Rytagir stopped his descent only a few feet above the shipwreck. Despite the magic woven into the pearl, his vision wasn't able to penetrate much of the gloom at that depth.
He swam slowly and surveyed Peilam's Nose from the broken keel to the distinctive prow that named her. She'd been christened for the man who'd built her, a dwarf woodworker who'd forsaken the forge for a lathe in a lumberyard.
Even half-buried, the prow showed the fierce profile of a dwarf. His blunt nose projected well ahead of the rest of his features. The eye that Rytagir could see looked undaunted. Peilam's beard showed in the scalloped trim that flowed back over the prow until it gradually faded into the hull on both sides.
The ship was unmistakably the one Rytagir had come for. He reached into the waterproof shoulder pack he'd brought with him and extracted the journal he'd dedicated to compiling all information about Peilam's Nose.
Protected by the pearl's magic, Rytagir hung cross-legged in the sea and quickly sketched the ship as it lay on the sea bottom. The salvage was going to be easier than he'd expected.
More times than not, the hull—especially on a scuttled vessel—shattered and emptied her guts across the sea floor. The trail of lost cargo could last for miles.
So immersed was Rytagir in the task of recording the image for the papers or book he would write on the ship that he didn't notice he was no longer alone on the ocean floor. At least, not until he noticed the shadow that slid over his.
3
Almost casually, Rytagir closed the journal and slipped it back into the shoulder bag. His hand closed over the plain hilt of his long sword and yanked the blade free. He spun around to face
the observer and raised the sword between them.
With the shadow being human-shaped, his first impression was that he was being spied upon by a sahuagin. But he knew the chances of that were small.
Sahuagin had brought an end to Peilam's Nose, but the murderous sea devils no longer freely traveled the currents of the Inner Sea. The aquatic predators had been sealed within the Alamber Sea behind the massive Sharksbane Wall. The defensive structure was a hundred miles long, sixty feet tall, and a hundred feet thick. Legend had it that sea elves and other creatures manned the wall to prevent the sahuagin from invading the Sea of Fallen Stars.
But his observer wasn't a sahuagin. It was a sea elf. A beautiful sea elf. Her clothing consisted of clam shells that covered her pert breasts, a triangle of silverweave armor that barely concealed her modesty, and silverweave legging armor. Her pale blue skin had white patches that were natural camouflage many sea creatures shared.
As with other denizens of the deep, she was darker on her back—her dorsal side—than her front. The bifurcation of colors was the sea's primary gift to her creatures. Dark on top, they couldn't be seen from above. Light on bottom, they were hard to see against the brightness of the surface.
She was a rare beauty, even among the alu Tel'Quessir, as the sea elves called themselves, because she possessed flashing silver eyes and a long, vibrant mane of red hair that swirled down to her generous hips. Neither of those colors occurred very often among the alu Tel'Quessir.
Her gaze held both displeasure and defiance. One hand wrapped the haft of a trident made of chipped obsidian. A silverweave net rode on her left hip, and she had an obsidian knife strapped to her lower right leg.
She wasn't alone. A dozen other sea elves floated behind her, males and females. All of them were armed. Half a dozen
dolphins circled the area. The dolphins were companions to the rangers among the sea elves.
Not exactly a welcoming committee, Rytagir thought as he looked over the sea elves.
"You are human," the sea elf woman accused.
Rytagir sheathed his long sword. "I am. My name is Rytagir."
One of the younger male sea elves spoke to the woman in their native tongue. Rytagir spoke that language as well, but didn't see the need to reveal that as yet.
"I have heard of him, lady," the young warrior said. His green eyes never left Rytagir. "He's a seeker among the humans. They say he means no harm to undersea folk."
Rytagir was aware of his good reputation. He'd worked to have it and to keep it.
"What are you doing here?" the sea elf woman demanded.
"I'm a scholar, lady." Rytagir pointed at the shipwreck. "I've come to document the final days of that vessel."
She arched an eyebrow. "It was attacked by sahuagin and sunk. Surely your people knew that."
"We did. But we didn't know where the cargo had gone."
"If you surface dwellers were more careful with your things," one of the male elves snarled, "then you wouldn't be fouling our waters with your unwanted refuse and things you have lost."
"Not all the things that have been lost have been unwanted," Rytagir pointed out. But it was true that ships that were no longer serviceable were scuttled. Refuse from cities also poured out into the sea from rivers and from garbage scows. "I'm here today representing people who want this thing back."
The elf swam to within inches of Rytagir. "Once something is down here, human, it belongs to us. Even the gold aboard that ship. You can't have it back unless we decide that you can. Or unless you pay us to release it."
Rytagir knew that was true. Though the alu Tel'Quessir didn't value gold the same way the dry world did, gold still had value on the sea floor as building materials. Stories were often told in taverns of entire sea elf cities made of gold.
