It was the calm voice they'd traded words with in the darkness.
"Of course," Mirt squeaked, trying to make his voice sound unlike his own.
He and Durnan both stepped back, lifting empty hands to signal that they meant no harm. But as the woman reached the top of the steps, Durnan whirled back to face her, luring her attention. Mirt plucked back her cowl.
Her revealed face was smiling wryly. Beneath the emerald-green cloak was a rather plain, heavy-set woman in a rumpled gown. She had very large, dark, arresting eyes. Around their dark-fire gaze one scarcely noticed plump cheeks, pale skin, and unruly brown hair.
"Well met, lady," Durnan said. "What price are your secrets now?"
"Bensvelk Miirik Darastrix loex?"
The hiss was swift and angry.
"The Keeper?" a deeper, calmer voice rumbled. "Nay, nay, she lives. Were she to die, yon crystal would burst." A hand waved at a glowing orb of glass halfway across the cavern. "And you really should keep to Common, Orauth. Even in Waterdeep, Draconic attracts attention."
"Malval om aurm!"
"Of course your anger is great. So is mine. To lose
her would be an aurm blow, yes, but the true korth is if humans learn what she does—and through her, of us. Which is why I watch the crystal. Anyone who captures, attacks, or hurls magic at her must die."
"Lay a hand on me," the woman said, "and I'll scream for the Watch."
As she spoke, more Watch officers trotted past, several Watchful Order mages striding among them.
"Ye mistake our natures, lady," Mirt protested.
"No, she doesn't," Durnan disagreed, before the Keeper could reply.
Whatever word she started to snap dissolved into a swift, short laugh.
She tugged her cowl free of Mirt's fingers, faced them both squarely, and asked, "What do you want?"
Mirt blinked at her then said, "Uh—er—to know thy name, an' who those men were, an' what ye did to them an' how, an'... an'..."
"Yelver's secrets," she finished calmly, shaking her head.
"Nicely listed, lady," Durnan agreed politely, and fell into waiting silence.
As it stretched, the three of them stood regarding each other, and the street around them filled with gawking Waterdhavians.
"Very well," the woman said at last. "You may call me Taunamorla."
"And?" Durnan asked politely.
"I am still," Taunamorla said with a smile, "the Keeper of Secrets."
"Your real name being one of them?"
Taunamorla's smile widened.
"Of course," she replied. "Now, neither of you are dullards—and so I believe you can guess how dangerous questioning me further will be."
Durnan touched Mirt's arm, and the stout moneylender nodded curtly. He'd already caught sight of a tall, cloaked man striding toward them among the gathering crowd of gawkers who were staring at the shouting Watch and the smoking, still stone-shedding ruin of the shop. At Durnan's caution, he saw two more cold-eyed men, bareheaded but in full armor, approaching from where the innkeeper was facing.
"You have friends," Durnan observed calmly.
"I keep secrets," Taunamorla replied. "Go now, and keep your lives."
Mirt bowed to her and started away down the street, leaving behind only the comment, "We'll meet again, Lady of Secrets."
Her reply was as calm as ever: "Of course."
They were halfway back to the Portal when fire mounted up into the night sky behind them with a roar that sent Mirt staggering.
"Keep going," Durnan said. "Whatever's happening, I'm sure the Keeper of Secrets is involved—and that we're better off draining tankards over our lancers and pondering what she is. Beyond a powerful spell hurler, that is."
"A powerful spell hurler with enemies," Mirt replied, as they hastened on together.
Another, larger blast followed, then far-off screams, splintering sounds, and what sounded like something very large-lunged roaring in pain—a protest that abruptly ended in yet another explosion.
Mirt glanced back, but could see nothing more than
a lot of sparks and cinders, high above the roofs of Waterdeep. Then the horns of the Watch started—the full alarm-call that would summon the Guard, and mages, and—
"The Portal" Durnan reminded his friend.
Mirt lurched two steps more along the way back to the inn before the air in front of them flickered, and the Keeper of Secrets was suddenly standing in front of them, her eyes glittering with anger.
"Gentlesirs, I find I need you," she said.
"Us? Upstanding merchants of Waterdeep?" Mirt grunted.
Taunamorla smiled thinly and said, "Indeed. Upstanding merchants of the city are precisely what I'm in need of, just now."
"How so?"
"Your word will be accepted by the Watch—and I can bargain with you."
"You want us to lie about something," Durnan observed. "About what, and for what reward?"
"My thanks for your haste," the Keeper of Secrets said in a rush, giving him a smile that might warm most men's hearts. "I will trade you all of Yelver's secrets for a few words of false testimony."
"Say on," Mirt rumbled. "What testimony?"
"To defend his very life, a friend of mine was just forced to trade spells with several Watchful Order mages. Men died—a lot of men, some of those mages and officers of the Watch among them—and I need you to swear that this friend of mine was with you, since you left my office earlier this night."
Durnan lifted a disbelieving eyebrow and replied, "Our word against many of the Watch? Lady, you overestimate our reputations. If they know they saw him, the protests of an innkeeper and a moneylender aren't going to-"
"When fighting the Watch, my friend wore a magical disguise. He looked like a dragon, not like himself."
Durnan cast a swift, questioning glance at Mirt—who looked straight at Taunamorla and shook his head.
"Nay," Mirt grunted. "Yelver's secrets were worth seventeen dragons to me—if they could lead to the recovery of all my loaned coins. Knowing just who an' what ye truly are—for peace of mind alone—could be worth much more, in the years ahead. So that would be my price. Full and honest answers to these: What manner of creature are ye, lady? When came ye to Waterdeep, an' why? The answer that stands behind keeping secrets for worms like Yelver, mind ye."
"Do you know what you're asking?" the Keeper of Secrets asked.
"Aye, lady, I believe I do."
Torches flickered behind them, and there were shouts. Cries of discovery from the Watch, and hastening feet. The woman in the green cloak glanced over Mirt and Durnan's shoulders, her mouth drawing down into a tight line.
"I'm out of time," she snapped. "I, Taunamorla, agree to this bargain. Do you, Durnan of Waterdeep? And do you, Mirt of Waterdeep?"
"Lady, I do," Durnan said. "By blood and my last coin I bind myself."
"Lady, I do," Mirt echoed, hard after his friend's words. "By blood an' my last coin I bind myself." And he added less formally, "Though 'twould help if we at least knew thy friend's name."
"Raumorth, he's called," the Keeper of Secrets said swiftly, as the Watch thundered down upon them in a thunder of running boots, clanging blades, and angry shouts. "I accept your bindings."
"And where is Raumorth?" Durnan asked urgently.
"Right behind you," Taunamorla hissed.
The two friends whirled around—to meet the cold smile of a man they'd seen before: the tall, cloaked man who'd been walking toward them as they'd questioned the Keeper near the ruins of her shop. His hands were raised—as if he'd been ready to blast Mirt and Durnan down. Not far beyond him was a running pack of armored men: a great mustering of the Watch.
"I'm a mage from Tethyr." Raumorth's voice was deep and rich. "You don't know me well, but you've befriended me—a trader and traveling investor who's visited Waterdeep once a season or so, for years."
"Of course," Durnan agreed, smiling at the man and stepping casually past him so that the foremost Watch officer's sword no longer had a clear path to Raumorth's back.
"Way! Make way! Stand aside, man!" that onrushing Watchman bellowed.
Mirt and Raumorth winked at each other—and obediently stepped back, Durnan with them, the three men parting like windblown leaves to leave the Watch a clear path to charge at... the Keeper of Secrets.
Who suddenly looked bewildered and flustered, as she squeaked, "Ohh! The Watch! The Watch!"
"Stand! Stand all, in silence! Down all arms!" a deeper, grander voice commanded.
"My arms don't come off," Mirt explained innocently, "but I am standing."
By then the Watch had surrounded the four, and tense silence was falling. The officer who'd spoken glared coldly at the fat moneylender.
"I know you, Mirt."
"Yes," Mirt agreed with a broad smile. "As I recall, ye owe me eleven dragons, four shards—unless ye're late paying me by highsun tomorrow, whereupon—"
"Enough" barked the Watch commander. "Now keep
silence for a moment or so." He turned his head deliberately to gaze at Durnan. "You're also known to me, Durnan of the Yawning Portal, in Castle Ward." "At your service."
"Undoubtedly. However, these two with you____Good
lady, you were seen outside a certain shop this night, and stand under the suspicion of the Watch. Your name, citizenry, and trade."
The answer was a tremulous, "Taunamorla Esmurla, a scribe, formerly of Amn but now of Waterdeep. I—I've done nothing wrong!"
"And I," said Raumorth firmly, "am a trader from Tethyr, arrived in Waterdeep just this day, who stopped to talk with Mirt and Durnan, whom I've done business with in earlier visits down the years, and regard as friends. I've no intention of doing anything that merits pointing so many loaded crossbows at me, Watchmen, and I'd appreciate it if you'd lower them "
The crossbows wavered not a fingerbreadth, and the Watch commander scowled.
"You were seen outside that same shop," he snarled, "and were observed to change into the shape of a great dragon-"
"A fang dragon, sir," one of the other Watch officers murmured.
"A fang dragon, indeed," the commander continued, "and in that form did spell-battle with officers of the Watch, including wizards acting in defense of this city and its peace and safe order. Wherefore I arres—"
"Hoy, hoy, hoy now!" Mirt protested. "Raumorth here's been with us for... well, since we all left Taunamorla's shop together. That was some time back, as we've not been walking all that swiftly, and—"
"Yes," Durnan said firmly, looking at the Watch commander. "I'd take it very poorly if my word was set aside, here on the street, before all the watching
city. Raumorth here's been walking with us. If he can somehow be in two places at once, changing into dragons and hurling spells all over the place, then he's a mightier mage than any I've ever heard of! Why don't we all go to Blackstaff Tower, right now, and you can ask them if such a thing's even possible. Raumorth's been walking at my side, alive and solid—I know, because I clapped him on the arm more than once!"
"Ohhh," Taunamorla gasped, going pale, "do you mean ... a dragon, lots of spells ... is my shop all right?"
The Watch commander blinked and asked, "What shop is yours, lady? I don't recall seeing a quill signboard anywhere near the..."
"I," Taunamorla Esmurla said, "am better known in Waterdeep as the Keeper of Secrets."
"What? Don't move..."
Several Watchmen shouted at once, and a crossbow fired, its quarrel humming off into the night sky.
Quietly and without any fuss, six hulking dragons had faded into view behind Taunamorla. There wasn't quite enough room in the street for the two at either end of the sudden great mountain of scaled flesh. Signboards and balcony railings shattered and fell like tossed kindling.
Raumorth made a swift, intricate gesture, and Mirt and Durnan felt their skin tingling. Then the mage clapped his hands to their forearms and towed them toward the nearest alley mouth, scant moments before Watch halberds stabbed through—their own immobile images, that still stood in a cluster facing the raging Watch commander.
Who, like all the other Watchmen, didn't seem to notice the four as they fled into the alley together. That may have been because of Raumorth's spell—or it may have had something to do with six dragons lowering
their great horned heads, opening their jaws, and reaching forward long-taloned claws like gigantic cats. Or it might just have been because most of the Watch were fleeing down the street as fast as their hobnailed boots could take them.
In a dark, stinking corner where two alleys met, Raumorth raised a hand that crackled with ready magic.
"This," he said quietly, "will be where we part, men of Waterdeep: It's best if—"
"No, Raumorth," Taunamorla said. "I made a formal pact with these two."
"Lady! We-"
"Are as bad as the humans we revile if we cleave to their habits, casting aside our promises like empty chatter," she said in a voice that was suddenly steel edged with ice.
Raumorth bowed and said, "Truth ... yet this is a mistake. Pothoc ukris!"
"Perhaps. Yet consider this: once they know the truth about me, how will it profit them—save to force a little prudence on them? Who would believe them if they spread the tale?"
Raumorth's eyes glimmered like golden flames as he said, "There's something in that... yet it would take only one curious wizard deciding to seek the truth behind their words—"
"And when they know something of our numbers, they'll know that no mage could strike us all down at once. And it would only take one of us, knowing who must have told the wizard, to hunt them down and end their lives slowly and horribly, terrified beyond reason and with limbs torn from them at leisure."
Mirt shivered at the calmness in her voice, and the Keeper of Secrets smiled at him as tenderly as a doting aunt.
"Yet none of this unpleasantness need happen. Raumorth, a shielding against all prying?"
The man who was more than a mage from Tethyr cast a swift, deft spell, and announced—as something like smoke turned solid and fell around them in a sudden, unbroken cloud—"Done."
"This is for your ears alone, Mirt and Durnan," Taunamorla murmured, "and is not to reach your tongues. I am what humans like to call a song dragon, and I came to Waterdeep over twenty summers ago, summoned by elders of my kin, to ... manage a problem here. I've been here ever since."
"A problem involving other dragons," Mirt rumbled, waving a hand at Raumorth. "Lots of other dragons."
The Keeper nodded.
"What problem?"
"Many dragons like to dwell among humans—and not only because your kind can serve as ready food, or as a source of wealth for us to seize and hoard. Some wyrms come to love your energy, your restlessness, your clever strivings..."
"The free entertainment we provide," Mirt grunted. Taunamorla smiled wryly and said, "Bluntly said, but true."
"Waterdeep is a fine cauldron of such things," Durnan put in. "Yet a cauldron full of alert and wary wizards, sorcerers, and priests. Dragons need magic to hide among men. Magic that might well get noticed."
The Keeper turned to Raumorth and said, "You see? They knew, or suspected, already—and yet stood with us."
"Lady," Durnan said, "a few secrets are always preferable to the Watch and the Guard laying waste
to several city blocks against some mighty foe."
"Nay, nay," Mirt said. "Let's discharge the bargain. Ye say it, Lady Taunamorla, plainly. Thy service in Waterdeep is—?"
"I am the guide and central contact for more than a few hidden-in-human-shape dragons dwelling in Waterdeep. We watch over things, manipulating and sometimes mind-whispering to the Lords of Waterdeep—"
"And mind-blasting those who'd overthrow them," Raumorth interrupted.
