Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [97]
He didn’t feel sorry for them, though he stopped Redanvil from kicking them when no one else was paying attention. Maybe the cultists had been compelled or fooled. But maybe they were acting; before anything else, they had been sworn members of the Firestorm Cabal.
After far more time than it should have taken, they finally escorted the freed captives and cultists from the chamber of the pit.
The exit tunnel opened onto the cell-lined corridor where Murmur and the cultists had trapped them. The way was completely clear. If an ambush had been planned, the narrow corridor would have been the place to bottle them up. Chant breathed easier, thinking they were finally on their way.
“This way!” he yelled, pointing at the smashed doors at the end of the corridor.
“Not until I’ve made sure Jett isn’t still down here,” said Demascus, pointing the opposite way, which continued on past the entrance to the pit chamber.
“We’ve got to get these people out of here,” said Carmenere. “The captives need more tending, and the cultists must face justice.”
“You go ahead, then,” said Demascus. “You two, stay with Carmenere, will you?” He gestured to the freed watersoul and dwarf.
Redanvil, who’d helped himself to a cultist’s sword, said, “Wouldn’t think of leaving her. We owe her, and you, our lives.” He executed a smart salute with his blade.
“Hold on,” said Riltana, glancing between the silverstar and the deva. “We shouldn’t split up. Carmenere, just keep everyone here until—”
“These people have spent enough time in this cellar of horrors,” the earthsoul said.
“But we need to make sure the cult is completely eradicated,” Riltana replied.
Carmenere nodded and said, “Rilta, go with Demascus and Chant. I’ll make sure nothing else happens to these poor people. Redanvil and Ushen will help me. All right? We’ll talk later. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Carmenere nodded, distractedly, Chant thought, and directed her newly deputized aides on how to best herd the crowd down the corridor.
Chant watched them, vacillating between leaving with the silverstar and staying to help Demascus. The last thing he wanted to do was find and fight more cultists.
Riltana turned her angry regard on him, and said, “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” he replied, forcing lightness into his tone.
She stalked after Demascus, who’d already taken off down the corridor in the direction opposite the way out. Chant forced the thought out of his head.
They passed another bank of cells, all empty.
Demascus entered a foyerlike space with three doors on the opposite side. The floor was carved with the omnipresent jagged spiral, and guttering green fire burned in ornate braziers.
A corpse with the sign of the cult on his sleeve was facedown on the floor. Blood overflowed the symbol of the Elder Elemental Eye.
Demascus rolled the body over. No one recognized the earthsoul revealed.
“That’s one down,” said Chant.
Demascus said, “Some kind of falling-out in cult land.” He examined the body. “This fellow didn’t know he was in peril. He was stabbed from behind and without warning.”
“Like he was assassinated,” Chant said.
Demascus met the pawnbroker’s eyes, and gave a curt nod. “Yes. It’s what I would have done, if I didn’t have a garrote …” Demascus frowned.
Something clattered behind the middle door. Riltana whispered, “Listen! Someone’s still here.”
Chant drew his crossbow. The stock’s cool touch in his palm calmed his jangled nerves.
Demascus crept to the door. A glimmer of yellow light spilled out when he cracked it. The deva peered in.
Something bulky crashed to the floor in the room.
Demascus’s own shadow rolled up across his body. A silhouette of gloom, not Demascus, pushed the door open and slipped inside.
A bronze-skinned genasi with a jagged spiral tattoo on his neck stood in the center of a ransacked office.