroyed one of my … ‘toys.’ ”

Rohini narrowed her eyes at him. Lorcan’s stomach turned to ice, but he kept his smirk. Rohini had to know Invadiah would let her take the blame if things went awry. She had to know Invadiah was waiting for the merest excuse to cast off the skulking and infiltration Rohini favored for a frontal assault. She had to know—

Rohini slapped her hand down in the center of Lorcan’s chest, sending a wave of agony coursing through him. He gasped and before he could stop her, she did it once more. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

“You understand,” she said, “that it would take nothing—nothing—for me to convince you to go find the biggest, most ill-tempered pit fiend in Malbolge and pick a fight? To waltz up to Glasya herself and call her treasonous? To throw yourself into the midst of your squabbling pack of sisters and let them tear you limb from limb?”

Lorcan kept his mouth shut. Whether she could or couldn’t, he wasn’t stupid enough to test her further. This was Rohini after all.

She kneeled down beside Lorcan and clucked her tongue. “You all think I’m just a tool, when I could kill you without a moment’s breath. You, Invadiah, all her pretty little erinyes.” She chuckled to herself. She leaned in and whispered into his ear, “If you know what’s best, Lorcan, you’ll do what I tell you. Either get your warlock out of my way, or give her to me.”

“I’ll get her out,” he panted. “Give me some time, though. I can’t scry her. The mirror is fighting—”

Rohini stood. “You have until I return to the temple.”

He waited until she’d left, until the worst of the pain and the nausea had passed, before pulling himself up on the bone spurs of the room’s corner. Bloody Rohini. He’d try a few more times, and surely Farideh would get out of the way of whatever was blocking the mirror. He’d call her through the brand, get her someplace secluded, and then travel to Neverwinter and make her leave. He waved the ring in front of the mirror.

A shop. A street. The shop again, and Farideh hurrying out from the alley beside it, glancing back at the front door, over which hung a sign that read “Claven’s General Goods and Armory.”

“Oh, shit and ashes,” he whispered.

Forbiddances positively haloed the shop. Those spells had been what kept the mirror from scrying her—powerful magic that had no place at all around a random storefront. Lorcan’s pulse hammered unpleasantly at him: nestled in the crook of one of the runes in the store’s sign was a trio of black triangles.

The sign of Asmodeus.

Farideh had just left an Ashmadai lair.

He grabbed ahold of the mirror as if he could shake her through it. Stumbling into Rohini’s way was bad enough, but this could make everything so much worse. He pulled hard on the tethers that connected to her brand. She had to get someplace quiet. Someplace he could get to her.

In the mirror, Farideh stopped in the middle of the crowded street, clasped her arm, and flinched. Lorcan pulled again and again.

Listen to me this time, he begged.

Farideh was threading her way through a crowd of people in front of a fishmonger when Lorcan pulled on her scar. It flared so hot and sharp she gasped and clapped a hand over it.

A woman in front of her, a human with large knobby hands, grabbed hold of her shoulder as she stumbled. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Farideh said. But then the pull came again, so sharp it made her eyes water and again she gasped the fishy air. She pushed past the woman and out of the crowd, hurrying toward the House of Knowledge.

He called again, but if he wanted her attention he could come and ask for it. After days of leaving her alone, leaving her wondering what had happened to him, and, of course, what made him take notice of her was finding out she’d spoken to someone else about him and how to leash him better. She should have expected it.

The key is not to hand over the reins too easily, Yvon had said.

Again Lorcan pulled on the scar hard enough to take her breath, and Farideh stopped walking. Around her, the road was still busy with passersby, and off to the right a fountain in the shape of a wyvern swarmed with citizens and children and more than a few gulls.

Mehen often told her she was stubborn, a complaint Havilar often repeated. Farideh headed for the crowded fountain. For once, Lorcan would see exactly how stubborn she could be. She sat down on the edge of the fountain, resolutely ignoring the insistant pain of her scar.

Mehen dreamed.