Mirt nodded and said, "And yet... the wards? The Watchful Order? Hath no one seen ye for what ye are?"
"Who do you think had a hand in crafting the wards?" Raumorth asked.
"And some Waterdhavians have seen our true natures," the Keeper of Secrets added, "but seen fit to leave us alone."
"They have?"
"Of course," she replied. "They saw our work, and judged us."
She turned and started to walk away along one alley, Raumorth's shielding parting into a dark tunnel before her.
Mirt blinked. Raumorth was gone! Nay ... nay, he was the tunnel, stretching into a dark archway that arched up and around the Keeper, and moved away with her.
Taunamorla Esmurla turned to fix the two men with eyes that were suddenly larger and darker than before—and yet held many tiny stars.
"Why do you think," she asked Mirt and Durnan softly, "Waterdeep hasn't erupted into battle and ruin long ago? With Halaster and Skullport and Under-mountain below, and half the greedy grasping humans in Faerun visiting or dwelling above?"
The two men stood for a long time in the dark and empty alley, as Watch patrols trudged past.
"Six dragons, I tell thee! Six!" One Watchman growled, turning into the alley to empty his bladder thoughtfully into a discarded cask. "And gone, like a mage's tricks! Yet they were real. They broke the balcony clear off Shandledorth's."
"Aye, I saw. A wizard playing at snatch-teleport, mayhap? Thrusting a lairful of dragons into our laps and whisking them away again?"
"Why play such games?"
"To impress nobles who hired him? To awe revel guests? To make a name for himself, or pass some test?"
"If he's a wizard, that's reason enough for all manner of lunacy," an older Watchman said.
There was a general grunt of agreement, and the patrol left the alley again, and moved on.
Mirt glanced up past dark shutters and rooftops, to where the stars glimmered, and growled, "There's ... something magnificent about being a dragon. Something grander than we are. Something..."
"We don't understand," Durnan finished his friend's sentence. "Now let's be getting home. 'Tis late—or rather, early—and Luranla's probably thrashed all the sailors in the Portal senseless by now."
Mirt snorted, "Think she's a dragon, in disguise?"
Durnan shook his head. "No. Oh, no. You ask her, and I'll watch from a safe distance. Tethyr, perhaps."
THE TOPAZ DRAGON
Jess Lebow
The Year of the Turret (1360 DR)
Up ahead, Kraxx could see the sun's light reflecting from the shell of her one perfect, topaz egg. The egg that only moments before had been stolen from her lair.
She could catch the thieves if she were on open ground. She would dive on them from above, dismantling their mangy little bodies one at a time. She would bite their heads off and smash their bones into pulp. Then, just for the shear pleasure of it, she would smear their remains across the land, leaving the stain as a reminder for all those who would dare steal from her again.
But the thieves were smaller than her, more agile and able to maneuver through the jungle, and the island had little open ground. Only the short sandy beach and the open caldera of
the island's active volcano escaped from the clawing jungle that covered everything else. The trees parted as the great topaz dragon forced her bulk through the brush.
Up ahead, the egg disappeared from her view. With a final desperate burst of speed, the dragon broke through the last of the trees, emerging at the base of the basalt mountain in the middle of the island. She caught one last glimpse of her egg, shining golden and orange in the mid-afternoon sun. Then it was gone, carried into a lava tube at the base of the volcano.
Unfurling her wings, Kraxx closed the distance with one quick sweep. Slamming her head into the lava tube, she let out a tremendous roar, shaking the walls and spraying the inside of the tunnel with her billowing breath. But it was too late. The thieves were already beyond the reach of her attack. She clawed forward, but it was no use. Her body got stuck at the shoulders. She was simply too large to fit inside.
Pulling herself out of the tunnel, Kraxx took to the air, circling the volcano. It had not been the first time her eggs had attracted the attentions of the greedy and the powerful. There were those who would pay dearly for such a prize—including the dracolich who lived deep within the volcano.
Kraxx watched the molten lava bubble from the top of the open basalt mound. No, she-would not take the undead creature's bait. She would have no chance of defeating him there, inside his own lair. But if he could get the egg inside without coming out, then perhaps she could get it out without going in.
With a keening wail, the topaz dragon turned away from her circling and glided back out over the jungle, toward the ocean.
¦GOS—*
A loud crack rattled the windows of the captain's cabin, and every pirate aboard Expatriate let out a hoot.
Captain Clay came out into the sunlight, absently flipping one of his twin daggers in his left hand. The sky was a perfect clear blue. The sea was at a dead calm, except for the hint of a tiny ripple.
Lifting a handkerchief to his face, he wiped the ever present line of sweat off of his brow then looked up at the billowing sail. A smile spread across his parched, withered lips. It wasn't a hard wind, but it was wind all the same.
"Mr. Mansa. In my cabin."
A portly man turned away from the bustling crew and answered, "Aye, Cap'n."
Inside it wasn't much cooler than on the deck. Even though the windows were open, there hadn't been a breath of wind, not even the slightest breeze, in so long.
Clay sat down behind his large oak desk. Sifting through a pile of parchment, he selected one that was to his liking and unrolled it.
"You wanted to see me, Cap'n?"
"Aye, Mr. Mansa," said the captain without looking up. "Now that we have some wind, I want to discuss our course of action."
"Should I round up the other mates?"
"In good time, Mansa, but for now, I'd like to figure out where we're going and set a course while the winds are in our favor." Captain Clay pinned the corners of the parchment down with four stones and ran his hand over the worn map. "The sooner we find that island the sooner we claim our prize."
"And all become rich," said the first mate. "Praise Umberlee," he added
The captain chuckled, and a smile spread across his face. He couldn't help himself. Treasure always made him smile.
"Aye, Mansa. Once we have that egg, we'll be rich men indeed."
Clay's fingers traversed the miniature Sword Coast, lifting off the page when they reached the Nelanther Isles, as if touching them might burn his flesh, then dropping back down after they crossed Asavir's Channel. They continued on, dipping quickly into the Shining Sea, casually bypassing Calimshan and Tethyr, then following the Chultan peninsula to the edge of the Wild Coast. There Captain Clay circled his index finger in a wide berth. The weathered map crackled.
"We're here." Under his finger, the pirate captain indicated the open sea. "And—"
"Captain. Captain!" A skinny man came bursting into Clay's chamber calling, "Captain, come quick."
Clay stood up and asked, "What is it, Tasca?"
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you. You better come see for yourself."
Clay bolted out from around his desk, Mansa close behind. Just outside the door of his chamber, the world went white. A thick fog had rolled in. The warm sweat that had plagued his brow was suddenly cool. The dampness on his face was transformed in an instant from sweat into dew. Looking out over amidships, Captain Clay couldn't even make out the mainsail.
Over the side of the ship, what had been mile upon mile of endless open ocean and clear blue sky was nothing more than a gauzy film that seemed to have swallowed the entire world. Even the sun was blotted out by the billowing whiteness.
The wind picked-up, and the partially slack sail snapped taut. Clay could hear Expatriate's deep hull slipping through the water.
"What in the name of Talos?" the captain murmured. "Where did this fog come from?"
Tasca shrugged and said, "Dunno. It just arrived."
"You didn't see it roll in?"
"No, Cap'n," Tasca replied. "Like I said, one minute it was clear, the next, fog. It was like the sea itself just lifted its hands and covered us up."
"We must be getting close," Clay said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Come to Captain Clay you great big topaz egg," he whispered.
Members of the crew began to materialize out of the thick mist. Every one of them carried something-belaying pins, hooks, lengths of chain, or broken bits of wooden crates. The captain had seen it before.
"All right lads, let's just calm down."
The crew began to grumble.
"It's witchery," shouted one.
"No good can come of this," shouted another.
Captain Clay raised his hands, and the men quieted.
"Now listen, you swabbies, all of you, back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled and a sturdy piece of wood nearby. Mind that you don't fall over the edge, and we'll get what we've come for. Understood?"
"Aye, Cap'n," came the collective response.
"Very good," he said, then he turned and headed back into his cabin. "Mr. Mansa."
"Cap'n?"
"Round up the other mates." "Aye, aye."
Inside, Clay stepped behind his desk and stared down at the map. He laughed. He didn't need to look at it anymore. The jagged lines of the coast were permanently burned into his memory. For three tendays he'd stared down on that same wrinkled, brown parchment while Expatriate had sat off the coast of Chult searching for the island. First no wind, then the fog, were the gods conspiring to keep him away from that dragon's egg?
Mansa knocked on the cabin threshold and called, "Cap'n?"
Clay looked up. Mansa was flanked by a half-ore and a dwarf. "Come in, gentlemen."
The half-ore was garbed in little more than torn rags, held together by a series of belts and straps at strategic points along his waist, biceps, and thighs. His hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail and held in place by a strip of thick, rancid-looking black hide. At the end of his left arm, where most other sailors had a hand, the half-ore had a wicked-tipped blade strapped to his ruined stump.
The dwarf on the other hand looked as if hed just stepped out of a fancy inn after a good night's sleep and a bath. His beard was in three long braids all tied together—near his knees—to a shiny brass ring. A clean, dry rolled bandanna of yellow silk covered the top of his head, a perfect accompaniment to his blue pantaloons and purple vest. He wore a series of golden rings in one ear. His burley bare arms were covered in tattoos of mermaids drinking flagons of ale. On his belt swung a jeweled sheath with a keen-edged rapier inside.
The collected mates entered, each taking a chair around the heavy desk.
Clay steepled his fingers in front of his chin and asked, "Any guesses about this mysterious fog?" He looked to the dwarf. "Mr. Tabor?"
The immaculately dressed mate shook his head and replied, "I'd say we're getting close."
Clay nodded.
"Mr. Hadar?"
The half-ore grunted, "Smells of witchcraft to me."
Clay slapped the desk and said, "Aye. Which means someone doesn't want us to find what we're looking for. I'd wager my weight in gold that when we find our island we'll find the mage responsible for our bad luck."
The three mates shook their heads.
The ship's timbers complained, creaking and screeching under the sudden pressure. There was a crunching sound, followed by a long, slow grind, and Expatriate lurched. The captain's heavy desk shifted, adding to the noise, and the three mates were thrown to the floor. Captain Clay went sprawling over the top of his desk, thrashing the map and the stones that held it open and sending them flying.
"What the-?"
Clay's words were cut short.
"Land ho!"
The captain got to his feet and scrambled onto the deck, followed closely by the dwarf and the half-ore. The sky overhead was visible, the sun coming through a large hole in the sheath that had covered the ship. Where before the amidships had been socked in by fog, traces of the ship were revealed. The thick mist seemed to dissolve, dropping away from the planks and sails as if it were a wave, already spent, slowly drifting back into the sea.
Tasca was facedown on the deck, surrounded by at least five other sailors, all pulling splinters out of their palms. The lookout, perched high up on the mainmast, hung to the edge of the crow's nest by one hand. His legs dangled below him as he surveyed the deck and the spilled pirates.
As the foggy whiteness drifted away, Captain Clay got his first look at what had caused all the commotion.
"Shiver me timbers," he whispered.
Before him, not more than a league ahead of Expatriate's bow, sat an active volcano. A column of sooty smoke rose out of its top, and a bright line of orange-red lava rolled down its side.
Clay dashed down across the deck. Leaning out over the spinnaker, he looked down on a rocky beach.
"Mr. Mansa," he shouted.
The portly mate had just managed to pull himself up off the floor of the captain's cabin and stagger out to the deck.
"Aye."
"We're going ashore."
"Aye, cap'n," replied the first mate. "I'll gather the repair party."
The damage wasn't extensive, but the ship was taking on water. Expatriate had come ashore quite softly, only crashing to a halt when its hull collided with a huge, melted piece of basalt jutting up from the bottom of the sea.
Once the leak was fixed, it wouldn't take much to get the boys to push her off the sand and get her back out to sea. The crew Mansa had rounded up was coming off the ship. It would take them at least a few hours, if not a few days, to fix the hole. Then a few more hours to bail the hold.
"You know the drill, gentlemen," shouted the captain. He strode toward the jungle in the near distance. "Let's cut some lumber and patch her up."
Machetes in hand and with little more than a grumble, the entire crew, save for those few unfortunates left aboard to mind the ship, followed their captain across the blistering shore.
Reaching the edge of the trees, Clay turned around to take a look at Expatriate. His ship seemed to flicker in and out of existence, disappearing in a wave of heat as if it were caught in a raging storm deep at sea.
"Split into pairs," ordered the captain. "Each of you take a strong tree back to the ship."
"Aye, cap'n," they said in unison.
The pirates split up, searching the jungle. Clay turned to his mates.
"We'll leave them to their task," he said with a smile, "and get on with ours."
The three mates nodded and silently followed their captain into the jungle. The trees were tall and thin, and the ground was completely bald in large patches, as if it were swept clean by a legion of maidens with brooms. That far off the water, the damp humidity was even more noticeable. Having spent most of his life on the high seas, Clay was not unaccustomed to warm, damp weather. Somehow, though, being surrounded on all sides by an ocean made the humidity seem more natural, more welcome. There, deep inside a tropical jungle, it just seemed wrong.
When he got deep enough into the jungle that he could no longer hear the chopping and cussing of his sailors, Clay sat down on the soft earth and unrolled his map.
Mr. Mansa lowered his portly girth down beside him. The dwarf and the half-ore stood on either side.
"Any guesses where we are, Mr. Mansa?" asked the captain.
Mansa leaned over the map, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
He pointed at a small island and said, "Here, Cap'n."
"TheMother-of-Mists?"
"Aye."
"Not even in a hurricane could we travel that far in less than a day." The captain pushed his first mate's hand out of the way and continued, "At dawn, just before the mists, I spotted the southern tip of the Kobold Mountains. That's nearly four hundred miles."
Mansa shrugged and said, "There aren't any other islands out here. Never has been."
