Taegan lifted his pewter goblet of brandy, guzzled it down, and waved for another. He wondered vaguely if had he not met Dorn, Kara, and the others, he might have spent the night actually doing what he was pretending to do: drowning his misery at the destruction of his school.

Not that there was anything fraudulent about his intoxication. He’d always enjoyed alcohol as he did all the other luxuries of the civilized human world, but not nearly enough to parade himself before Lyrabar as anything other than a gentleman with impeccable self-control, thus he almost never overindulged. At first his muddled thoughts and loss of coordination dismayed him, and he began to forget he was even impaired. He found himself craving more and more liquor, even though he was already about as drunk as a person could get and had to struggle to limit his further consumption at least a little. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to walk out of the filthy little tavern when the time came.

Finally Pavel pushed through the door. With his hood pulled up to shadow his features and his sun amulet tucked inside his clothing, he was, in a predominantly human city, the most nondescript of the hunters. Accordingly, he was the best suited to approach Taegan without arousing suspicion. He didn’t even glance at the avariel, let alone speak, but it wasn’t necessary. Simply by making his appearance, he’d given the signal that the cultists had gathered outside to waylay their intended victim.

The dastards thought they were so clever. It was comical, and Taegan had to stifle a laugh. He rose, the room tilted, and he clutched at the edge of his rickety table until it steadied itself. He tossed some coins down to clink among the empty cups, and some of them rolled off clattering onto the floor. He had a murky sense he was leaving too much coin, but it was easier than counting it. Besides, he was supposed to look drunk and heedless, wasn’t he?

It was still work to keep his balance. He took two careful steps, then remembered the Tome of the Dragon. The wretched book had sat in front of him all evening in plain view of anyone who passed by, a lure to snag a cultist’s attention. Presumably it had already accomplished its purpose, and Pavel, Kara, and Brimstone all agreed it had no light to shed on their current problems. Still, Taegan supposed he might as well take it with him. He returned to the table, tucked the purple-bound volume under his arm, and stumbled onward. The murmur of his fellow topers and the melancholy music of the longhorn, yarting, and hand drum trio followed him out into the dark.

The weather had grown cold again, frigid enough for the chill to bite even through his numbness. It couldn’t clear his head, though. He supposed that was bad. Or would be, if he didn’t have friends watching over him. In theory, they’d protect him from would-be assassins no matter how incapacitated he was.

He spread his wings, ascended a few feet, then let himself drop to land on one knee. Too tipsy to fly, that was how it was supposed to look, and it wasn’t far from the truth. Chuckling to himself, unsure if his amusement was genuine or feigned, he stumbled onward, down a dark, crooked lane that seemed a perfect hunting ground for footpads and their ilk.

Where was everyone? He couldn’t spot any of the cultists or his allies, either, and for a few moments wondered why. Then he remembered he was drunk. Evidently it clouded the eyes as much as it deadened the hands and tangled the legs.

Something thrummed through the air above him. It took him a second to recognize the sound of arrows in flight, and another after that to recall that at least some of the missiles might be streaking at him. By then, it was too late to dodge, but nothing hit him.

The cult had stationed archers on the rooftops, killers well positioned to shoot him whether he departed the tavern on foot or on the wing. Fortunately, his allies had neutralized the marksmen before they could accomplish their objective.

A wounded cultist started to scream, but the sound cut off in mid-cry. Evidently Pavel had followed Taegan out of the tavern and used a spell of silence to keep things quiet, as per the plan.

Leathery wings pounding, abishai, their scales either black as ink or the tainted white of dirty, trampled snow, sprang up from nearby rooftops. More arrows flew to pierce their flesh, as did darts of azure light. The latter were Kara’s contribution. Apparently she had more potent attack spells at her command but feared they’d make too much of a commotion. No doubt Will was slinging skiprocks as well, though Taegan couldn’t see them.

A couple of demons crashed down in the street. Others streaked toward their assailants, and one of the black ones landed to scuttle toward Taegan. Its fangs were bared, its talons poised to rip, and its upraised stinger sweated drops of acid that steamed and sizzled on the cobbles.

Taegan hadn’t felt particularly frightened even when battling the gigantic wyvern and its spellcasting rider, but he was growing increasingly alarmed in the street outside the tavern. He wasn’t supposed to have to fight and had no idea whether he could manage it in his current condition. He prayed for one of his comrades to shoot the abishai or jump to the ground to engage it, but none of them did. Apparently they were all busy with opponents of their own.