He was following the redheaded woman from the temple through a forest. Not a forest like Tymanther’s scraggly mountains—heavy evergreens interspersed with bone white birches and monstrous oaks. Around their feet, ferns swished and shushed as they passed. The world smelled damp and resinous, like wet pine.

He remembered waking in the temple, preparing to go haul stone. He remembered the redhead—Rohini, that was it—coming to find him. He must have fallen asleep, though, since he couldn’t make himself ask her where they were or what they were doing. He couldn’t do much at all but follow along after the hospitaler. He hated the dreams he knew were dreams yet couldn’t wake from. But at least Arjhani and Uadjit hadn’t made an appearance yet, to drag up everything that had happened so long ago.

Rohini turned to him.

“Stop,” she said, and he did. In his dream, she looked strange—stronger, fiercer, almost bestial. She grinned at him, but it looked more like she was baring her teeth.

“We’re going to fight some of those orcs you mentioned,” she said. “But I need you to avoid killing them. I want as many as possible alive.”

“Of course,” he said.

“And another thing,” she said. “I won’t look like myself. So mark me—if you hurt me, Mehen, I will hurt you back.”

Confused, he regarded her. He didn’t want to hurt Rohini. He couldn’t hurt Rohini. He drew his falchion, and bowed over it to her, his new commander.

“Good,” she said. Her form wavered and for a moment, she seemed to have wings and talons, her hair a cloud of bloodred. He blinked and he found himself looking instead at a lean and muscular male orc, his face crazed with deliberate scars, his dark hair tinged red. Her face? Her hair? No, it was simpler to call the orc as he looked—young, male, and oddly handsome.

Somewhere deep in his mind, Mehen sighed. This was going to be a long, strange dream.

“Lead on,” he heard himself say.

The Rohini-orc strode through the brush, making no effort to dampen the sound of his passage. Even in his dream, Mehen knew where to step and how to slide around the densest brush. Even if Rohini didn’t care, it was his way.

The squad of orcs crouched around a low fire, finishing the remains of a midday meal. Twelve of them. Half nursing wounds that could not be more than a few days old. All males, but one—a shaman decked in totems and packs of herbs. She was as big as the males though.

At the sight of the Rohini-orc, those who could took up their weapons. At the sight of Mehen they leaped to their feet and Mehen recognized them—it was the remnants of the same group they’d clashed with on the road. Judging by the biggest one’s bellow, they remembered him too.

The Rohini-orc said something in a language Mehen didn’t know, and the big orc cut short his war cry. A few more words and he regarded the Rohini-orc cautiously and curiously. The shaman stared openly and eagerly.

To kill them would be simpler. Clustered like this, if his falchion could reach one, it could reach them all. If they attacked the way they had on the road, there’d be no discipline in the rush—if any of them were archers they’d forgo the bow for the swords and axes that lay at hand, instead of scurrying into the brush. He wondered how hard one could punch an orc before one might kill it.

The Rohini-orc noticed the shaman’s attentions and chuckled. He turned to her and murmured something. The shaman blushed, and Mehen wished he could snort or roll his eyes.

The shaman abandoned her fire and took a place beside the Rohini-orc. Two others of the group also rose to stand beside him. The big leader stomped and howled as they did, baring his big tusks and beating the face of his shield with his sword.

“Now,” the Rohini-orc said in Common, “is where you aid me.”

The leader lunged forward, and suddenly Mehen found himself standing between the Rohini-orc and the leader’s sword. He brought his falchion up to block. The orc’s rough blade caught against the hilt, and Mehen threw him off.

Two more orcs stood, one with his arm in a sling, one with a bandage over his forehead, but neither too wounded to defend their commander. The first’s axe clanged against Mehen’s breastplate, knocking his breath from him. The second was a little smarter with his sword—the blade dipped in behind the plate and cut a deep gash under Mehen’s stronger arm.