"It doesn't seem possible," the captain said. "Then again, neither did that fog." He looked up at the half-ore. "Hadar, you know these waters better than any of us. What say you?"
The half-ore didn't even look at the map, just said, "The Dead Islands are farther north."
"The Dead Islands?" asked the captain.
Hadar explained, "Those islands at the far south end of the Nelanther chain with no fresh water and nothing a pirate could want." The half-ore shook his head. "Ain't good for nothin' except dyin' on."
Something rattled the trees in the near distance. Hadar dropped into a crouch, dashed between a pair of trees, and disappeared into the jungle. Tabor stepped sideways and seemed to simply melt into the shadows under the canopy. Mansa leaped to his feet as quick as a cat, moving as if he was a man half his size and a third his age.
Clay too was ready, gripping one of his daggers by the gleaming, polished steel blade. He ran his eyes over the immediate vicinity. Out on the waves, Clay had some of the best eyes around, being able to spot fat cargo ships long before some elves even. But in the dense, dark jungle, he was at a disadvantage.
Behind him, another crash rumbled through the jungle, shaking the ground. Mansa nearly jumped, startled by the sudden sound. Then the man let out a squeal and backstepped. Twisting, the pudgy man fell onto his rump. Clawing the ground, Mansa tried to push himself backward but slipped and landed flat on his back.
Clay spun around to look up into the most terrible face he'd ever laid eyes upon
Eye's burning red like the fires of the Abyss looked down over huge flaring nostrils, covered in yellow-orange scales. Crystalline fangs jutted out of its upper
and lower jaw, crisscrossing on either side of the creature's mouth like the bones of the Jolly Roger.
Captain Clay staggered back a step and stammered, "D-d-dragon."
The creature stood on its hind legs, its wings pressed back against its considerable bulk. Hunched, the dragon's shoulders reached nearly to the top of the jungle canopy. Huge bony spurs jutted out of its hide along its spine and the length of its tail. Its long neck, thick and heavily muscled, snaked down from high above.
Though the monster's enormous head filled most of Clay's vision, he could see that the creature held both Tabor and Hadar captive, one in each of its front claws.
The dragon let out a short, powerful breath through its nostrils, and a plume of watery vapor floated out.
Trying to remain calm in the face of such a beast, Clay lifted one of his daggers, prepared to throw.
"That would not be wise," bellowed the dragon.
The captain looked to Mansa—still flat on his back-nodded, then lowered his hand.
"So," the captain asked the dragon, "what happens now?"
The wyrm's eyes narrowed and it replied, "We parlay." Clay swallowed.
"All right. I'm Captain Clay." He looked again at Mansa. The portly mate shrugged. "This is my first mate, Mansa. And those two—" the captain indicated the two pirates the dragon held in its grasp—"are Hadar and Tabor, also mates."
The dragon's eyes shifted from Clay to Mansa then back again.
"Before we begin," Clay said, nodding again at the trapped mates. "I would ask you to release your captives."
The dragon snorted and said, "You are in no position to ask for concessions."
"Then as a show of good faith."
The pirate captain slipped his dagger back into its sheath.
The dragon growled but released the two pirates.
Clay lifted his hands, showing his empty palms. "Our ship, Expatriate, was beached—"
"I know how you got here," interrupted the dragon. "I brought you."
Clay understood.
"So you're the mage."
The dragon didn't reply.
Clay had been in similar sorts of negotiations before, though never with a dragon. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then tried to proceed as if he was talking to a rival captain.
"So, what is it you want of us?"
"You've come for my egg," replied the dragon.
"Egg?" bluffed Clay. "We don't know anything about any egg, our ship was run aground—"
The dragon blew out another strong breath, its lip curling, as it said, "Do not play games with me, human. I know why you were looking for this island. You've come to barter with the thieves for my egg."
A cold lance of fear shot up Clay's spine.
"Are you going to kill us?"
The dragon leaned back, giving the captain a bit more space, and said, "That depends." "On?"
"You're not the only ones who have an interest in my egg," explained the dragon. "The thieves who stole it have taken it deep into the volcano where I cannot go-
"What do you want from us?"
"I want you to go in and retrieve my egg."
The captain cocked his head, a bit confused. "You want us to retrieve your egg?" "That is what I said," replied the dragon. The captain laughed.
"If whoever took your egg is so powerful..." Clay struggled for the right words. "If you can't retrieve it yourself, what makes you think we'll be able to get it back for you?"
The dragon reared back, crossing its mighty fore-limbs over her golden chest. Her eyes burned an even darker red.
"The thieves are not mighty. They are cowardly and small," the dragon said, looking at each of the pirates in turn. "And that is the problem. They have taken my egg into the volcano where they have wards and magical protections against one of my kind. Out here, I would crush them, but I cannot follow them into their lair."
"What's in it for us?" asked the captain. "If what you say is true, and we did come here for your egg, then what's stopping us from just taking it and carrying it off in our ship?"
The dragon snorted, blowing another plume of watery vapor out that nearly reached Clay.
"If you do I will destroy your ship and kill you all."
"Let me get this straight," said the captain. "Either we risk our lives trying to retrieve your egg from the inside of the volcano, or we die." Clay crossed his arms over his chest. "That's not much of a deal."
"If you succeed," said the dragon, "I will let you go—unharmed."
"That's very kind of you."
"I have gold," added the dragon. "Lot's of gold."
A smile spread across Clay's face. "What did you say your name was?"
"Kraxx," replied the dragon.
Captain Clay placed his palms together and bowed as hed seen men do in his travels to far Kara Tur.
"Well, Kraxx, I think you have yourself a deal."
The dragon lifted one of her wings, pointing deeper into the jungle.
"The thieves took my egg into a lava tube on the southern slope," Kraxx said as she turned and headed toward the beach. "I will be awaiting your return, beside your ship. If you are not back by nightfall, your crew will die."
At the southern slope, just where the dragon said it would be, a circular opening led into the rough basalt mountain. Unlike the rest of the jungle, the base of the volcano was completely void of all vegetation. The smell of burned plants and sulfur filled the air.
"Well, maties," said Clay, gripping the hilt of one of his daggers, "it's down the hatch for us."
The captain entered the dark opening. One step over the threshold and Clay's damp skin became instantly dry. It was as if his whole body had been wrapped tight in a curtain of hot, dry air, and he felt as if he'd just stepped inside the bellows of an iron forge. Every strip of exposed flesh was pressed back by the oppressive heat, and the captain had to squint to keep his eyes from drying out quicker than he could blink.
The passage was narrow—barely wide enough for two men abreast—and dark except for the sunlight coming in from outside. Ahead, it appeared as if the tunnel they were following made a very subtle turn to the right. Clay couldn't make out much more. The light simply didn't penetrate that far. Clay looked back over his shoulder.
"Tabor," he called quietly.
"Aye."
"You're going to need to take the lead," said Clay. He stepped aside to let the dwarf pass. "In this darkness, my eyes are about as good as a Veldornian mainsail."
"You're too hard on the Veldornians," quipped the dwarf as he made his way past his captain. "They may not have much use for a sail, but even they could make one that works better than your old human eyes."
Both Mansa and Hadar let out a snicker.
Clay ushered the half-ore up next to the dwarf. Hadar grunted, then he and the dwarf headed down the passage.
The farther they went, the darker it became. Soon Clay couldn't see anything at all. He followed the sounds of the half-ore's footsteps and ran his hand along the wall to make sure he didn't fall over. At first the wall was rough, like pumice. Clay just let his fingertips rest against the rough surface, using the feeling of solid stone to reassure him as they plunged deeper into the volcano. But after a time, the stone became smooth. The deep crevices and sharp ridges gave way to a soft, almost polished feel, and the walls grew warmer.
"This volcano reminds me of the Peak of Flame," said Mansa.
"It's not the Peak of Flame," said Hadar.
"But what if it is?" replied the portly pirate. "Maybe Dendar the Night Serpent took the dragon's egg."
"This isn't the Peak of Flame," repeated the half-ore.
"I'm just sayin'. We don't know where we are. This could be the Peak, and if it is, and the Serpent took the dragon's egg, then this is the beginning of the end."
Clay heard a scuffle, then he felt his chin run smack into Hadar's back.
"This isn't the Peak of Flame", Hadar said one more time.
They continued on. Around the next corner Clay began to see a faint red-orange glow. The smooth rock reflected the light, making the ground and the walls look quite slick. The farther they went, the brighter the light became. The curve in the passage continued around and finally opened into a large chamber.
A snaking pool of bubbling lava split the room in half. A walkway of hardened stone ran along each edge toward an opening on the other end. The red-orange of the molten stuff lit the room, exposing several jagged shelves and pillars of cooled lava.
"Look out!" shouted Tabor.
A dark figure fell upon them, concealed from above by one of the basalt shelves. Clay shifted to his right, bringing his dagger up with his left hand. The creature landed square upon the polished steel blade, and it let out a terrible noise—a scream that sounded like the combined anguish of a man and a wolf.
Still unable to make out what was attacking him, Clay pulled his impaled blade from the creature and swung back across its body. The beast lifted its head, its eyes locking with Clay's. The captain's dagger connected with the creature's neck, and the beast slumped to the ground, thrashing once then falling still.
Clay stepped back from the body. For lack of a better name, the creature on the ground before him was a dwarf. It was short and squat, and it's arms, chest, and legs were thick with ropy muscle. But other than general size and shape, the thing had no other resemblance to the civilized Tabor.
"Tabor, it's your cousin," quipped the half-ore.
"Laugh it up, pig boy," spat the dwarf.
"Enough." Clay leaned over the creature and asked, "What is this thing?"
"Looks like a wild dwarf," Tabor replied.
"A wild dwarf?"
"Not our greatest moment," Tabor admitted.
A loud hoot echoed through the chamber, and there wasn't time for further discussion. More of the scraggly figures dropped from the overhead shelves, filling the room. Clay and his mates were under attack by nearly two dozen wild dwarves.
In an instant Tabor had his rapier out and skewered the first of the mangy dwarves through the gut. Hadar ran another through with his stump knife. Mansa grabbed one by the forearms, locked into a grapple, but that was all Clay saw. The chamber turned into a flurry of claws and flying steel. The pirate captain knocked one attacker to the ground, burying a thrown dagger in his eye socket. Dodging left and right, slashing at eyes and avoiding teeth, he danced with the growling foes.
At one point he heard Mansa shout some words of praise to Umberlee. There was a brief flash of yellow light and half of the dwarves cowered from the portly pirate as if they had seen a pit fiend. In the clearing they left, Clay could see the bodies of at least half a dozen of the wild dwarves, lying at the feet of his mates. He'd killed three himself, and several were either cowering against the far wall or outright fleeing the chamber.
Hadar cut another through the belly, lifting a second off the ground with his good hand and hurling it into the bubbling lava. The creature let out a howling wail, and it thrashed like a man overboard in a tempest. Tendrils of black smoke rose from the dwarf's body, and its sustained cry of pain grew in pitch. Those bits of exposed flesh that weren't already submerged in the magma burst into flame, and in a flash of orange-yellow, the flailing dwarf was consumed.
Two of the wild dwarves stood before Tabor, menacing him with their claws, but the well-dressed pirate
held them both at bay with the tip of his rapier. He was cut across the face, and his normally well-kept pantaloons had a large tear across his thigh. Though bloodied, he looked no worse for the fight than just a couple of scrapes.
The half-ore was another story. From head to toe he was covered in blood. There was no way to know if it was his own or the blood of his foes. Most of the time, he wielded his stump knife with great finesse. But sometimes his bloodlust got to him, and he became a bit more messy.
"What I wouldn't give to be back in the Copper Coronet right now," mumbled the captain under his breath.
Clay remained mostly untouched. The first of the mangy creatures had caught hold of his left hand with its grimy claws. He had a painful cut along his thumb and down his forearm, but he'd had worse. During the course of the fight, all four pirates had worked their way into the middle of the room. They were precariously close to the pool of lava, and the captain took a step back from the edge, just for good measure.
Turning to check on Mansa, he heard the first mate yell, "Look out!"
Clay glanced up just in time to see another wave of dwarves climbing toward them. Unlike those they had fought in the first wave, some carried heavy clubs and several even had good steel weapons. If it was the whole tribe, Clay had no intention of parlaying with their leader.
"Run!" he shouted.
Reaching the opening on the other end, Clay glanced back over his shoulder. Tabor was right on his heels. Mansa was several steps behind, and Hadar was covering the rear. There must have been at least fifty wild dwarves already on the cavern floor, and more poured down the walls.
Ducking his head, Clay plunged himself into, the pitch-black tunnel, fleeing what was surely a massacre. His right hand on the wall, his eyes open as wide as they would go, Clay charged through the tunnel as fast as his feet could carry him. At any moment he expected to be knocked flat by a low hanging stalagmite. Behind him he could hear the labored breathing of his mates and the cacophony of footsteps of their pursuers.
The dark cavern took a sharp right turn, and Clay nearly lost his balance making the corner.
"Hard starboard," he shouted, then he dashed on.
Around the corner, the light began to grow. Bursting out of the darkness, Clay entered a large, hollowed-out chamber. The floor roiled and popped, being little more than a lake of molten lava. A narrow ledge snaked its way halfway across the chamber along the cavern walls. Overhead, huge stalactites hung from a shadowy ceiling, looking like inverted mountaintops.
In the center of the molten lake, splayed out over a mound of hardened black stone were five glowing pillars arranged in a semicircle. They seemed to defy everything about the place. Made from a translucent blue stone lit from inside by a brilliant white light, the pillars looked like huge icicles, light and cool in the smoldering bowls of an active volcano. In the center of the crystals, inscribed on the basalt of the cavern floor, was a series of arcane runes, lit just like the pillars, each touching the next until together they made a half-moon shape. At the focal point of the two crescents sat a tremendous gemstone.
"Praise the Bitch Queen," blurted Mansa.
The first mate froze, his eyes locked on the precious stone as if it were a siren. As big as the world's largest half ling, the teardrop-shaped topaz glowed a deep orange-red, lit by the molten lava.