He chucked away the tome to rid himself of the encumbrance, drew his rapier, and came on guard. He started an incantation to create multiple images of himself, illusory decoys to draw the abishai’s attacks, but his tongue stumbled over the cabalistic words. It spoiled the magic, and the demon pounced into striking range.

The creature clawed and whipped its tail at him. He retreated and parried. Clanking, the rapier knocked the abishai’s hand out of line, but it couldn’t simultaneously catch the stinger, and the avariel realized he hadn’t stepped back far enough. The long, bony point with its glistening coating of acid was going to plunge into his belly.

At the last possible instant, he beat his wings, and it just sufficed to lengthen his hop backward enough to carry him out of range. Unfortunately, when he landed, he lost his balance and staggered to avoid falling on his rump. The abishai sprang, taking up the distance, renewing the attack.

Fangs, talons, or sting—in that moment of confusion he couldn’t even tell which—tore into his wing and lodged there. Gritting his teeth against the resulting stab of pain, he wrenched himself free. No doubt it exacerbated the damage, but it was the only way he could swing around and threaten his opponent anew.

The demon kept pressing the attack, and it was virtually all he could do to parry and evade. When he did manage a riposte, either it came too late to reach the target, or else the abishai slapped the point away.

The demon clawed bloody furrows in his forearm, then nearly succeeded in grabbing his wrist and immobilizing his blade. He realized the foul thing was going to kill him, probably in the next few heartbeats, unless he changed tactics. Alas, fear and the stupidity of intoxication blinded him, and for a moment, he couldn’t see what to do.

Finally, though, a notion came to him. It was a lunatic, quite possibly suicidal maneuver for the flailing, awkward clod the brandy had made of him, especially against an adversary capable of making multiple attacks simultaneously. But in theory, it could work, and even if it didn’t, perhaps he could at least dispatch the demon as it slew him in its turn.

As every duelist learned, no foe could launch an attack without opening up his guard to a counterattack. Accordingly, the next time the abishai drove in at him, he simply extended and lunged, dropping low and twisting his body to provide as small a target as possible, but otherwise making no concession to defense.

The demon’s claws ripped his scalp and its stinger grazed his ribs, but none of its attacks found his vitals. Meanwhile, the rapier drove entirely through its torso. It collapsed against him, helpless for the moment with the shock of its wound.

Refusing to let his own fresh injuries make him any slower than he was already, he shoved the demon away, yanked the rapier out, and thrust again, at which point his foe fell on its face. Having identified the creatures as abishai, Pavel had also known how to fight them. He’d blessed everyone’s hand weapon with a virtue that negated the brutes’ regenerative powers.

Certainly the one in front of Taegan showed no signs of clambering back to its feet. He congratulated himself that, even drunk, he’d proved a match for it, then glimpsed a pale flicker at the corner of his eye. He pivoted, already knowing he was too slow. Another abishai, one of the whites, would have its teeth and claws in him before he could present his blade.

But Pavel was behind the abishai, and he swung his mace. Bone crunched. Its skull smashed, the demon toppled.

The priest turned, peering, making sure no other foes were advancing on them. Then he made Taegan the beneficiary of his healing prayers and luminous touch. First the Morninglord’s golden light mended the maestro’s wounds, then purged him of his intoxication with a spell devised to cleanse the blood of any poison.

“Thank you,” Taegan panted.

“You’re welcome,” Pavel answered. “I’m sorry those creatures slipped past the rest of us. It turned out we hadn’t spotted quite all of them.”

“Remind me, whose job was that?”

“Will’s. I’d be happy to hold your cloak while you give him a thrashing.”

“What a couple of winners,” the halfling said, grinning down from atop the eaves of a nearby house. “You ingrates should be praising me for concocting a perfect plan. We’re all fine, the watch is nowhere to be seen, none of the cultists escaped, and we took a few of them alive. Now all we have to do is drag them somewhere private for questioning.”

The zombie shambled out of the foul-smelling darkness in the abandoned tannery, and Pavel lifted his sun amulet. The medallion blazed. The walking corpse flinched and shielded its eyes, and as it stumbled about in seeming confusion, Dorn sprang at it. One swing of his iron fist nearly sufficed to tear its head from its shoulders. Another buried the knuckle spikes in its chest. The creature fell and lay inert.

