Depths of Madness - Erik Scott De Bie [50]
Davoren laughed derisively, a sound much louder than the fires. "Ah yes, the courageous Fox-at-Twilight, always so witty, always so much better than others," he said. "Is that why you chose us, I wonder, because you think yourself superior?"
Ducking below the smoke that was filling the chamber, Twilight opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of that, but he was already rattling on.
"I wonder if Telketh and Arandon ever knew how little you thought of them. Or perhaps they were too distracted, having shared your bed. They were so eager to give their lives for you. I wonder if they ever realized you meant them as little more than monster feed. I wonder about Quelin, the sniveling paladin, or even that bitch Galandra. Did you seduce her too, I wonder?"
His voice came from all sides, as though he were stalking about her fiery prison. She loathed evil monologues, but they were a typical consequence of an assault on a spellslinger's pride.
"You disappoint me, Davoren," Twilight said. Without any stealth-knowing that he couldn't see her beyond the flames or through magic-she reached back with the warlock's stiletto and slid it, point-first, into a flask at her belt. "I would have thought one such as yourself would recognize the value of ruthlessness."
"Nevertheless," Davoren growled, but said no more. Twilight was grateful.
"I thought I was hiring a spellslinger worth a dozen gold a day in Westgate," she called, "but I see now you're nothing but a pathetic worm. You're too afraid to confront-what did you call me on the way to this expedition?-a 'two-copper trollop with a flimsy metal twig she calls a sword'?"
"I'm sure I was more imaginative, whore," came the warlock's reply. "But I wasn't far off the mark. Your meager skills and your pathetic powers are nothing compared to mine. Your sniveling changeling god is as nothing against the might of the Lord of Baator."
"Why not stand and face me, and show me this supposed might?" Twilight asked. "If you are truly as great as you claim, there is little a poor lass like me can do to defeat you." She stretched her back and grinned. "Unless, of course-you aren't."
Davoren strode through the flames, dark power licking at the fringe of his robe. His eyes pulsed with ruby energy and his face contorted with rage. Fire leaked from his fists as he bore down upon Twilight.
"Insolent, mongrel bitch!" he growled. "I shall see you beg!"
"Many have spoken thus," said Twilight. "All are dead." "You'll join them!" Davoren lunged, power streaming from his hands and eyes.
Twilight put out the dusky rapier and dropped, a low stop thrust that would have spitted any sword-dancer foolish enough to charge thus. Davoren, however, merely sent the sword clattering aside with a pulse of his power and loomed over Twilight. She spun with the blow and buried the stiletto in his side.
The darkness abated and the wall of flames flickered out, leaving an eerie, vile smoke hanging at the edges of their vision.
Davoren, shaking off his surprise, gave her a mocking grin. He looked down at the little trickle of blood making its way down the stiletto's edge. "Not cold iron this time, eh?" the warlock asked. "I hardly feel it."
"Not the blade." Twilight smiled. "The poison."
The warlock blinked in confusion-once, then a second time slowly, then a third time, in which he fought to move his eyelids. He felt it then, a subtle chill that flowed through his veins. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened, but he could not move.
Twilight glared in his face. "My nar'talas venom. Locklimb, humans call it," she said. "Brewed from the juice of a rare breed of centipede native to Evermeet. Causes mild euphoria when inhaled and instant paralysis when introduced to the blood."
She yanked the dagger free. Davoren didn't flinch-couldn't, Twilight thought-and wiped it clean on the warlock's robe.
"Only a little bit flows