"The dragon's egg," whispered Clay.
The island the egg sat upon was surrounded on all sides by burbling lava, except for a small walkway that led to a large opening at the far end of the cavern.
The first of the dwarves began pouring into the chamber. The mangy creatures seemed to almost roll over one another in a frenzy to reach the four pirates. Hadar was already in a crouch, ready to take the first of them. Tabor pushed past Mansa to back up the half-ore. Balancing on the ledge of hardened lava, he held his rapier poised to strike.
"We're trapped," Clay said as he looked to the hardened lava island. It was too far to jump. He pulled his daggers and prepared to fight. "If you've got any bright ideas or last words, now would be a good time to voice 'em."
The scrabbling sounds of the wild dwarves racing around the edge of the chamber came to an abrupt stop. The riling mass turned toward the small entrance to the cavern and collectively dropped to their knees.
Through the sudden silence, a voice boomed through the cave, "Who dares enter the chamber of Ras Nsi?"
From out of the darkness a figure appeared. Tall and lean, his skin looked pale and unhealthy even in the ruddy red glow of the molten lake. His eyes were sunken and his head shaved. But the most remarkable feature was a blue triangle, tattooed in the middle of the man's forehead.
Clay turned to Hadar and asked, "Ras Nsi?"
The half-ore replied, "A bara who hunted down and exterminated the Eshowe people for their crimes against Ubato." Hadar glanced back at his captain. "That was four thousand years ago."
"You recognize that mark?" Clay asked, pointing to his own forehead.
"It's from Mezo," said the half-ore. "The holy city." "What does it mean?"
Hadar's lip curled up, and he turned his gaze to the tattooed man.
"It means he's a criminal," said the half-ore, "and he's been banished from the city."
"Aye," said the captain. "The kind of man who gives respectable criminals a bad name."
The tattooed man walked farther into the room, around several of the prostrate dwarfs.
"Bow to Ras Nsi," he bellowed. "I command you."
"We are the officers of Expatriate, the scourge of the Shining Sea," Clay shouted back. "We take commands from no one."
The tattooed man raised his hands in the air and began chanting. His voice grew deeper, echoing off the basalt walls, doubling then redoubling as it built upon itself. Then he bit off his last word, throwing his arms out to his sides.
The shadows seemed to coalesce, unhitching themselves from the basalt and wrapping themselves around the pale, tattooed man. His body began to grow, changing shape. His head lifted toward the top of the cavern. His arms extended, turning long and wispy, unfolding and unfolding again until they looked like the sails of a pirate ship. And his fingers grew sharp, transforming into wicked-looking claws.
The man claiming to be Ras Nsi transformed completely into a skeletal, undead dragon. Clay swallowed hard.
"That's a pretty good trick for a guy four thousand years old," said the captain.
The undead dragon clawed at the ground once, and opened it skeletal mouth with a screech. Jags of lightning shot from the creature's open jaw, banishing the remaining shadows with an eerie blue-white light.
All four pirates scattered, diving to the deck. Clay felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the magical bolts struck the wall just over his head and ricocheted toward the ceiling. The magical energies bounced back and forth between two stalactites, and bits of broken stone crumbled to the floor.
A loud snap filled the chamber, and Clay looked up to see the larger of the two stalactites shake once then plummet toward him. Kicking his feet over his head, the pirate captain rolled backward. Coming to his feet, Clay hurled himself against the cavern wall, trying to make his body as small as possible.
The tip of the stalactite impacted the floor, just where Clay had been lying. The stone shelf collapsed under the weight, and the inverted mountaintop slipped sideways into the molten lake. Toppling to one side, the broken end of the stalactite crashed down atop the hardened lava island right beside the dragon's egg.
The other three pirates got to their feet, and so too did the wild dwarves.
"We'll never take 'em lads," shouted the captain.
With that, Clay jumped on the fallen stalactite and made for the other side as if he were running across a boarding plank. The blackened stone hadn't fully come to rest, and it shifted as the captain crossed it. Used to the shifting movement of the ocean, Clay took one more step then leaped over the lake of lava toward the island at its center. For a brief moment, the pirate captain hung in the air, his legs suspended over nothing but instant burning death. Then his toe touched down, and he dived forward, clawing at the solid rock.
The sharp pumice tore at his hands and shredded his pantaloons, but the tiny island was stable, and he wasn't sinking into the lava. Scrambling to his feet, he moved away from the edge and turned to help his mates.
Tabor and Hadar were already across the makeshift boarding plank. The dwarf leaped off, tumbling once then coming to his feet with a practiced flair. The half-ore was less dramatic, but his strong legs hurled him over the molten lake without much difficulty.
Mansa, however, was a different story.
The first mate had lost his balance, and he clung to the side of the slowly sinking stalactite. Right behind him, the wild dwarves had made it to the edge and were beginning to climb onto the stone bridge.
Without blinking, Clay jumped back onto the perilous basalt column.
"Hadar, Tabor, grab hold of this end."
The dwarf and the half-ore did as they were told.
With two great bounding leaps, Clay was at his first mate's side. With one hand he grabbed the back of Mansa's tunic. With the other, he hurled one of his daggers at the first of the oncoming wild dwarves.
The mangy little creature took the blade in the chest and reeled back, falling into the next dwarf and blocking the path.
With Clay's help, Mansa managed to get to his knees.
"Good enough," said the captain.
Turning around, Clay charged back toward the island, the egg, and his two other mates, partially dragging Mansa behind him.
"Shove it in," he shouted.
Hadar and Tabor didn't hesitate. Both men leaned in and pushed the stalactite with all of their might. The column made a brief grinding sound, then the end that had landed on the island came free.
Clay pulled Mansa forward and shouted, "Jump, you swabbie."
He hurled himself once again over the bubbling lake of lava. One instant he was in midair, the next he was crashing into Tabor and flopping to the ground.
Mansa had a similar landing, smashing into the solid, outstretched arms of the half-ore.
Without the support of the island the fallen stalactite turned sideways and slipped completely under the scorching lava. Those wild dwarves still standing on it fell in as well, trashing momentarily then dissolving in a cone of flame and smoke.
Clay got to his feet.
"Come on you swabs," shouted the captain "Grab the booty and get back to the ship." He looked out over the lava at the fuming dracolich. "This is a fight we can't win."
The four sailors lifted the dragon's egg off the ritualistic semicircle and carried it through the tunnel at the far end of the chamber. As they disappeared into darkness, Clay could hear the undead dragon let out a howling roar.
The egg was heavy, and it slowed their progress through the tunnel. Tabor led the way, shouting commands back to his comrades. With their prize between them it was easy enough to stay together. The four pirates ran and ran, the tunnel getting smaller and smaller the farther they went.
Around a final corner, they could see the sunlight coming in from the mouth of the lava tube. As fast as they could with the egg between them, the pirates finally made it out into the light of day. The sun's bright rays were beginning to go down.
"Let's just hope there's enough sun left in this day to save the rest of the crew," Clay said as he headed toward the thick brush. "Into the jungle."
Bowling blindly through the trees, the pirates ran with all of their might. Slowly the trees and vegetation became less dense, and the dying light of the setting sun became brighter. With a final few steps, the pirates flung their weary bodies out of the jungle and onto the beach.
Out in the open, a huge dark cloud passed over them,
and all four stopped dead in their tracks, dropping the
egg-Standing before them, its unfurled wings nearly
blotting out the sunlight, was the undead dragon. "No one steals from Ras Nsi," said the hulking
beast.
The undead dragon swept its wings forward and opened its jaw again, preparing to shoot lightning at the helpless sailors.
Clay reached for one of his daggers, but his fingers grasped an empty bandoleer, and he felt the pit of his stomach sink as if it were a boulder into the deep.. Behind the dragon, he could just make out the silhouette of Expatriate. That ship had been good to him. Hed miss it.
Just then the wind picked up. The palm fronds on the trees behind them began to whistle, and the sand swept back and forth in the turbulent air. The undead dragon looked around wildly, searching the sky and the beach.
"Look," shouted Mansa, pointing to the sky.
Clay followed the first mate's finger to see a yellow-orange blur streaking toward the beach.
There was a high-pitched whistling shriek, and the undead dragon reeled back, lifting one claw into the air. The yellow-orange streak transformed into a topaz dragon, its razor talons tearing one of the undead dragon's wings from its body as it collided with the beach, pinning the dracolich to the ground and throwing sand in the air.
"No one steals from Kraxx", roared the topaz, swiping its powerful fore claws across her foe's throat.
The undead dragon let out a strangled cry, trying feebly to fight back with only one wing and the rest of its body trapped under the larger dragon's weight.
"You have no wards against me out here," taunted Kraxx.
The topaz dragon bit down on the dracolich's chest and shook her head. Bits of gore-soaked flesh rained * down on the blackened sand and the pirates had to cover their heads. The undead dragon struggled on, thrashing under the attack.
A moment more, and its body went slack, succumbing to the larger dragon.
Still Kraxx did not slow her assault. The topaz dragon went to work on the carcass. Tearing bits of flesh away from the bones like a hungry seagull. Littering the beach with the undead dragon's remains.
Finally, Clay had to turn away. There were some things even a pirate couldn't stomach.
Clay leaned against the rail of his ship, smiling as he looked out at the retreating volcano. They sailed northwest, around the point of the Chultan peninsula toward the Shining Sea. He absently twirled a gold piece between his fingers, and his smile grew even larger as he thought about the pile of treasure safely resting in Expatriate's hold. Not even the egg of a topaz dragon would have fetched that much coin. Not a bad couple days of work, he thought.
High over his head, the mainsail billowed, full of as much wind as she could carry. At the top of the mast the Jolly Roger flew, and at its side a new flag waved in the magical breeze. It bore the silhouette of a dragon—yellow and orange with glowing red eyes.
WICKLESS IN THE NETHER
R.A. Salvatore
The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)
For a long time and across many storefronts and kiosks, he could not be seen because he did not want to be seen. For Artemis Entreri, with so many years of living in the shadows, it was as easy as that. He moved along Wall Way, a solitary figure perusing the mercantile district of the Damarran Capital of Helio-gabalus on a stormy night. Torrential rains sent small rivers running along the sides of the cobblestoned street, named because of its proximity to Heliogabalus's towering outer wall.
A flash of lightning revealed the figure as he stood in front of one of the two opposing collector's shops set on the road loop known as Wall's Around. He was wrapped in a slick black cloak, shining with wetness. He had the
drape pulled over both his shoulders in the inclement weather, but it was back on his right side enough to show the jeweled hilt of his signature dagger. He wore a flat-topped hat with a tight round brim, quite extraordinary in a land of simple hoods and scarves. Still, that hat paled in comparison to the one worn by the slender figure that drifted past him in the next flash of lightning, a great floppy, wide-brimmed affair, with one side pinned up and a gigantic feather reaching out from it.
"As we thought," the figure whispered as he passed by, neither of them making any movement that would indicate to even a careful observer that they were conversing. "Third on the right."
The slender figure continued on his way, his fine boots clicking loudly on the wet cobblestones.
A moment later, Entreri moved to the doorway of the collector's shop, Tazmikella's Bag of Silver, and with a look around, slipped inside.
A young couple sat behind one table, giggling and hardly taking notice of him. Across from them, a middle-aged man fidgeted with some small statues, dusting each and grumbling to himself as he replaced them on the shelves. He was plump and as round of face as he was of belly, which was considerable, with apple red cheeks and bright lips. Though his eyes were large, he seemed to be constantly squinting.
"Well, good enough," he said to Entreri. "If you came in to get out of the rain, then you're a smart one, not to doubt. Look around—perhaps you'll even consider purchasing something. Now, there's a thought that few in this town seem to be having! Yes, yes, why buy anything when one can just walk into the shop and ogle it?"
Entreri stared at him, but did not respond, either with words nor any expression.
"As you will, then," the man went on. "Just do please keep your wetness from the new carpets. Someone might want to actually buy one, after all."
Hardly paying the little man any more heed, Entreri moved to the right, as hed been instructed, to the third candlestick set in the shop's front window. Its base was in the shape of a squatting toad—a most unattractive piece, Entreri thought, though he rarely took the time to consider beauty. He picked up the fourth candlestick first, feigned a quick look over it, then set it down and took the second, then the third. The assassin slid one sensitive finger beneath the base of the candlestick. He felt the variation in texture almost immediately, from silver to wax.
A flash of lightning outside sent his thoughts back to the tavern and the napkin the serving wench had put down on the table. He recalled the verse on that old, dirty rag, and felt the wax again.
"Wickless in the nether," he whispered.
"What's that?" asked the little man.
"I said that I do enjoy the feel of this piece," Entreri lied. "The storm has ruined my candles. I came only to replace them, but now I find this most interesting candlestick."
"You want to buy that?" asked the merchant, his tone showing that actual sales really weren't a common event.
"Fifty silver pieces?" Entreri asked.
The little man scoffed at him and said, "It's weight alone would take twice that melted down."
"It is pure silver?" Entreri asked, feigning surprise, for of course, he already knew that it was and had already estimated its worth to within a few coppers.
"Nothing but the best," said the little round man as he hopped over. "Fifty gold would be closer to the price than fifty silver."
Entreri moved to replace the candlestick, but stopped just before it went down on the window sill. He stood holding it for a few long moments.
"I will offer thirty gold," he said. "A fair price."
"Fair?" said the shopkeeper. "Why, it cost us forty just to acquire it!"
"Forty, then."
"Forty-two," insisted the little man.
Entreri shrugged and pulled a pouch from his belt. He tossed it up and down in his open palm for a moment or two, then tipped it over and spilled out a few coins. Another toss to test the weight, and he flipped it to the little man.
"Forty-two," he agreed. "Perhaps even forty-three."
Tucking the extra gold into another pouch, the assassin took the candlestick and moved for the door.
"Wait," said the little man. "Is there anything else I might interest you in? You haven't even purchased a candle, I mean, and the night is dark. And did you not come for candles? How fine that candlestick shapes the shadows when a proper light is placed atop it."