When a bladesinger knew he was headed into battle, he could magically enhance his own strength and quickness before the fact, and Taegan had availed himself of the opportunity. Still, his comrades had eliminated the threat with such brisk efficiency that he’d barely had a chance to lift his rapier.

“Nicely done,” he said.

“Not really,” Pavel said. “Lathander’s light should burn a zombie to smoke, but this whole place has been imbued with unholiness, to strengthen the cult’s magic and weaken that of their foes.”

“Rubbish,” said Will. “You’re just making excuses for being inept.”

“Find the secret door,” Dorn growled, stingy with words as usual.

Taegan had noticed Raryn often had even less to say, but that seemed to be simply because he was quiet by nature. The white-haired dwarf ambled through the world with an air of calm affability and often enough, amusement, while the half-golem stamped along seething with sullen anger.

Obeying his leader’s order, Will scrutinized a particular section of wall, looking for traps. Their informant, a prisoner who’d proved more interested in earning his release than protecting the secrets of the cult, had sworn there weren’t any, and Pavel, who’d cast a spell that supposedly enabled him to tell when someone dissembled, believed he was telling the truth. Still, it seemed best to be certain.

At length the halfling unlatched the hidden panel and swung it outward. On the other side was a flight of steps leading downward. The greenish light of ever-burning torches leaked up from below. So did the echoing drone of a sonorous chant. That, too, was as the intruders had expected. Their captive had told them the cult was performing magic tonight, and they hoped to surprise the conspirators in the act, before the dastards had any inkling their latest attempt to murder Taegan had gone awry.

The winged elf and his comrades skulked down the stairs and on toward the chorus. Will, with his knowledge of snares, and Raryn, with his ability to see even if the torchlight failed, took the lead. Dorn followed, his massive form shielding Kara. When she assumed dragon form, she was unlikely to require such protection, but her reptilian body would jam in the narrow tunnels. Taegan played rearguard. Someone had to. The way the dank, gloomy corridors forked and snaked around, it would be easy for an enemy to come up behind them.

The stink of the derelict tannery faded, which merely made the rotting-flesh stench of a den of zombies and necromancers that much plainer. Taegan was almost surprised it didn’t make him sick to his stomach, just as it bemused him that he scarcely felt a flutter of trepidation, invading the cult’s stronghold with such a small force. But he was too eager to go on the attack, to confront the Wearer of Purple once more and avenge the outrages her followers had perpetrated at her behest.

A man wrapped in a dark mantle with an amice-trimmed collar stepped through an arch up ahead, glanced casually at the party slinking down the passage, then peered more intently, trying to determine whether he knew them or not. His eyes widened in dismay, and Raryn’s arrows took him in the heart. He crumpled with scarcely a thump, let alone an outcry to herald his demise. The dwarf dragged the cultist back into the crypt from which he’d just emerged and stashed him where no casual passerby would see the body. The intruders stalked deeper into the catacombs.

Finally they spied a particularly high and ornately embellished horseshoe arch. The chanting, which had become a kind of catechism, with a single female voice and the rest of the assembly speaking contrapuntally, seemed to issue from just beyond it. A noisome feeling of unholy force accumulating, a nasty prickling on the skin, leaked out as well. Will tiptoed up to the doorway, peeked inside, then turned and gave his comrades a nod, indicating that, yes, they’d found the place they sought. As the rest of them crept forward, Taegan whispered a charm to shroud his body in blur.

On the other side of the arch, three semicircular steps led down to the floor of an expansive crypt with a lofty rib-vaulted ceiling. A score of common cultists stood in a ring around an arrangement of bones laid out to form sigils or runes. The air above the symbols squirmed and curdled, continually on the verge of congealing into translucent shapes which then dissolved before the eye could quite make them out. Zombies and abishai stood along the walls, perhaps comprising a grotesque ceremonial guard. Five more living humans, evidently true spellcasters and the officers of the cabal, presided over the ceremony from a dais at the far end of the chamber. The one in the middle was an attractive, middle-aged woman with an impish face and brown curls frosted with golden highlights. At the moment she wore ornate purple robes, but Taegan had often seen her in more conventional attire.

She was Cylla Morieth, a respected instructor at Lyrabar’s school of wizardry and a welcome guest at the banquets, dances, and other social functions hosted by the city’s elite.

It was a mystery that such a person would betray the kingdom that had given her such a congenial life, but Taegan would have to puzzle over it later. At the moment, he and his comrades had cultists to kill. If the plan worked, many of the enemy would die without the chance either to surrender or raise a hand in their own defense, but the maestro felt no pity. These were the same despicable folk who’d murdered Gorstag and set fire to the academy while dozens of his associates slumbered helplessly inside.

