24


    Snowmont had fared a bit better than Karellon or… gods… any or all of the Ghost Coast. The behir was a genuine menace; fighting to cross the town square as though trying to reach the demolished brewery. Having scented dragon or draconic ancestry, the monster battled dwarf, elves and Tabaxi like the construct of hate that it was.


    Rolled, bellowed, clawed and swatted all within reach. Constricted Tristan, snaring the clan-master in four tight coils of dark blue, crushing muscle. His arms were pinned as those coils relentlessly tightened, cracking the Tabaxi warrior''s ribs and dislocating one arm.


    Hilt rushed forward, bounding and scrambling along the broken stone of the town square; hurtling Orrin''s statue. Shouting insults and flinging axes that always came back to her hand, the dwarf did her best to distract the behir. Got her wish, too. Saw its neck arch as that ugly head reared up into the sky, and its jaws gaped.


    Cursing, Hilt dove into the shelter of tumbled, cracked flagstones, crouching down out of sight as lightning crackled and flared all around her. Most anyone else would have been killed; roasted alive by electrical fire.


    …but Hilt was a dwarf, and part rock. It hurt. Holy gods, did it hurt. Scorched her flesh. Burnt away all her red hair and beard, but (stubborn daughter of stone that she was) Hilt survived. Lost consciousness; lying there sprawled and jerking, with a pair of burnt spots on her forehead and lower back.


    Lord Arvendahl had left a unit of archers behind when he departed for Karellon. Just fifty bowmen, they''d joined the fight, shooting arrows in terribly accurate, hissing waves. Surrounding the beast. Wearing it down.


    Then Sandor was badly injured; back broken when he darted too near the behir''s lashing tail. Was hit hard. Thrown end-over-end to smash onto the splintered beams of the Merry Lad. Arien rushed to defend their fallen comrade, while Kellen cried orders and fought like one possessed.


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    Anything might have happened, on this longest of nights. They were wearing it down, but not quickly enough, and one by one they were falling. Then the brewery trapdoor swung open with a wavering creak and a thump. Not flat. Too much debris in the way, but with room enough for a slim, glowing figure to creep forth.


    Lady Alfea it was, shining with all the light of Quetzali nobility. Of feathered serpent ancestry. She''d left her baby and lapdog behind with a frightened young serving maid. Now, face streaked with tears, but otherwise calm, her ladyship said,


    "Stop, please. Stop fighting. I am the one it is hunting for, and I will not have anyone else hurt, to protect me."


    Orrin''s chief steward, Raun, had followed her out of the tunnels. Stood clutching his courage and a stout cudgel. He shook like a leaf, but refused to leave her ladyship''s side.


    The behir hissed and spat, its head weaving back and forth through the cold, sleety air like a snake''s.


    "Back away, please, all of you," she requested, in a gentle voice they could not disobey. "Just… take care of Pudgy and Bean for me, please. Promise to care for my babies."


    Her voice was sweet and musical. A pure distillation of light.


    "I don''t know why I am here… what I did… but, Creature, these others have sheltered and aided me. I offer myself, asking only that you leave them in peace once I am… I … once it is over."


    The sheer wave of hate and disgust that blasted out of the monster broke the spell of Alfea''s soft voice.


    "Dragon-blood," it rumbled, "I promise nothing but doom to you and all of your filthy, devouring kind!"


    Then everything happened at once. Alfea''s small dog burst out of the trapdoor to come between his young mistress and the behir, barking wildly. Raun seized his lady and swung her out of the monster''s path. The behir lunged forward, jaws gaping, teeth alight with sparking electrical force. Kellen raced over, hit the cracked, tilted ground and rolled, coming up under the monster''s chin. Arrows rained down to quill an already bristling, clattering hide, as Tristan at last squirmed free.


    Then Kellen took up the hilt of his perfectly ordinary sword (with its stuck-on green gems and grandiose name). Drove it upward with both of his hands and all of his last-magic strength. One shot in a million. Straight up through that dropped lower jaw and the crackling roof of its mouth, cleaving its tiny, malevolent brain.