Giggling at another table made the little man realize that he was speaking to himself, however, for Entreri was already gone.
Outside, another lightning flash illuminated the street, so bright and prolonged that Entreri could read the sign on the collector's shop opposite: Ilnezhara's Gold Coins.
With a glance each way, Entreri moved off, his boots not making a sound on the wet cobblestones. He had a long way to walk, all the way to the southern section of the city, but he moved swiftly with little foot traffic to hinder him. He arrived at the unremarkable building a short while later, and looked around, as had been his habit for many years, before moving up the back staircase to the second floor and the door to his
apartment. Another look confirmed that he was alone, and he slipped through.
The room was warm and inviting, with a fire blazing in the hearth and candles burning in the many arms of the decorated candelabra that seemed everywhere. Entreri shrugged off his cloak as he entered and flipped it onto the rack by the door where a similar fine traveling cloak hung, drying. His hat went up next, taking its place before its more sizeable companion.
Entreri wiped the remaining moisture from his face with one arm, while he unfastened his belt with, his other hand. He stopped short, though, and pulled out his jeweled dagger, launching it into an end-over-end flight across the room. It crossed over his small bed and dived into a silhouette he had painted on the wall—a representation of a lithe figure with a ridiculously large hat. As always, the dagger struck true, just a few inches above the bed and right in the groin area of the silhouette.
"Ouch, I suppose," Jarlaxle said.
"At least," said Entreri.
When he looked at his partner, Entreri nearly stepped back in surprise, for Jarlaxle had his eye patch up on his forehead, showing Entreri both his eyes at once for the very first time.
"I do find it rather unsettling," said the drow, "that you would wish something from that region protruding over your bed."
"If I awakened under threat and reached for my dagger, and it was anything other than that hanging over my bed, rest assured I would tear it out."
"Ouch again, I suppose."
"At least."
Jarlaxle laughed at him and asked, "Why the foul mood, my friend?" "Personality trait."
"We deciphered the verse correctly, obviously," said Jarlaxle, motioning for the candlestick Entreri held. " 'Wickless in the nether,' indeed."
Entreri walked toward him, but stopped short and placed the candlestick on the table as he went by.
"And all this time, I thought that remark aimed at your virility," Entreri said as he moved past and fell onto his bed.
"The tavern wench placed the napkin on the table equidistant to us both," Jarlaxle reminded. He produced the dirty old cloth from a pocket and held it up before Entreri." 'More valuable in practical, a better bargain found,'" he read." 'A careful eye will find the prize in sight of Wall's Around. For pretty things that serve no use, the true art finds its tether. To those who know, illumination comes wickless in the nether.'"
With a sly grin as he finished, the drow mercenary inverted the candlestick and picked at the wax set in its base, in the arse of the squatting toad.
"The second line was key, of course," he said as he popped the plug free. "Silver is more practical than gold, and so our choice of shops was settled." Jarlaxle's smile widened as he dipped his delicate little finger into the cavity and pressed his nail against the side, pulling forth a thin rolled parchment as he retracted the finger. "Our correct choice."
The drow mercenary leaned forward over the table and spread the parchment before him.
"Interesting," he said, and when no response came forth from his roommate, he said it again, and again.
After many frustrating minutes, Jarlaxle said it yet again, then nearly jumped out of his seat when he was answered by Entreri, who was standing right behind him.
"It's a map."
"A map?" the drow asked. "It is a series of dots, a circle,
a single line and a drop of blood. How is that a map?"
"The dots are buildings... locations. All the buildings that have played a part in this riddle we have entered," Entreri explained. He leaned forward, indicating each as he named them. "The tavern, our apartment..."
He paused there and glanced around, not pleased to learn that whomever was behind it all knew where they lived.
"And the Wall Around," said Jarlaxle, catching on and pointing to the circle. "Bag of Silver and Gold Coins. Indeed, the proportions of the distances seem fairly accurate." He measured each with his fingers as he spoke, confirming his guess. "But all of this was known to us already."
"Except for that," said Entreri, pointing to the one mark on the far edge of the long parchment, a drop of blood very far removed from the other indicators.
"Blood?" asked the drow.
"A destination."
The pair found the spot of blood—a rather unremarkable cabin on the side of a rocky hill far outside the wall of Heliogabalus—in the light drizzle of the following morning. The city was not visible from the cabin, for it was on the far side of the hill, nor was it near any roads.
Entreri eyed the abode suspiciously, scanning the surroundings for signs of ambush, but no threat presented itself. The roof was not high—the back side of the house, abutting the hill, rose no more than five feet above the stony ground—and there were no trees close enough to afford any archers an easy shot.
So caught up was the wary assassin in scouting the surrounding area that he was caught somewhat
by surprise when a woman's voice addressed the pair right from the small porch of the house.
"Clever and quick," she said. "Better than I expected, really."
The companions took a step away from each other, each sizing up the woman from a different angle. She was not unattractive, though certainly not beautiful. Her face was rather plain, and unadorned with the many powders and colors that had become all the rage in Damara among the women of the court. That face seemed a bit short, too, or perhaps that was because her shoulders seemed too wide for the rest of her frame. She appeared a little older than Entreri, probably nearing, if not already past, her fiftieth birthday. Her thin, shoulder length hair was a soft blend of gray and strawberry blond, though certainly not as lustrous as it once might have appeared.
She wore a modest dress, powder blue and simply tailored. Her shoes were low cut, quite impractical for the muddy, harsh terrain between the cabin and the city. They were shoes more common within the city gates, Entreri noted, and certainly nothing a hearty hermit so far out of town would wear.
Entreri felt Jarlaxle's gaze upon him, so he turned to take in his friend's smirk.
"Greetings, Lady Tazmikella," the drow said with a great flourish and a deep bow, sweeping his wide brimmed hat off as he bent low.
Entreri, surprised by the remark, looked to the woman, noting her sudden scowl.
"Do you always take such presumptive chances?" she asked, and Entreri couldn't tell if she was annoyed because Jarlaxle had guessed correctly, or insulted because he had so labeled her.
"Deductive reasoning," explained the drow.
The woman didn't seem very impressed, or convinced,
when she said, "I have your interest, it would seem, so come inside."
She turned and walked into the cabin, and with another shared look and a pair of concerned shrugs, they moved up side by side, Jarlaxle's enchanted boots clicking loudly even on the soft ground, and Entreri's skilled steps making not a whisper of sound, even on the hard wood of the porch stairs.
Inside, they found the facade of the cabin wholly misleading, for the room was spacious—too much so, it seemed—and well-adorned with fabulous tapestries and rugs. Most were stitched with designs depicting the gentler pleasures of life in Damara: a shepherd with his flock on a sunny hillside, a woman singing while cleaning laundry at a stream, a group of children playing at the joust with long poles and the pennants of well-known heroes____Candelabrum and fine,
sturdy plates covered the table. Dry sinks lined every wall, full of plants and flowers neatly and tastefully arranged. A chandelier hung over the center table, a simple but beautiful many-limbed piece that would have been more fitting in one of the mansions of the great city, though not in its more formal rooms.
Looking around at the decor, at the distinctive silver flavor, Entreri realized that Jarlaxle's guess had been correct.
"Please, sit," the woman said.
She motioned to the simple but elegant carved wooden chairs around the central table. It was hardly inexpensive furniture, Entreri noted, as he felt the weight of the chair and let his finger play in the deep grooves of superior craftsmanship.
"You have moved quickly and so you are deserving of similar effort on my part," the woman said.
"You have heard of us and wish to hire us," said Jarlaxle.
"Of course."
"You do not look like one who would wish another killed."
The woman blanched at the drow's suggestion, Entreri noted. For that was Entreri's role whenever they met a new prospective employer and Jarlaxle posed that very same question. Jarlaxle always liked to start such interviews in a blunt manner.
"I was told that you two were skilled in . . . procurement."
"You seem to do well in that area yourself, Lady Taz..." Jarlaxle stopped short, looking for cues.
"Tazmikelldl she confirmed. "And yes, I do, and thank you for noticing. But you may have also noticed that I am not alone in my endeavors in the fine city of Heliogabalus."
"Ilnezhara's Gold Coins," said Entreri.
"It is a name I cannot speak without an accompanying curse," the woman admitted. "My rival, once my friend. And alas, she has done it again."
"It?" the two asked together.
"Procured a piece for which she is not worthy," said Tazmikella, and when doubting expressions came at her, she sat back in her chair and held up her hands to stop any forthcoming inquiries. "Allow me to explain."
The woman closed her eyes and remained silent for a long while.
"Not so long ago," she began tentatively, as if she wasn't sure if they would get her point, "I happened across a woman sitting on a rock in a field. She did not see me, for she was wrapped in memories. At least, it seemed that way. She was singing, her eyes closed, her mind looking far away—to one she had lost, from what I could tell from the few words I could decipher. Never have I heard such passion and pain in a voice, as if
every note carried her heart and soul. She touched me deeply with the beauty of her art and song.
"For me, there was simple appreciation, but my counterpart—"
"Ilnezhara," Jarlaxle reasoned, and Tazmikella nodded.
"Ilnezhara would never have understood the beauty of that woman's song. She would have cited how the words strained to rhyme, or the lack of proper technique and the occasional warbling in that untrained voice. It was just those imperfect warbles that pulled at my heart."
"Because they were honest," said Jarlaxle.
"And thus practical," added Entreri, bringing it back to the verse that had brought them there.
"Not pretty enough for Ilnezhara, perhaps," Jarlaxle said, building upon the thought. "But the prettiness of perfection would have tethered the honesty of emotion."
"Exactly!" said Tazmikella. "Oh, this is a battle we have long waged. Over everything and anything, it seems. Over painting and sculpture, tapestries, song, and story. I have listened to bards, have watched them sweep away entire common rooms in tales of bold adventure, enrapturing all who would listen. And only to hear Ilnezhara, once my partner, tell me that the structure of the tale was all wrong because it did not follow some formula decided by scholars far removed from those folk in the tavern.
"We battled at auction recently, or we thought to, except that I held no interest in the painting presented. It was no more than a scribbling of lines that evoked nothing more than simple curiosity in me—the curiosity of how it could be proclaimed as art, you see."
"Your counterpart saw it differently?" asked the drow.
"Not at first, perhaps, but when the artist explained the inner meaning, Ilnezhara's eyes glowed. Never mind that no such meaning could be elicited through viewing the work itself. That did not matter. The piece followed the prescribed form, and so the conclusions of the artist seemed self-evident, after they were fully explained. That is the way with people like her, you see. They exist within their critical sphere of all that is culture, not to appreciate the warble in a wounded woman's song, but to stratify all that is around them, to tighten the limits of that which meets approval and dismiss all that is accessible to the common man."
"They make themselves feel better," Jarlaxle explained to Entreri, who realized that he was either bored or lost.
"So, you would have us steal this painting that you did not want in the first place?" Entreri asked.
Tazmikella scoffed at the notion.
"Hardly! Cut it with your fine sword for all I care. No, there is another piece, a piece Ilnezhara came upon purely by accident, and one which she will never even try to appreciate. No, she keeps it only because she knows it would be precious to me!"
The mercenaries looked at each other.
"A flute," Tazmikella said. "A flute carved of a single piece of gray, dry driftwood. It was fashioned long ago by a wandering monk, Idalia of the Yellow Rose was his name. He took this single piece of ugly, castoff driftwood and worked it with impeccable care, day after day. It became the focus of his very existence. He nearly died of starvation as he tried to complete his wonderful flute. And complete it he did. Oh, and from it came the most beautiful music, notes as clear as the wind through ravines of unspoiled stone."
"And your counterpart got it from this monk?"
"Idalia has been dead for centuries," Tazmikella explained. "And the flute thought lost. But somehow, she found it."
"Could you not just buy it from her?" asked the drow. "It is not for sale."
"But you said she would not appreciate it."
Again the woman scoffed and said, "She sets it aside, sets it away without a thought to it. It is valuable to her only because of the pain she knows I endure in not having it."
The two mercenaries looked at each other again.
"And not just because I do not have it," Tazmikella went on, somewhat frantically, it seemed. "She knows the pain that I and others of my humor feel because no breath will flow through the work of Idalia. Don't you see? She is reveling in her ability to steal true beauty from the common man."
"I do not—" Entreri began, but Jarlaxle cut him off.
"It is a travesty," the drow said. "One that you wish us to correct."
Tazmikella rose from the table and moved to a drawer in one of the dry sinks, returning a moment later with a small parchment in hand.
"Ilnezhara plans a showing at her place of business," she explained, handing the notice to Jarlaxle.
"The flute is not there," Entreri wondered aloud.
"It is at her personal abode, a singular tower northeast of the city."
"So while Ilnezhara is at her showing, you would have us visit her home?" Jarlaxle asked.
"Or you, you alone, could go to the showing," Tazmikella explained, indicating the drow. "Ilnezhara will find one of your ... beauty, quite interesting. It should not be difficult for you to elicit an invitation to her private home."
Jarlaxle looked at her skeptically.
"Easier than breaking into her tower," Tazmikella explained. "She is a woman of no small means, rich enough, as am I, to buy the finest of pieces, to hire the most skilled of guards, and to create the most deadly of constructs."
"Promising," Entreri noted, but though he was being sarcastic with his tone, his eyes glowed at the presented challenge.
"Get that flute," Tazmikella said, turning to face Entreri directly, "and I will reward you beyond your grandest dreams. A hundred bags of silver, perhaps?"
"And if I prefer gold?"
As soon as the words left his mouth and Tazmikella's face went tight with a fierce scowl, the assassin figured he might have crossed over the line. He offered a quick apology in the form of a tip of his hat, then looked at Jarlaxle and nodded his agreement.
-—<JO»—-
Artemis Entreri never could resist a challenge. He was supposed to hide outside the singular stone tower and await Jarlaxle's appearance beside Ilnezhara, if the drow mercenary could manage an invitation there, as Tazmikella had hinted.