The leader roared again, but Mehen slammed his good elbow into the orc’s chin, armor crashing into bone. The orc’s head snapped back and he stumbled. Mehen swung his fist, the falchion’s grip still in it, forward and into another’s sternum, then swept the blade of the weapon across the third, shearing through the hide armor and into his belly. That one probably wouldn’t make it.

The world shifted again and once more he was between the Rohini-orc and another blade, but this time the attacker moved too fast and the blade slid up toward Mehen’s face, cutting a line across his cheek and ear frill. Mehen roared in sudden pain, but his exhalation came with a burst of lightning.

The lighting leaped from the attacking orc, to a pair of wounded seated on the ground, and up to the orc he’d attacked before. The two wounded collapsed, as did the orc he’d first attacked. He hoped they weren’t dead. Rohini would be displeased.

The only orc still standing was the one with the sword who’d stabbed Mehen behind his breastplate—a wound which was steadily bleeding and making it harder and harder to hold his heavy falchion.

Mehen dropped the blade and pulled a pair of daggers from his belt. The swordsman grinned—with those little blades, Mehen would have to get right up close to do any damage.

“Come on then,” Mehen growled.

With a bellow the orc pulled his sword up and swung it down, aiming for—no doubt—the gap in Mehen’s pauldron. Instead, Mehen threw up his arm and stepped into the strike.

The swordsman’s blade came down hard on Mehen’s wrist guard, and the impact shook the dagger from his hand and rattled his arm all the way to the shoulder. But Mehen kept his focus: for that split second, the swordsman’s focus was on his victory and not on protecting himself. Mehen’s off-hand dagger darted in and plunged up to the hilt in the swordsman’s ribs, with the soft hiss of a punctured lung. The orc goggled at Mehen, and then slid to his knees. Mehen wrenched the blade free, and sliced it across the orc’s neck—a quick death for a quick warrior, he thought.

“Three dead,” the Rohini-orc said. Even as an orc, his voice was musical. “I expected better.” He shook his head. “I hope for your sake, Mehen, that they take well to the Chasm.”

“Your forgiveness,” he said. Why was he apologizing? He shook his head. Pain radiated up his arm and across his chest.

This wasn’t a dream. “My wrist is broken,” he said, regarding the awkward angle in a dazed sort of way. His breastplate was full of blood too.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it—” The Rohini-orc stopped as Mehen hefted his falchion once more and pointed it at him.

“What is this?” Mehen demanded. “Where am I?”

The orc clucked his tongue. “Don’t you remember?” he said, and suddenly it wasn’t an orc standing there but Arjhani.

It’s not Arjhani, his mind insisted. You haven’t seen Arjhani in years.

But all the same his heart knew no one else could be standing in front of him, giving him that wry look he knew all too well. No one else had those brassy scales. No one else made Mehen’s heart collapse with the words, “I thought you were helping me. Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” he murmured, as the dream took hold again. “Never.”

Sairché had to wonder if Lorcan had noticed her trick yet, as often as she’d been using it. Invisible, she slipped in behind Rohini and watched as the succubus threatened her brother. She settled down on the same chest of drawers and waited as Rohini left and Lorcan picked himself off the ground and started swearing at the mirror again.

Neverwinter, she thought. Interesting. She hoped the warlock Rohini was so furious about and Lorcan was still swearing at was the same one she wanted. Neverwinter made an excellent smoke screen.

The only trouble was that Lorcan wasn’t leaving. She waited longer than she liked for him to step away from the mirror, before she dropped her invisibility. “Do you need some assistance?”

Lorcan looked up, scowled, and hurled a bolt of magic at her. Sairché ducked and it hit the living wall with a faint squeal. “Stay out of it,” he snapped.

“Mother’s coming,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for something. I passed her on my way. You may want to consider scarpering off.”

Lorcan’s scowl didn’t shift. Only when the thunder of Invadiah’s hooves approached, did he reach for the charm on his shoulder. With a ripple of magic, her brother vanished.

Inelegant, Sairché thought, resuming her own invisibility. But more interesting.