Dorn glanced at his companions, making sure they were ready, then snapped them a nod. It was time to begin.

They spread out across the archway. The enemy noticed them almost at once, the chanting dissolving into a babble of alarm, but by that time, arrows and skiprocks were flying. Raryn, Dorn, and Will targeted the figures on the dais first, reckoning them the most dangerous among the opposition, and by a pleasant chance, the combination of the sunken floor and elevated pedestal afforded the marksmen clear shots. Two of the spellcasters fell. A third merely staggered when a shaft struck him in the chest but glanced off the armor evidently hidden beneath his robes.

Meanwhile, Pavel recited words of power, and Kara sang them. The effect of the cleric’s spell wasn’t immediately perceptible from Taegan’s vantage point, but when the bard finished conjuring, a point of light streaked from her outstretched hand into the midst of the cultists, where it exploded into a spherical blast of dazzling, crackling lightning. People, zombies, and abishai jerked, burned, and fell. But not all of them, and the survivors howled and rushed the steps.

Dorn cast away his longbow, whipped out his bastard sword, and stepped forward to meet them. Raryn and Will followed suit. Pavel lifted his sun amulet, and singing once more, Kara started to grow, her fair skin taking on a sheen like blue crystal.

Taegan recited a spell, and in an instant it shifted him across the crypt onto the dais, where everything fell so utterly silent it was as if a god had struck him deaf. He knew Pavel’s spell was actually responsible. The cleric had sealed that end of the chamber in silence to hamper the enemy spellcasters.

Unfortunately, not all magic required the spoken word, and his square, black-bearded face a mask of fury, the man who’d survived the arrow was even then sweeping his hands through mystic passes. As Pavel sent Lathander’s sunlight blazing through the chamber, balking the animate corpses lurching toward the steps, Taegan lunged. The bearded man tried to deflect the rapier with a dirk, but the avariel deceived the parry. His sword, its strength and sharpness augmented by enchantment, pierced the cultist’s breastplate where the arrow had failed. The human fell.

Taegan whirled, seeking the Wearer of Purple. Though the bearded man had been too provocative a target to ignore, she was his particular task. She knew the answers Kara needed if anyone did, and for that reason, he was supposed to take her alive.

Cylla Morieth was a few feet away, casting a handful of powder into the air. The motes of dust flashed and disappeared, and sound surged back into the world. The stuff had counteracted Pavel’s charm.

That was bad. It would allow her and the other surviving cult spellcaster to use every charm they carried ready for the casting. With a snap of his wings, Taegan sprang, intent on incapacitating her before she could start conjuring.

She pointed at him, and some invisible force slammed him backward. As she hadn’t had time to weave a spell, she must have had the effect stored in a ring, talisman, or some other piece of her regalia. He crashed down hard on the stone platform, shook off the shock of the impact, and scrambled to his feet.

It took him too long, and Cylla had time to conjure. She swept two daggers through mystic passes then tossed them into the air. They lengthened into weapons the size of broadswords then sprang at Taegan, assailing him and blocking the path to the wizard who’d animated them.

He could parry their attacks, but when he riposted to the seemingly empty spaces behind them he found nothing to hit, no invisible but tangible wielders into whom he could drive his point, which meant he could see no way to eliminate the threat. He tried to fly over the weapons, but they simply ascended with him. Safe behind her magical protectors, the Wearer of Purple rattled off another incantation and snapped a handful of black ribbons like a whip.

Jagged lengths of darkness exploded outward from a central point in the air, so sudden and thick that Taegan couldn’t dodge. Their icy touch froze him with sudden nausea and terror. As if sensing his incapacity, the living swords sprang in hacking.

Somehow he broke free of the crippling effect an instant before the blade in the lead would have split his skull. He parried that one and dodged a chest cut from the other, which only preserved his life for a few more seconds.

Soon enough, his luck would run out, and Cylla would kill or cripple him with her wizardry. He had to reach her. He spun the rapier, captured one broadsword in a bind, and flung it away. By that time, the other was slashing, but he twisted aside, then beat it out of his way. Wings hammering, he streaked at the Wearer of Purple. He had no doubt the animated blades were hurtling right behind him, and he prayed he could stay ahead of them.