The front of the thirty-foot gray stone tower had a wide awning of polished stone, supported by four delicate white columns, two carved with the likenesses of athletic men, and two with shapely women. The tower door beneath that awning was of heavy wood, carved in its center to resemble a blooming flower—a rose, the assassin thought.
Both the pull ring and the lock were gilded, and Entreri couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between that place and the modest house of Tazmikella.
Entreri knew that the door would be locked and probably set with devilish traps, perhaps even magical wards. He saw no guards around, however, and so he moved under cover of the waning daylight to the side of the tower, then inched his way around. At one point, he noticed the sill of a narrow window about halfway up, and his fingers instinctively felt at the stone blocks. He knew he could climb up, and easily.
Realizing that, he went instead for the door. !
In short order, Entreri found a trap: a pressure plate in front of the handle. Following the logical line to the front left column, he easily disarmed that one. Then he discovered a second: a spring needle set within the lock's tumblers. He took a block of wood from his pouch, an item he had designed precisely for that type of trap. The center was cut out, just enough to allow him to slide his lock-pick through with a bit of play room. He slipped it in, wriggled it a few times, then nodded his satisfaction as he heard the expected thump against the block of wood. Retracting the block, he saw the dart, and saw that it was shiny with poison. Ilnezhara played seriously.
And so Entreri played seriously for the next few moments too, scouring every inch of that door then rechecking. Satisfied that he had removed all of the mechanical traps, at least (for magical ones were much harder to detect), he went to work on the lock.
The door clicked open.
Entreri leaped back, rushing to the column to reset the pressure plate. He moved fast and sprang to the threshold, moving through suddenly and pushing the door closed behind him, thinking to relock it.
But as he bent with his lockpicks to reset the tumblers, the door burst in, forcing him to dive aside.
"Oh, for the love of drow," he cursed, continuing his roll off to the side as the carvings from the columns strode through, slender stone swords in hand.
Out came Charon's Claw, Entreri's deadly sword, his jeweled dagger appearing in his other hand. With little regard for those formidable weapons, the two closest of the stone constructs charged in, side by side. Charon's Claw went out to meet that charge, Entreri snapping the sword left and right to force an opening. He shifted sidelong and rushed ahead, between the stone swords, between the statues, and he managed to snap off a quick slash at one with his sword, and stabbed hard at the other. Both blades bit, and for any mortal creature, either might have proved a fatal strike. But the constructs had no life energy for Entreri's vampiric dagger to siphon, and no soul for Charon's Claw to melt.
They were not his preferred opponents, Entreri knew, and he lamented that no one seemed to hire flesh and blood guards anymore.
He didn't dwell on it, though, and pressed past the two male statues.
The two females came at Entreri fast and hard, leaping at him and clawing the air with stony fingers.
Entreri hit the floor in a sidelong roll. He got kicked by both, but accepted the heavy hits so that he could send both tumbling forward, off-balance, to smash into their male counterparts. Stone crumbled and dust flew in the heavy collision, and Entreri was fast to his feet, wading in from behind and bashing hard with his powerful sword.
As the statues unwound and turned on him in force, Entreri called upon another of Charon's Claw's tricks, waving the blade in a wide arc and summoning forth a black wall of ash as he did. Behind that optical barrier, the assassin went out to the side, then reversed and charged right back in as the lead statues crashed through the opaque screen.
Again his sword went to work ferociously, chopping
at the stone. And again, Entreri waved a wall of clouding ash and rushed away.
In the temporary reprieve, he noted that two of the statues were down and crumbled, and a third, one of the women, was hopping toward him on one leg, its other lying on the floor. Beside it came one of the males, seemingly unscathed.
Entreri rushed ahead to meet that charge before the male could get far out in front of the crippled female. In came the stone sword, and Entreri hooked it expertly with his dagger and turned it out, then jerked it back in as he went out, slipping past the male and going low, then cutting across with his sword, taking the remaining leg from the hopping female. She crashed down hard and Entreri came up fast, planting his foot on her face and springing away just in front of a mighty downward chop from the male's sword.
A downward chop that split the female's head in half.
Entreri hit the ground in a spin and came right back in, one against one. He slipped Charon's Claw inside the blade of the thrusting stone sword, then lifted as he turned to drive the weapon and weapon arm up high. He stepped forward and jabbed his dagger hard into the armpit of the statue, then disengaged Charon's Claw at such an angle that he was able to crack it down across the statue's face as he moved off to the side. The statue turned to pursue, but Entreri was already reversing his direction, moving with perfect balance and sudden speed.
He hit the statue across the face again as he passed, but that was merely the feint, for as the statue threw its sword arm up to block, Entreri turned and rushed under that arm, coming out the other way in perfect balance and position to slam Charon's Claw against the upper arm of the already damaged sword arm.
That arm fell to the floor.
The statue came on, clawing at him with its one hand. Entreri's blades worked in a blur, expertly taking the fingers from the statue's hand one at a time.
Then he whittled the hand to a stump in short order. The statue tried to head butt him, but its head fell to the floor.
"Stubborn rock," Entreri remarked and he lifted his foot up, braced it against the torso, and shoved the lifeless thing away and to the floor.
His weapons went away in the flash of an eye, and he turned to regard the room, taking in the sight of treasure after treasure.
"I'm working for the wrong person," he mumbled, awestricken.
He shrugged and began his search for the driftwood flute of Idalia. Before long, he realized that the destroyed statues were deconstructing, their essence and materials drifting back out the open door to the columns—as he'd expected they would.
When they were finally back in place outside on the columns, magically repairing as if nothing had happened, Entreri closed and locked the door. Anyone approaching would think all was as it had been, or so he hoped.
As soon as the couple walked through the tower door and he got a good look at the infamous Ilnezhara, Entreri wondered if there might not be more to Tazmikella's antipathy toward her former friend than simple merchant rivalry. For Ilnezhara seemed everything that Tazmikella was not. Her hair hung long and lustrous, and so rich in hue that Entreri couldn't decide if it was reddish-blond or reddish-brown, or
even copper-colored, perhaps. Her eyes were blue and big—enormous, actually, but they did not unbalance her bright face. Though her nose was thin and straight, and her cheekbones high and pronounced, her lips were as thick and delicious as any Entreri had ever seen. She was taller than the five-and-a-half foot Jarlaxle by several inches, and moved her slender form with as much grace as the nimble drow.
"I do find you entertaining," she said to the drow, and she tossed her thick hair.
Entreri knew that he was well-hidden, tucked in a cranny partly covered by a tapestry and concealed by a many-armed rack holding bowls of many colors. There was no way that Ilnezhara could see him, but when she tossed her hair and her face flashed his way, he felt the intensity of her gaze upon him.
She went right back to her conversation with Jarlaxle, and Entreri silently scolded himself. When had he ever so questioned his abilities? Had he been taken in by the woman's beauty? He shook the thought away and concentrated on the conversation playing out before him. The couple were seated on a divan then, with Ilnezhara curled up beside the charming drow, her finger delicately tracing circles on his chest, for she had opened the top two buttons of his fine white shirt. She was speaking of entertainment, still.
"It is my way," Jarlaxle replied. "I have traveled so many of the surface lands, from tavern to tavern and palace to palace, entertaining peasants and kings alike. I find my charms my only defense against the inevitable impressions offered by my black skin."
"With song? Will you sing to me, Jarlaxle?"
"Song, yes, but my talents are more musical."
"With instruments? I have a fine collection, of course."
She pulled herself from the divan and began striding toward the back of the room. There were indeed many instruments back there, Entreri knew, for of course he had searched much of the tower already. Several lutes and a magnificent harp, all of exceeding quality and workmanship graced the back area of this first floor.
"Your wonderful fingers must trace delicate sounds about the strings of a lute," Ilnezhara said—rather lewdly, Entreri thought—as she lifted a lute from a soft case to show to Jarlaxle.
"In truth, it is my kiss," said the drow. Entreri tried not to let his disgusted sigh be heard. "My breath. I favor the flute above all."
"The flute?" echoed Ilnezhara. "Why, indeed, I have one of amazing timbre, though it is not much to view."
Jarlaxle leaned toward her. Entreri held his breath, not even realizing that it all seemed too easy.
Ilnezhara continued toward the back of the room.
"Would you like to see it?" she asked coyly. "Or rather, would you like to see where I keep it?"
Jarlaxle's smile melted into a look of confusion.
"Or are you hoping, perhaps, that your sneaky friend has already found it, and so when I open its case, it will not be there?" the woman went on.
"My lady..."
"He is still here. Why do you not ask him?" Ilnezhara stated, and she turned her gaze over the cranny at the side, staring directly at the hidden Entreri.
"Play with my friends!" Ilnezhara cried suddenly and she lifted her hand and waved it in a circle. Immediately, several statuettes—a pair of gargoyles, a lizard and a bear—began to grow and twist.
"Not more constructs!" Entreri growled, bursting from his concealing cubby.
Jarlaxle sprang from the divan, but Ilnezhara moved with equal speed, slipping behind a screen and running off.
"Well done," Jarlaxle said to Entreri, the two taking up the chase.
Entreri thought to argue that he had defeated every entryway trap, and that he could not have expected Ilnezhara to be so prepared, but he stayed silent, having no real answer to the sarcasm.
Behind the screen, they found a corridor between the racks of artwork and jewelry cases. Up ahead, the woman's form slipped behind yet another delicate, painted screen, and as it was very near to the curving back wall, it seemed as if they had her—and would get to her before the constructs fully animated and caught up to them.
"You have nowhere to run!" Jarlaxle called, but even as he spoke, he and Entreri saw the wall above the screen crack open, a secret door swinging in.
"You didn't find that?" the drow asked.
"I had but a few minutes," Entreri argued, and he went left around the screen as Jarlaxle went right.
Entreri hit the door first, shouldering it in and fully expecting that he would find himself out the back side of the tower. As he pushed through, though, he felt that there was nothing beneath his foot. He grabbed hard at the door, finding a pull ring, and held on, hanging in midair as it continued to swing. As he came around and took in the scene before him, he nearly dropped, as his jaw surely did.
For he was not outside, but in a vast magically-lighted chamber, an extra-dimensional space, it had to be, going on and on beyond Entreri's sight. Having served among the wealthiest merchants in Calimport, and with the richest pashas, Artemis Entreri was no stranger to treasure hoards. But never before in all his
life had he imagined a collection of coins, jewels, and artifacts to rival this! Mounds of gold taller than he lay scattered about the floor, glittering with thousands of jewels sitting on their shining sides. Swords and armor, statues and instruments, bowls and amazing furniture pieces were everywhere, every item showing wonderful craftsmanship and care in design.
Entreri glanced back to see Jarlaxle at the threshold, staring in and appearing equally dumbfounded.
"An illusion," Entreri said.
Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch from one eye to the other and peered intently into the room.
"No, it's not," the drow said, and he glanced back to the tower's entry room.
With a shrug, Jarlaxle casually stepped into the room, dropping the eight feet or so to the floor. Hearing the clatter of the approaching constructs behind him, Entreri let go of the door, swinging it closed as he dropped. It shut with a resounding thud, and the • tumult disappeared.
"It is wonderful, yes?" Ilnezhara asked, stepping out from behind a pile of gold.
"By the gods..." whispered Entreri, and he glanced at his partner.
"I have heard of such treasures, good lady," the drow said. "But always in the care of—"
"Don't even say it," whispered Entreri, but it didn't matter anyway, for Ilnezhara's features began to shift and scrunch suddenly, accompanied by the sound of cracking bones.
A huge copper-colored tail sprang out behind her, and gigantic wings sprouted from her shoulders.
"A dragon," Entreri remarked. "Another stinking dragon. What game is this with you?" he asked his partner. "You keep placing me in front of stinking dragons! In all my life, I had never even seen a wyrm,
and now, beside you, I have come to know them far too well."
"You took me to the first one," Jarlaxle reminded.
"To get rid of that cursed artifact, yes!" Entreri countered. "You remember, of course. The artifact that had you under a destructive spell? Would I have chosen to go to the lair of a dragon, else?"
"It does not matter," Jarlaxle argued.
"Of course it matters," Entreri spat back. "You keep taking me to stinking dragons."
Ilnezhara's "ahem" shook the ground beneath their feet and drew them from their private argument.
"I could do without the disparaging adjectives, thank you very much," she said to them when she had their attention, her voice sounding very similar to what it had been when she had appeared as a human woman, except that it was multiplied in volume many times over.
"I suspect we need not worry about the constructs coming in to attack us," said Jarlaxle.
The dragon smiled, rows of teeth as long as Entreri's arm gleaming in the magical light.
"You do entertain me, pretty drow," she said. "Though I lament that you are not as wise as I had believed. To try to steal from a dragon at the behest of a fool like Tazmikella? For it was she who sent you, of course. The foolish woman can never understand why I always seem to best her."
"Go," Jarlaxle whispered, and the assassin broke left, while the drow broke right.
But the dragon moved, too, breathing forth.
Entreri cried out and dived into a roll, not knowing what to expect. He felt the wind of dragon breath passing over him, but came back to his feet, apparently unhurt. His elation at that lasted only a moment, though, until he realized that he was moving much more slowly.
"You cannot win, of course, nor is there any escape," said Ilnezhara. "Tell me, pretty drow, would you have come here to steal from me if you had known of my true identity?"
Entreri looked past the dragon to see Jarlaxle simply standing there, vulnerable, before the great wyrm. His incredulous expression was all the answer Ilnezhara needed.
"I thought not," she said. "You admit defeat, then?" Jarlaxle just shrugged and held his arms out to the side.
"Good, good," said the dragon.
Her bones began to crunch again, and soon she appeared in her human form.
"I did not know that copper dragons were so adept at shape-changing," the drow said, finding his voice.
"I spent many years studying under an archmage," Ilnezhara replied. "The passage of centuries can be quite boring, you understand."
"I do, yes," the drow answered. "Though my friend..."
He swept his arm out toward Entreri.