Invadiah burst through the door a moment later. The still-active scrying mirror caught her attention, and she froze, scanning the room in a slow sweep. As her gaze passed Sairché, the cambion plucked one of the gold coins from the pile beside her and flung it at her brother.

The coin hit Lorcan right across the knuckles. He cried out and let go of the charm. Invadiah whirled on him.

“What,” she growled, “are you doing in my treasure room?”

Lorcan shook his wounded hand. “Looking for you?”

“Get out.”

“Of course, Mother. But before I do, you might want—”

Invadiah seized him by one arm and hurled him bodily from the chamber. Sairché covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Too perfect indeed. Invadiah pulled a great urn of some sort out of one of the larger piles and stormed from the room.

She had hardly passed the threshold, but Sairché was up and dragging a heavy battle-axe from the corner. As the door shut behind Invadiah, Sairché threw the latch and felt the handle move beneath her hand as Lorcan tried to turn it.

Sairché heaved the battle-axe up and jammed the upper edge of one blade into the soft floor, so that it lay across the door, its haft wedged against the bony corner of the entry. The handle shook as Lorcan tried to open the door, but the axe and the lock held.

“I’ll only be a moment,” she called.

In the mirror, the tiefling warlock sat beside a fountain, looking around as if she were waiting for something. People swarmed all around her, but Sairché was ready for that. She’d pulled her wings down around her shoulders and draped her cloak over them, tying it shut. With the hood up, she’d pass well enough as a tiefling, as long as no one looked closely.

And if anyone looked closely, it was no skin off Sairché’s nose to vanish right then and there.

The Needle dropped her in an alleyway, half blocked by stacks of cut stone tiles, out of sight but not too far from the wyvern fountain. She crossed the street with a determination she knew would keep people from looking to closely, and planted herself in front of the tiefling girl.

“Well met,” she said. The girl looked up with those odd eyes, startled. She searched Sairché’s face and seemed to recognize her. The cambion grinned.

“I’m Sairché,” she said, “although I’m certain Lorcan’s already told you all about me.”

The girl regarded her with a stoniness that Sairché had to admire. She was wise enough to be afraid, and wiser still to hide it. Skilled too—if Sairché had been a mortal, she might have thought the girl wasn’t cowed.

“It’s polite,” Sairché said, sitting down beside her on the edge of the fountain, “to give your name as well.”

“Is it?” she said.

“Yes. Especially”—Sairché gestured at the people around them, particularly at a knot of tiefling children racing back and forth trying to grab at the leader’s tail—“when in unfamiliar company?” She drew a bead of magic, the beginnings of a spell, to her fingertips. “You don’t want to insult me, do you?”

The girl hesitated. “Farideh.”

“Well met, Farideh,” Sairché said. “Waiting for Lorcan?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you like being his warlock? I imagine he’s rather tiresome. All flash and temper.”

“I don’t know. I’ve no one to compare to. Why are you here?”

“To get to know you better, of course.” Maybe give you someone to compare to.” Sairché leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “He’s never mentioned,” she asked, “why you?”

Farideh shook her head. “I said yes?”

Sairché smirked. Such a foolish answer. “Anyone can say yes. But a warlock is a bit of a burden, isn’t it? You don’t want just anyone.”

Farideh watched the street and didn’t respond.

“There are essentially two kinds of devils who pact with warlocks,” Sairché said. “Harvesters and collectors.”

“Those sound the same.”

“Only because you don’t know what they mean. Harvesters are after souls. That’s the price of the pact, or sometimes they spend their efforts corrupting their charges.” She shrugged. “They find it amusing. But the result is that their warlocks are not meant to be in the world long, especially if they’re not corrupting anyone new. Collectors”—and she gave Farideh a long, appraising look—“are after sets. They want warlocks that match. Certain traits. Certain bloodlines. Certain circumstances. Gets them a little prestige in certain circles.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Lorcan has what’s called a Toril Thirteen. Thirteen warlocks descended from the original thirteen tieflings who made the Pact Infernal with Asmodeus himself. It’s a tricky set, as you can imagine.”