Taegan lashed the flat of his weapon against Cylla’s temple. He wouldn’t have been surprised if some defensive enchantment had deflected the blow, but it slammed home, and she reeled. Touching down on the dais once more, he whirled.

He’d hoped that if he broke the mage’s concentration, it would stop the living blades, but it hadn’t. They were still chasing him and already leaping in for the kill. If not for the charm that had quickened his reflexes, even Taegan, with all his skill, could never have parried both attacks in the split second he had left.

The fencing master glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye. Her forehead bloody, Cylla had fallen and looked as if she’d stay down for a while, but the other surviving spellcaster, a scrawny little man armed with a skull-topped staff like the wyvern rider, had oriented on the avariel and was using the rod to sketch a glowing pattern on the air. Taegan wanted to turn and attack the cultist, but it was impossible. Cylla’s blades were still pressing him too hard.

As he wondered if he could withstand another curse, the strains of a savage yet beautiful battle anthem swelled above the muddled roar of the battle at large. Kara, fully transformed into draconic form, snapped up the man with the staff, bit him in two, then wheeled to face the trio of abishai flying in to assault her from behind. She puffed out a plume of vaporous lightning, or something akin to it, suffusing the air with the smell of ozone and burning the demons from the air. Then she lunged after other foes, leaving Taegan to manage the floating swords that still doggedly labored to spill his blood.

Fortunately, without Cylla to worry about, it wasn’t too difficult. Like most duelists of flesh and blood, the blades had a few attacks they repeated over and over, and once he identified them, it was even possible to defend and watch the rest of the battle at the same time. It was a relief to see that his comrades were faring at least as well as he had. By the time Cylla’s spell ran out of power, and the broadswords shrank back into daggers and dropped clanking to the floor, the fight was essentially over.

Raryn swung his ice-axe and gutted a final white abishai. Pavel shattered a zombie’s bones with his mace. Those cultists still capable of flight bolted through other, smaller openings in the wall, and exchanging his short sword for his warsling, Will started to give chase.

“Let them go,” said Dorn. “It’s a bad idea to chase them through a maze they know and we don’t. Besides, we have what we came for. Who’s hurt?”

“I’ve got nicks on my arm and knee,” said Raryn.

“I took a bang on the back,” panted Will. “I don’t think it’s bad.”

At which point, Taegan noticed something that gave him a pang of alarm. Her jaws and talons crimson, the song dragon stood trembling, seemingly sick or dazed.

“Kara?” he called. No answer. “Kara! Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes. The blood is stirring the frenzy, but I can control it.”

Her lithe, serpentine body dwindled, the long neck shortening, the wings and tail retracting, until she was a human woman once again. She seized a corner of her cloak and wiped her mouth and hands as if she meant to scrub them raw.

Taegan and the hunters turned their backs on her, giving her the privacy they sensed she needed while Pavel inspected everybody’s cuts and bruises. All the wounds proved to be superficial.

“We were lucky,” said Raryn, and even though they were able fighters all, and had enjoyed the advantages of a sound strategy, a surprise attack, and a dragon battling on their side, Taegan agreed.

“We’ll find out just how lucky,” the maestro said. He hauled the still-groggy Cylla to her feet. “Let’s find someplace cozy and see what this charming lady has to say.”

Under ideal circumstances, Kara would have preferred to depart the catacombs as quickly as possible, and not just because it was remotely conceivable a second group of cultists would turn up to rescue their leader. The very atmosphere of the cellars, tainted as it was with the residue of necromancy, was oppressive to those with the sensitivity to detect it, especially if their souls were troubled. But it seemed more practical to interrogate the Wearer of Purple on site than to march her through the streets and risk attracting the attention of the watch. So the intruders located a crypt their foes had evidently furnished for conversation and relaxation and pushed Cylla into the least comfortable-looking chair. Serving as lookout, Raryn stationed himself by the doorway, while Will and the humans glowered down at the mage.

Kara tried to share in the general mood of righteous satisfaction. It would be better than dwelling on the sickening, enticing taste of human blood that still lingered in her mouth and the shameful, seductive urges it stirred in her head. Better than recalling that, once again, Dorn had seen her teetering on the brink of madness. Even though she doubted his opinion of her could sink any lower, somehow that was the most painful aspect of the whole repulsive incident.

Taegan smiled at Cylla and said, “As I anticipated, you look even more beguiling without your veil.”