"Your friend who still thinks he might get behind me and stab me with his puny dagger, or cut off my head with his mighty sword? Indeed, that is a formidable weapon," she said to Entreri. "Would you try it against Ilnezhara?"
The assassin glared at her, but did not answer.
"Or perhaps you would give it to me, in exchange for your lives?"
"Yes, he would," Jarlaxle was quick to answer.
Entreri turned his scowl over his friend, but realized that he really couldn't argue the point.
"Or perhaps," said Ilnezhara, "you would instead agree to perform a service for me. Yes, you seem uniquely qualified for this."
"You need something stolen from Tazmikella," Entreri reasoned.
Ilnezhara scoffed at the notion and said, "What could she have that would begin to interest me? No, of course not. Kill her."
"Kill her?" Jarlaxle echoed.
"Yes, I grow weary of our facade of a friendship, or friendly rivalry, and I grow impatient. I do not wish to wait the few decades until old age takes her or renders her too infirm to continue her silly games. Kill her and arouse no suspicion from the authorities. If you can do that, then perhaps I will forgive your transgression."
"Perhaps?" asked the drow.
"Perhaps," answered the dragon, and when the two thieves hesitated, she added, "Do you believe that you can find a better deal?"
Entreri watched Tazmikella stiffen when she noticed Jarlaxle sitting casually in a chair in the back of her modest cabin.
"You have the flute of Idalia?" she asked, breathless.
"Hardly," the drow replied. "It would seem that you did not fully inform us regarding the disposition of your rival."
From his hiding spot off to the side, Entreri measured Tazmikella's reaction. He and Jarlaxle had agreed that if the woman knew Ilnezhara's true form, then they would indeed kill her, and without remorse.
"I told you she would be well-protected," Tazmikella started to say, and she stiffened again as a dagger came against her back.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "I hired you honestl—" She paused. "She sent you back here to kill me, didn't she? She offered you gold against my silver."
Entreri hardly heard her question. He hain't even pricked her with his vicious, life-drawing dagger, and yet the enchanted blade had sent such a surge of energy up his arm that the hairs were standing on end. Trembling, confused, the assassin lifted his free hand, placed it against Tazmikella's shoulder, and gave a push.
He might as well have tried to push a mountain. Entreri groaned and retracted both open hand and dagger.
"For the love of an eight-legged demon queen," he muttered as he walked off to the side, shaking his head in disgust.
He glanced over at Jarlaxle, who was staring at him curiously.
"Her?" the drow asked.
Entreri nodded.
Tazmikella sighed and said, "My own sister sent you to kill me...."
"Your sister?" asked the drow.
"One dragon's not good enough for you, is it?" Entreri growled at his partner. "Now you've put me in the middle of a feud between two!"
"All that you had to do was steal a simple flute," Tazmikella reminded them.
"From a dragon," said Entreri.
"I thought you quick and clever."
"Better if we had known the power of our enemy."
"And now you have come to kill me," said Tazmikella. "Oh, is there no room for loyalty anymore."
"We weren't going to kill you, actually," said Jarlaxle.
"You would say that now."
"If we found out that you knew you were sending us into the home of a dragon, then yes, we might have killed you," Entreri added.
"You'll note that my friend did not drive the blade into your back," said the drow. "We came to talk, not murder."
"So, now that you are aware of my... disposition, you wish to parlay? Perhaps I can persuade you to go and kill Ilnezhara."
"My good ... lady," the drow said, and he dipped a polite bow. "We prefer not to involve ourselves in such feuds. We are thieves—freely admitted!—but not killers."
"I can think of a drow I wouldn't mind killing right now," said Entreri, and he took some hope, at least, in noticing that Tazmikella smirked with amusement.
"I would suggest that you and your sister sort this out reasonably. Through talk and not battle. Your king carries Dragonsbane as his surname, does he not? I would doubt that Gareth would be pleased with having his principal city leveled in the fight between a pair of great dragons."
"Yes, dear sister," came another voice, and Entreri groaned again.
Jarlaxle bowed even lower as Ilnezhara stepped into view, as if she had simply materialized out of nowhere.
"I told you they wouldn't try to kill me," Tazmikella replied.
"Only because that one discovered your true identity before he plunged his dagger home," Ilnezhara argued.
"That is not entirely true," said Entreri, but they weren't listening to him.
"I suppose I could not blame them if they did try to kill me," said Tazmikella. "They were instructed to do so by a dragon, after all."
"Self-preservation is a powerful incentive," her sister agreed as she moved next to Jarlaxle.
Ilnezhara reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, and again began tracing lines on his chest with her long finger.
"You wish to play with me before you kill me, then?" Jarlaxle asked her.
"Kill you?" Ilnezhara said with feigned horror. "Pretty drow, why would I ever wish such a thing as that? Oh no, I have plans for you, to be sure, but killing you isn't in them."
She snuggled a bit closer as she spoke, and Jarlaxle grinned, seeming very pleased.
"She's a dragon!" Entreri said, and all three looked at him.
There usually wasn't much emotion in Artemis Entreri's voice, but so heavily weighted were those three words that it hit the others as profoundly as if he had rushed across the room, grabbed Jarlaxle by the collar, lifted him from the ground, and slammed him against the wall, shouting, "Are you mad?" with abandon.
"That one is so unimaginative," Ilnezhara said to her sister. "He is practical."
"He is boring," Ilnezhara corrected. She smirked at Entreri. "Tell me, human, as you walk along the muddy trail, do you not wonder what might be inside the gilded coach that passes you by?"
"You're a dragon," said Entreri.
Ilnezhara laughed at him.
"You have no idea what that means," Ilnezhara promised.
She put her arm around Jarlaxle and pulled him close,
"I know that if you squeeze harder, Jarlaxle's intestines will come out of his mouth," Entreri said, stealing Ilnezhara's superior smile.
"He has no imagination," Jarlaxle assured her.
"You are such a peasant," Ilnezhara said to Entreri. "Perhaps you should get better acquainted with my sister."
Entreri rubbed a hand over his face, and looked at Tazmikella, who seemed quite amused by it all.
"Enough of this," Tazmikella declared. "It is settled, then."
"Is it?" Entreri asked.
"You work for us now," Ilnezhara explained. "You do show cleverness and wit, even if that one is without imagination."
"We had to learn, you must understand," added her sister.
"Are we to understand that this whole thing was designed as a test for us?" asked Jarlaxle.
"Dragons—" Entreri muttered.
"Of course," said Ilnezhara.
"Then you two do not wish to battle to the death?"
"Of course not," both sisters said together.
"We wish to increase our hoards," said Tazmikella. "That is where you come in. We have maps that need following, and rumors that need confirming. You will work for us."
"Do not doubt that we will reward you greatly," Ilnezhara purred.
She pulled Jarlaxle closer, drawing an unintentional grunt from him.
"She's a dragon," Entreri said.
"Peasant," Ilnezhara shot back. She laughed again, then pulled Jarlaxle around and released him back toward the door. "Go now back to your apartment. We will fashion some instructions for you shortly."
"Your discretion is demanded," her sister added.
"Of course," said Jarlaxle, and he bowed low again, sweeping off his feathered hat.
"Oh, and here," said Ilnezhara. She pulled out a plain-looking flute of gray driftwood. "You earned this," she said. She motioned as if to toss it to the drow, but turned and flipped it out to Entreri instead. "Learn it well, peasant—to amuse me, and also because you might find it possessed of a bit of its own magic. Perhaps you will come to better appreciate beauty you cannot yet understand."
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed again, but Entreri just tucked the flute into his belt and headed straight for the door, wanting to get far away while it was still possible. He passed by Tazmikella, thinking to go right out into the night, but she held up her hand and stopped him as completely as if he had walked into a castle wall.
"Discretion," she reminded.
Entreri nodded and slipped aside, then went out into the foggy night, Jarlaxle right behind him.
"It worked out quite well, I think," said the drow, moving up beside him.
Jarlaxle reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, and in the cover of that shake, the drow's other arm snaked behind his back, reaching out and gently lifting the flute from Entreri's belt.
"Dragons____" Entreri argued.
He shoved Jarlaxle's arm away, and used the cover of the movement to flash his other hand across and secretly take back the flute, even as Jarlaxle set it in his belt.
"Are you so much the peasant, as beautiful Ilnezhara claims?" asked the drow, moving back beside his partner. "Your imagination, man! Have we ever known wealthier benefactors? Or more alluring?"
"Alluring? They're dragons!"
"Yes, they are," said a smug Jarlaxle, and he seemed quite entranced with that notion.
Of course, that didn't stop him from sliding his hand across to relieve Entreri of the magical flute once more. The drow brought it farther around his back to a waiting loop on his belt—a magical loop that would tighten and resist thieving fingers.
Except that what Jarlaxle thought was the loop was really Entreri's cupped hand and the man wasted no time in bringing the flute back.
Such was the fog in the friendship of thieves.
SERPESTRILLVYTH
Richard Baker
Flamerule, the Year of the Banner
On the hottest day of the summer, Erzimar rode into the dusty town with the Company of the Argent Hawk at his back. A cooper looked up from his work as Erzimar and his companions rode past, clutching an iron hoop in his broad hands. A small knot of women speaking together in the thin shade of a browned oak stopped their gossiping to stare at the travelers.
The half-elf Gethred dismounted with a creak of leather and shrugged his cloak from his shoulder, leaving his sword arm clear. Despite the heat, the handsome swordsman wore a breastplate of gold-chased steel. Sweat and dust grimed his face. He took in the dry, bare ground, and the straw-thatched homes and workshops with a single slow look.
"What's the name of this town again?" he asked.
"Pelldith Lake," answered Isildra. She, too, wore mail and leather, though her surcoat was emblazoned with the sleepless eye of Helm's faith. She drew off her gauntlets to wipe strong hands across her brow, frowning at the dirt around her. "That's what they said in Elturel, anyway."
Erzimar swung himself down from his own mount. Short and wiry, Erzimar did not mind the sweltering summer heat as much as his companions. He was a Shaaran, from the sweltering cities by the Lake of Steam, with golden-bronze skin and straight black hair. He wore a short, curved scimitar at his belt. But his preferred weapon was the staff of rich mahogany he carried across the saddlebow.
"There's the inn," he said.
"It'll do," Bragor the dwarf said as he lowered himself gingerly to the ground from his sturdy pony. As round and strong as a barrel of oak, the taciturn dwarf didn't like riding much, and liked riding on a hot day even less. "I don't care if this is the right village or not, I'm not going another mile today."
The Vaasan swordsman Murgolm followed suit, sparing one sullen look for the staring townsfolk before shaking the sweat from his long, black hair. Murgolm spoke little Common, but he had some Dwarvish and therefore tended to stay close to Bragor, who translated for him at need.
They led their horses into the inn yard, which was shaded by a line of tall, dusty poplars. A young stable boy with ungainly long arms and legs and a mop of sandy hair hurried out to meet them, blinking in the sunlight. He stood staring at the travelers while Geth-red returned his empty gaze.
"See to our mounts, lad," Gethred called. "Don't let them drink yet, they're hot. Bring in our saddlebags and packs when you're done."
"Yes, sir!"
"Now, lad, where can a fellow find something to wash the dust of the road from his throat?"
"Right through there, sir," the stable boy said. He pointed at the inn's door. "There's a taproom inside." He stared at the travelers again, his face working awkwardly as he struggled with something he wanted to say. Erzimar exchanged glances with his companions as they waited. Bragor turned away with a dour curse, tired of waiting, but then the lad broke free of his paralysis with a small hop and asked in an excited rush, "Are you here about the dragon?"
Erzimar simply nodded at the boy. The stable boy gaped in amazement as the travelers shook the road dust from their cloaks and went into the warm gloom of the inn's common room. Heavy footsteps sounded on creaking floorboards, and the innkeeper appeared—a short, stout fellow with sweat gleaming on his bald head. His face was sallow, with gray stubble discoloring his jowls and small, quick eyes.
"Good day, travelers," he began. "I am Rothas, the master of this house. How many rooms will you be needing, then?"
"We'll take three," Gethred said. "And we'll take any good ale you've got in your ice cellar, and something to eat, too. The quicker, the better."
"Of course, sir..."
The innkeeper hesitated, in much the same way that the stable boy had.
Erzimar took pity on the fellow and said, "Yes, Rothas, we've come about the dragon."
Two hours later, Erzimar felt almost comfortable again. His thirst was well quenched, he had a good
meal under his ribs, and he'd even found half an hour to dunk himself in the cold lake nearby. He sat alongside Gethred, Bragor, Murgolm, and Isildra in five wooden chairs that had been lined up along one wall of the inn's common room. Opposite them sat the half-dozen aldermen of Pelldith Lake. Two dozen more onlookers clustered in the back of the room, silent and watchful.
The aldermen included the innkeeper Rothas, and the cooper Ethern, the fellow Erzimar had seen as he rode into town.
"We're all here, alderman," the wizard said. "Let's hear what you have to say."
The elders looked at each other, and the cooper Ethern stood up. He knotted his strong hands together as he spoke.
"Thank you for answering our call," he began. "When will the rest of your party arrive?"
"We're it," Gethred said with a crooked smile. "The Company of the Argent Hawk, five strong. I am Gethred Hesthell of Everlund. This is the Vigilant Isildra of the Temple of Helm, Bragor Ironhand, Murgolm Stoyevsk of Vaasa, and Erzimar Dal Tirza of Innarlith, our wizard."
Ethern studied them, rubbing thoughtfully at his long jaw, then asked, "Will five of you be enough?"
"That depends on your dragon," Erzimar replied. "We can't help you if you've got an ancient red to deal with. If that's the case, I would advise you to pack up your belongings and abandon the town." He noted the stricken expressions on the elders' faces, and added, "Anything short of that, we can likely help."
"It's big, but not that big," the cooper said. "Strong, quick, with a heart as black as a rotten tree. A wicked beast."
"And it's damnably clever, too," Rothas muttered.