Farideh plucked at her cloak. “He has twelve other warlocks?”

Sairché grinned. Poor little lamb. “Indeed. But he seems to spend an awful lot of time around you. I wonder why that is? I’m not an idiot,” she said gently. “You’re not his paramour. The fact that he thought I’d believe that means either he’s an idiot … or he’s desperate.” She leaned in closer to Farideh. “I have a guess,” she whispered.

“Oh?”

“I think he’s desperate to hide you,” Sairché said. “There’s a very rare heir among a Toril Thirteen. The descendent of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel herself. Only three other devils have collected Kakistos heirs. Lorcan must have one. I think it’s you.”

“And?”

Sairché chuckled. “And if that’s you, you have quite a little bargaining chip my brother’s been keeping from you. There are collectors scattered across the Nine Hells who would do … well, anything you wanted to be sure, to gain an heir of Bryseis Kakistos. Lorcan is no one. Whatever he can give you, he’s already done—and that was begged, borrowed, or stolen.”

The girl searched Sairché’s face, as if she were trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Oh, Lorcan had her good—but he had counted on her never finding out about Bryseis Kakistos, Sairché wagered. On no one ever offering Farideh something better.

Farideh pursed her lips and looked away, off toward the north. “Four,” she finally said. “There are four of … us?”

Another good reason not to keep warlocks, Sairché thought. Mortals focused on the damnedest things. “Three and yourself. You have some long-lost cousins out there, I suppose. Is that it?”

Farideh shook her head. “It’s not as many as I would have thought. There must be lots of devils looking out for … that sort of heir. A Brimstone Angel.”

“Loads,” Sairché promised.

“Is there any way to block their eyes?” She swallowed. “I mean, if you didn’t want to be overwhelmed by collectors.”

“Possibly,” Sairché said. “But I don’t see why you should. There are plenty more suitable options for you. Why not consider them all?”

“I’ll think about it.” She stood as if to go.

“What’s there to think about?” Sairché said. “The sorts of devils that want a Kakistos heir include the peers of archdevils.” She stood too, and looked down her nose at Farideh. “Unless … you have other reasons for staying.”

Farideh shook her head, her expression distant. Perhaps Sairché had read her wrong. “It simply isn’t the sort of thing I intend to jump into again. Good day.”

Sairché hooked her arm into Farideh’s before the girl could stop her. “I’ll see you home. We can talk on the way, as you must have a hundred questions for me. You’re staying in that old temple that Rohini’s holed up in, correct?”

“How did you—”

“The best thing about temples,” Sairché said, her voice low and gossipy, “is that the scrying glass my brother’s so fond of doesn’t work so well through the blessings. You’ll be safe inside.”

“I’m …” She looked down at Sairché’s arm. “I have some errands to run before I return there.”

If she thought to flee with such a pitiful excuse, she was mistaken. Sairché had only a short time before Lorcan found a way to Neverwinter, and she’d better have his warlock set on leaving before then. Sairché squeezed Farideh’s arm more tightly. “Then I’ll come along with you.”

“Just a little farther,” Yvon called back to the orc, who’d told him rather brusquely he was called Goruc. He looked up at the sky, gauging the passage of time: they would be early. He smiled to himself and wondered if Goruc would take that as a comfort or a threat. The path widened into a little grove, and Yvon gestured broadly at the empty space. “And here we are.”

The “grove” Yvon brought Goruc to was no such thing: it was a single pine tree. In the center, the oldest trunk rose up, so thick three men together could not stretch their arms around it. From that trunk, snaking branches, warped by spellplague and themselves as thick as birch trunks, had become roots, plunging back down into the needle-strewn ground, and giving birth to new trunks that sent out new root-branches.

Yvon found himself a seat on one of the low-slung trunks and watched as Goruc spent several moments winding his way around the spellscarred pine, his eyes tracing connections between branch and trunk as complex as any cavern map.