Though her brow was split and bloody, and her captors had divested her of her outer robe with its countless hidden pockets for talismans and spell foci, the cultist sneered back with commendable composure.

“You should have returned the tome when I asked for it, Maestro. You may think you’ve won a victory, but it’s an illusion. You and your peculiar assortment of friends are all going to die for your transgressions.”

“But not tonight,” said Will, “which likely means you’ll see the Nine Hells before us. Save me a seat near the ale.”

“If you wanted to murder me,” the cult leader said, “you could have done it back in the conjuration chamber.”

The halfling leered at her and said, “What if Taegan’s idea of a proper revenge is to pull out your fingernails, stick your feet in hot coals, and slit your throat later on?”

Cylla looked at Pavel and replied, “I see a priest of the Morninglord.” Her eyes shifted to Kara. “And a song dragon. You two won’t tolerate torture, even if these ruffians will.”

“You could be right,” the brown-eyed cleric said, wiping his mace with an oily rag. Blood still glued abishai scales and strands of human or zombie hair to the steel head. “But Lathander wouldn’t mind us turning you over to the queen’s men for hanging, burning, or however they execute traitors and diabolists in these parts.”

“Which brings us to an interesting question,” Taegan drawled. “Which kind of cultist are you, my turtledove? We identified two varieties while quizzing your followers earlier this evening. One was made up of lunatics fanatical enough to die for Sammaster’s creed, but the others were opportunists who served the cult simply in the hope of garnering wealth and power and were pragmatic enough to betray it to save their skins.”

Cylla studied him then said, “Somehow I doubt that even if I answer your questions, you’ll actually feel inclined to set me free.”

“Because it would cheat me of my vengeance?” asked the avariel, arching an eyebrow. “You have a point. I would prefer to thrust my sword through your alabaster bosom and watch your exquisite but lifeless body crumple to the floor. But happily for you, I owe my companions a great deal, and your information is important to them. Besides, I’m not offering to forfeit every iota of satisfaction. We don’t promise immunity, merely a head start. The paladins will hear of your treachery in due course, and by then, you’d better have made yourself scarce. You’d better keep running and looking over your shoulder all the days of your life. Never again will you see your friends and family. Nor enjoy the comforts and honors of the life you enjoyed in Lyrabar, an existence that would have contented any person possessed of decency or sense.”

“What do you know about it?” she spat back. “Evidently you’ve picked up a few tricks, but I assure you, you comprehend nothing of genuine magic. I’m a true wizard. The powers we master through intellect and hard study overshadow all others accessible to men. Yet in Impiltur, I must curtsey to those who are lords merely by an accident of birth, or because they babble prayers with the proper servility. I—” She caught herself, and smiled bitterly. “Pardon me, Maestro. You touched on a subject close to my heart, but I suppose we should stick to the matter at hand. Give me a moment to consider your offer.”

“While you’re pondering,” said Will, “think about this. You may imagine you can lie to us, but Pavel, stupid as he looks and generally is, will babble a prayer that enables him to tell. You may think we don’t really want to snitch to the authorities. After all, we didn’t bring them along tonight. But before, they might not have believed what a notorious fencing teacher and a band of outlanders had to say. Now we can show them the catacombs to back up our story. You may believe that if the paladins questioned you, you could bluff your way through. But I’m guessing they can sense lies, too, and even if they can’t, I promise you, you’ve left proof of your involvement lying around down here somewhere. Finally, remember that, now that you’ve let us ruin your operation here in the city and are going to tattle to us, the Cult of the Dragon will hunt you, too. So you really do have to tell, and you truly do need to disappear.”

“Enough persuasion,” growled Dorn. He lifted his iron fist—like Pavel’s mace, it was still filthy with gore—and shoved it in Cylla’s face. “Some of my partners may be squeamish about torturing and killing helpless prisoners, but I’m not. So talk. Otherwise I smash your skull and splash your brains on the wall.”

“All right,” Cylla sighed. “What do you want to know?”

Pavel murmured an invocation and swept his medallion through a complex figure, leaving a trail of golden luminescence. The floating sigil glowed for a moment, then faded.

“Explain all of it,” Kara said. She no longer felt sick or ashamed. She was too eager to find some answers at last. “What’s Sammaster’s grand strategy? Why did he have your cabal procuring gems and precious metals in such quantities? What do you know about the Rage?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know.” Cylla smiled a malicious little smile and continued, “It won’t allow you to stop what’s coming. Most likely it will only break your hearts.”