Erzimar leaned back in his chair and studied the elders. He could see at once that they were scared. Frightened out of their wits, really. No one wanted to meet his eyes. The townsfolk stared at the floorboards or shifted their feet, nervous.
"Listen, Ethern—for what it's worth, we've slain dragons before. We took a black up near the High Moor, and a young but strong red in the Sword Mountains. We know what we're about. Now, tell us the tale from the start."
The cooper looked at his fellow elders, who offered weary shrugs and nods for answers.
He turned back to the Argent Hawks and said, "It started about four tendays ago. We started losing livestock. That's not unusual—trolls raid the outlying homesteads from time to time. But we couldn't find any tracks. It was rainy then, and the pastures muddy. Trolls dragging off cows would have left plenty of footprints.
"Of course, we figured out later that the dragon was taking the livestock on the wing. Anyway, after this had gone on for several nights, we assembled a company of watchmen to guard the pastures. Two dozen archers, in groups of four, plus a few folk who have experience fighting monsters: Elzur, our town sorcerer; Brother Stort, a cleric of Lathander; and Selran, here—" the cooper nodded at a tall, sandy-haired fellow who stood in the back of the room, staring blankly at the floor—"who's stalked gnolls in the hills."
"Didn't know enough to be scared, yet," Rothas, the innkeeper, said.
"Five nights passed with nothing out of the ordinary," the cooper went on, "and some folks thought that whatever it was had moved on. But on the sixth night... on the sixth night it was the dark of the moon. As best we could make out later, it came against Elzur
and the archers with him, and killed them all with its breath before they even knew it was there. Then it turned on a nearby homestead. Counting Elzur and our watchmen, ten people dead in one night. That's a hard thing in a town the size of Pelldith Lake."
"I can imagine," Erzimar said. "Go on."
The cooper cleared his throat and said, "Well, we knew we had real trouble. We sent for a company of adventurers, a band of sellswords who were exploring some old ruins nearby. They agreed to help us out. The Fellowship of the Sundered Shield, or the Shield Fellows, they called themselves.
"The Shield Fellows searched the countryside for a couple of days—Selran went with 'em, because no one knows the lands nearby better—and they found a dragon's cave in the hills a few miles off Two tendays ago they set off to go deal with the monster. But none of them came back. The dragon killed them all. Only Selran returned to tell the tale."
Erzimar shifted in his seat, looked up at the straw-haired tracker leaning against the back wall, and asked, "You saw the dragon take them?"
The fellow looked up. His face was streaked with sweat, and his eyes seemed pale and unfocused, as if he looked on distant and terrible things.
"No," Selran managed. "They hired me to serve as a guide to the area, and to help watch their mounts. I did not enter the cave. The dragon called out to me when it was done. Told me to run back home and carry its demands for tribute." He cast his gaze down to the dusty floorboards again. "Its name is Serpestrillvyth."
"Did you pay its tribute?" Erzimar asked Ethern.
"We tried. We scraped together a thousand gold coins, twenty head of cattle, six casks of good wine—it wasn't easy. Then, when we sent the wagon to the place the dragon had told us to, a band of trolls attacked
and took it all. We think the dragon put them up to it, because the very next day it killed a little boy, and told his father that the town had better come up with another ransom to replace the one the trolls took."
Bragor the dwarf nodded, his beard spilling over his mailed chest, and said, "Aye, that's an old dragonish trick. Steal the ransom you demanded, and get paid twice."
"We argued long and hard over whether or not to pay again. Alderman Torbath argued most vehemently against it. He pointed out that we might as well spend the coin to hire dragonslayers to rid ourselves of the monster."
Erzimar looked at the elders and asked, "I'm sorry, but I don't recall—which one of you is Torbath?"
The cooper looked away and said, "He's not here, sir. He's dead. The dragon crept right into the middle of town one night and killed him in his bed."
"It found out that Torbath was going to be trouble, and it took care of him," the innkeeper said. He coughed awkwardly. "After that, we sent out word that we needed a dragonslayer."
"The dragon seems well informed about the town," Gethred murmured to the wizard in Elvish.
"It's not unexpected," Erzimar replied in the same language. "It could be a sorcerer of some skill; a lot of dragons are. A few divination spells would easily let it keep an eye on things here. I've warded us against scrying, just in case."
"It could have someone spying for it."
"Or it could have spies, yes. We won't rule out anything yef,"Erzimar answered. He turned his attention to the tracker leaning against the back wall, and spoke in Common again. "Selran, did you see the dragon?"
"I did. Just a glimpse of the monster, as it called out to me from its cave."
"What color was it, and how big? The size of a horse? An oxcart? A house?"
"I'm not sure about the color. It was dark. As far as the size, I would say it was as big as a large draft horse." The tracker looked around the taproom. "It could fit through that door, but not by much. It would pretty much fill this room with its wings and tail and all."
Erzimar nodded. An adult, most likely, but not particularly old and strong, at least as dragons went. Dragons grew throughout their lives, and the really old ones could be tremendously large and powerful. He glanced back to the town's spokesman.
"Have you seen it breathe anything? Fire, acid, lightning?"
"Its breath is a foul, choking, poisonous mist. It can kill everyone in a good-sized farmhouse by blowing its poison in a door or window."
"Those who die from its breath—is their skin eaten away? Puckered and split?"
Ethern paled, but he nodded and said, "Yes, that's the way of it."
"It's a green, then. No doubt about it," Bragor muttered.
He leaned over to Murgolm and explained the conversation to the Vaasan in Dwarvish.
"Can you help us?" Rothas the innkeeper asked.
"Yes," said Erzimar. "It's not to be taken lightly, but we've defeated dragons of that size before. Not a green, but we know what we need to do, I think." He glanced at his companions, searching for dissent and finding none. Then he turned back to the aldermen. "Let's discuss a suitable fee for slaying your dragon."
They rested in Pelldith Lake for the rest of the day and all of the next. The company armed and provisioned for an expedition to the dragon's lair, and they hired the tracker Selran to show them the way. They rode out into the hills above the town in the brief cool hour just after sunrise. Selran rode in the lead, dressed in a sweat-stained jerkin of leather sewn with iron rings, a long bow of yew across his back.
The day was still and sweltering. A distant line of thunderheads slowly gathered in the hazy west, but the low thunder rumbled throughout the afternoon without ever drawing closer. They climbed over endless thicket-covered ridges and splashed through boggy dells, shallow and scummy after the summer drought.
An hour before dusk Selran led them to a ruined hunter's lodge by a reedy lake.
"We're still five miles from the dragon's cave," the ranger said. "I don't dare bring the horses any closer, or it might sniff them out and find us in the night."
"We'll fortify this place with our spells, just in case," Erzimar replied. "It wouldn't do to let Serpestrillvyth catch us sleeping."
While the mage worked his magic and laid his wards, Gethred and Murgolm tended to the horses, and Bragor saw to the cooking as best he could without lighting a fire. Isildra and Selran stood guard, watching the darkening sky and the warm, still woods. The ranger stood in the shadows of the trees and watched the Argent Hawks at their tasks, his face set in a stony frown.
"What is it, Selran?" Isildra asked. "What troubles you?"
"It is nothing," he said. Then, after a moment, he sighed and sat down on an old stump that had been cut for the lodge. "It's just that... you're so much like the others."
"The others?" Isildra looked at him blankly for a moment, then she nodded. "Oh. The Fellowship of the Sundered Shield."
Selran nodded expressionlessly and said, "I brought them to the cave by a different path—it would have been foolish to follow the same trail twice. But this seems just like..." He seemed to struggle with himself, searching for the right words perhaps, then he gave in with an odd shrug. "I fear for you all."
The cleric of Helm nodded and said, "We shall be careful, Selran. Extremely careful."
"The Shield Fellows said the same."
Erzimar returned from setting his magical defenses and joined the conversation with a quick smile. "Yes, but you forget—we have an advantage over the Sundered Shields. We know this dragon has killed a company of dragonslayers. Nothing serves to sharpen one's sense of caution as well as an example like theirs."
Isildra set a hand on Selran's arm and said, "Helm rewards vigilance, Selran. Keep your eyes open, and speak up when something troubles you. We will listen. You know this dragon, you know this terrain. Your intuition may be our best weapon."
The ranger sank down on a stump, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the empty woods across the lake.
"I doubt it," he said softly. "It's a damnably clever dragon."
They set a half-on, half-off watch throughout the night, and even those who were not on watch slept with weapons close at hand and mail shirts or breastplates loosely fastened, ready to rise and fight at a moment's notice. But the night passed without danger, though at one point Selran cried out in his sleep and gave them all a bad start.
Afterward, Gethred pulled Erzimar aside, and the two moved a little ways off from the camp. The half-elf
kept watch over Erzimar's shoulder, his hand on his sword hilt as he spoke.
"What do you think of the ranger?"he asked softly in Elvish.
"He seems shaky to me" Erzimar admitted. "I don't know that I can blame him, though. Consider the courage it must take to return to the den of a dragon after you've seen it kill a whole band of heroes."
"More courage than to go the first time, I suppose. Still... I don't think we should count on him, if it comes to that."
Erzimar shrugged and replied, "If he bolts, I don't see the harm in it. My plans do not depend on Selran in any way, shape, or form. I would feel badly for the fellow, though. If he does go, I hope he can find it in his heart to forgive himself later."
Gethred snorted.
"I hope I can find it in mine to forgive, him, too,"he said Gethred looked into the wizard's face, and his eyes were dark and serious. "Don't expect him to help much, Erzimar."
Shortly before sunrise, they left the camp on foot and followed Selran over the nearby ridge. The ranger led them along the wooded hillside for several miles before they began to descend toward a boulder-choked riverbed. The stream was dark and slow in the summer heat, trickling through the dusty rocks. Selran finally called another halt in a dense copse another half mile farther on.
"There," he said in a whisper. "This side, two hundred yards."
Erzimar followed the ranger's gaze and saw the cave—a wide, horizontal gash about man-high but
close to thirty feet from side to side. It was low, only a few feet above the dry boulders and bleached snags marking the river's high water mark, but it looked like it sloped upward sharply inside.
"I see it," he said. "This is close enough. Before we go any farther, I must see to our magical protections."
The ranger looked up sharply and asked, "You have spells to protect you?"
"Isildra will use her holy prayers to ward against the dragon's breath and strengthen and fortify us. I will armor us all against its teeth and claws and enchant us with spells of dark-seeing. And I'll lay spells of dragonbane on our weapons, too."
"Can you turn us invisible?"
"I can, but it won't help much. Dragons see through most such spells with ease." Erzimar looked up at the tall tracker, and lowered his voice. "Now, are you staying here, or do you wish to accompany us inside? I need to know before I begin my spells."
Selran paled. He licked his lips and fixed his eyes on the cave mouth. He visibly shuddered, and passed his hand over his eyes.
I should not have asked, Erzimar chided himself. I have shamed him.
The wizard could only imagine the mortal terror the ranger wrestled with.
"You need not go, Selran," he added quietly. "I would not mind a sentry outside to guard against the dragon circling behind us undetected."
"No," Selran said. "No, I will go."
Gethred, who was standing near, clapped one mailed hand on the ranger's shoulder before turning away to look after his weapons.
Erzimar and Isildra quickly and quietly began their spells and enchantments, while the rest of the company stood guard against any sudden attack. The priestess
murmured her sacred words and sprinkled holy water over each of the Argent Hawks, her holy symbol glowing blue with the Vigilant God's power. Erzimar confidently rasped out the words of spell after spell, dusting his companions with pinches of ground diamond and weaving potent abjurations over them. So protected, a swordsman could withstand all but the most powerful blows, and deal terrible wounds with his enchanted blade. When he finished with the last spell, he picked up his staff and gestured at the dragon's lair.
"Quick, but not careless," said the wizard. "The spells will not last forever."
Gethred nodded and set out in the lead, trotting toward the cave in a low crouch. Bragor and Murgolm followed, weapons bared. Then Erzimar and Isildra broke cover and followed, keeping close to the fighters in front of them. Selran loped quietly a few steps behind, his bow strung and an arrow grasped in one hand. They crossed the desiccated streambed easily, and scrambled up toward the dark cave above. Stones scraped and crunched beneath their boots, and Erzimar winced with each one.
It must know we're coming, he thought. Dragons have uncannily keen senses. It'll know we're here.
His stomach twisted at the thought of the dragon waiting on them, but the wizard steeled himself and stayed close to his companions. Ducking below the overhanging rock at the mouth of the cave, the Hawks stole inside, blinking as they went from the sun-bright streambed to the deep shadows of the cave. Erzimar caught a whiff of the dragon's scent—a harsh, acrid smell like a tanner's vat, painful in the nose and throat.
Gethred paused in front of him and pointed to the cave floor with the tip of his sword. Erzimar glanced down and saw at once the dragon's wallow, a broad path through the loose scoria where its belly had smoothed
the rubble as it passed in and out of the cave. It was almost a yard wide. He nodded sharply to the half-elf, and Gethred carefully prowled deeper into the cave, following the twisting tunnel deeper into the hillside.
The passage proved difficult and uneven, climbing up and down sharply, with a V-shaped floor that offered little level footing. A serpentine creature with sharp claws and a flexible body could use the narrow walls and rough rocks for easy footholds, but folk on two feet found it difficult going. Mail jingled and scraped as Erzimar's companions slipped and fumbled their way ahead. Erzimar was especially troubled by the height of the passage—crevice, more accurately—since it angled crookedly thirty feet or more above them. He caught up to Bragor and tapped the dwarf on the shoulder.
"Tell Murgholm to watch above," he whispered. The dwarf nodded and muttered, "I don't like this. Too easy."
He tapped Murgholm on the shoulder and mumbled something in Vaasan. Murgholm craned his neck back and studied the darkness overhead for a long moment before scrambling after Gedreth. Bragor watched his back.
Another fifty feet farther, and they came to a branching passageway that descended sharply to the left. A thin trickle of water spilled out of the wall on the right and crossed the dragon's passage before splashing down into the darkness. Gethred looked back to Erzimar.
"Which way?" he mouthed quietly.