He came around the main trunk and his gaze dropped to the level of his face. Yvon smirked to himself. There was a symbol burned into the tree, overlapped by fresh branches. Goruc reached out and pushed aside enough of them to show … three triangles arranged to form a larger triangle. He frowned and ran a finger over the charred wood.

There was a rustling from the other side of the grove. Yvon kept watching the orc.

Goruc went completely still. He gripped the axe in both hands and edged his way around the thick trunk, scanning the shadowy wood. “What was that?”

Yvon shrugged. “A squirrel? How is it you know the tieflings?”

Goruc’s eyes kept moving over the trees and the shadows created by the low sun. “Got a mutual acquaintance.”

A branch moved behind him.

Goruc spun. Yvon kept watching him.

“Your friends coming soon?” the orc asked.

“Soon,” Yvon said. “What sort of mutual acquaintance?”

“A patron,” Goruc said. He whipped his head around at another rustle of movement. “If you’re trying to trick me with all this, I’ll make certain you regret it.”

A flash of red between those two trunks. Like a bit of cloth waving behind a person as they ducked behind a larger tree. Goruc bared his teeth and leaped toward it.

He bared his teeth. “Show yourself!” Goruc bellowed. “Come out or I’ll kill the shopkeeper.”

Nothing.

“You’re awfully stirred up,” Yvon said. “I thought you wanted our help.”

Four figures, draped in bloodred robes, stepped from the shadows. Loose hoods obscured their faces, and each one wore a sash emblazoned with the same sign: three triangles forming a larger one, surrounded by a figure with nine sides.

“These are your friends?” Goruc demanded, still holding his axe high.

“Yes,” Yvon said, standing and finding his place in the circle. “Mine and the tiefling’s you seek.” He shook his head sadly. “But I don’t think they’re yours.”

“That’s a very nice axe,” the figure standing on his left said. “Wherever did you get it?”

“A gift,” Goruc said. “What are you playing at?”

“Really?” the largest figure—unmistakeably Creed—said. “A very generous gift. One might even say it was quite the steal.”

“Where are the tieflings?” Goruc shouted.

“Yes, that,” Yvon said. “With a bare axe in your hand and, pardon the expression, that beastly demeanor of yours, I don’t think we’ll be pointing you in her direction. Your patron shouldn’t be toying with the disciples of the Raging Fiend.”

Goruc chopped wildly at the robed figures. But they all stayed precisely out of reach, still watching him from the shadows of their hoods.

“Stay back!” he yelped. “You come any closer and—”

“In due time,” Yvon said. “Who sent you to find the warlock?”

“I have a right no matter what he says,” he said. “She killed me twice.”

The fourth figure chuckled. “Well,” a female voice—Sekata—said, “obviously she needs some practice. A fortunate thing we’ve had plenty of that.”

Goruc started to reply, but behind him, Yvon was quicker. The garrote twisted around the orc’s throat. Yvon smiled as Goruc clutched at the garrote, but he still would not drop the axe. He struggled and gasped, and tried to swing the axe over his head. Yvon released the garrote and jumped out of the way.

Imarella’s whip lashed around Goruc’s right wrist, and yanked that arm backward and the axe away from Yvon. In front of the orc, a robed figure stepped forward and raised a hand.

“Adaestuo,” Lector said. The crackling blast of magic caught Goruc in the center of his chest, knocking him off-balance. Creed stepped forward and cracked a club against the back of Goruc’s knees and he crashed to the ground, flat on his back and staring up at the cold stars through the contorted limbs of the plaguechanged tree.

Goruc started to roll to his feet. Lector slapped an amulet against his cheek. “Maollis.”

The orc convulsed once and his arms and legs went limp and stopped obeying him, long enough, at least for the Ashmadai to hold him down.

Sekata’s stake pierced the wrist of the hand that held the axe so quickly his scream came after the crack of dividing bones. Yvon took one of the iron staples from Creed and helped pin down the orc’s ankles, as Sekata drove another stake through the orc’s off-hand.

“Why?” Goruc screamed. “Why?”

“We protect our own,” Yvon said, his voice still gentle.