Tm willing to negotiate," Rytagir said.
The male swam around Rytagir contemptuously. "We're not fools, human. We know the worth of gold in the surface world."
"I'm not here for the gold."
"Then what are you here for, human?" the female elf asked.
"For the story. To let the families of these men know what happened to them."
Mocking doubt showed on the young elf woman's face. "Three hundred years after the ship went down?" She shook her head and her beautiful tresses floated out into the water. "I doubt there are any left alive who care. Your people tend to be as shortsighted as you are short-lived."
"There are important documents aboard."
"You came for those documents? Not for the gold?"
"I came for the documents. The captain of the ship above came for the gold. That was my deal with him."
"And you claim none of this gold for yourself?" Her raised eyebrows indicated how doubtful she was at that.
"I'm going to take my share of gold. I'd be a fool not to. And expeditions like this one aren't free."
The alu Tel'Quessir around them laughed at that.
"What if we chose to take a share of that gold?" the elf woman asked.
Rytagir glanced at them all. "Perhaps we could come to an amenable agreement."
4
"I don't see why we have to share," the sea elf male snarled. "If we choose to, we can sink their ship and drown them all." He glared at Rytagir. "Unless you choose to run."
"Greedy surface dwellers don't run," another male stated.
Rytagir hardened his voice. "There is a ship's mage aboard the vessel. And he has an apprentice. Both of them stand prepared to defend the ship as well. They've sworn their life's blood to do that."
The alu Tel'Quessir knew about ships' mages. Charged with caring for the crew and the ship, all of them knew how to repair minor damage done to the ship and preserve wood, but some of them could quell storms, hurl fireballs, and summon the wind. Others, at least so Rytagir had heard, could call down lightning strikes, summon whirlpools, and raise tidal waves that could smash ships on rocks.
The sea elves had a healthy respect for magic. Still, they could be damn stubborn. Rytagir hoped to make negotiating more attractive to them.
"What bargain would you strike, human?" the female asked.
"I want the salvage from this ship."
"I would not see this ship moved," she replied. "It has become home to many sea creatures."
Rytagir understood the woman's feelings. His father tended to believe, after the same fashion, that change, unless natural, was not a thing to ascribe to. Disruption of an environment was never to be tolerated.
"I've sworn to protect the land and the seas that have been assigned to me," the sea elf woman said.
"I'm not here for the ship," he said. "All I want is the cargo, and the documents if I can find them."
"What would we get in return?" the male asked.
"If you simply allow this, I'll give you ten percent of what we recover."
"Never expect a fair deal from a surface dweller," one of the other elves muttered.
"I'll give a fair deal," Rytagir countered. "But I'm not going
to let you rob me. If you help me with the transport of the goods to the ship above, I can make your share thirty percent."
"So you would want us to be your pack animals?" The male grimaced.
"Let me speak, Rasche," the woman said.
Reluctantly, Rasche backed down.
"We want fifty percent," she told Rytagir.
Rytagir smiled coldly. "We have to transport and arrange payment for salvage. That takes more time and effort. And more investment. We'll take sixty percent. That's as generous as I can be."
"Except you," the sea elf said. "If you find the document you seek, you still stand to make a profit. I know that wizards often pay well for spellbooks, and collectors pay for unique pieces of writing or art."
"Lady, I swear to you by all I hold holy that I'm not here for that kind of profit. I seek only papers and documents that will reveal more of the lost histories of some of the lands around this place."
The maid smiled. "Then I will pray for Deep Sashelas's pleasure that we will all find something worthwhile."
Deep Sashelas was the god of the undersea elves. He was known as the Knowledgeable One and the Master of Dolphins. Many undersea folk, and even some human sailors, worshiped him. Rytagir had a more than passing acquaintance with the altars dedicated to the Dolphin Prince.
He looked into those silver eyes and asked, "May I have your name, Lady?"
"Don't you dare transgress, human!" Rasche said, and shoved his spear toward Rytagir's face.
5
With blinding speed, Rytagir drew his long sword and slapped Rasche's spear aside. The blow knocked the sea elf off-balance
and spun him around in the water.
Obviously embarrassed, Rasche whirled and twisted in the water to come back around almost immediately. His fingers and toes splayed to allow the webbing between them to better grasp the water as he hurled himself back at his chosen opponent.
"Rasche," the woman spoke in an authoritative tone. "Stand down."
Immediately, Rasche broke off his attack. Cruel invective in his native tongue filled the sea.
Rytagir didn't sheathe his sword. He held ready the spells that he knew. They weren't much, but they would have to serve. He knew he couldn't swim to the surface before the elves overtook him.
"Deep Sashelas preserve us from males and their warring ways," the woman said. She glared at Rasche and Rytagir alike. "Surely between the two of you there are more brains than a prawn has. If not, then this is not to be done today."
After a moment, Rytagir let out a tense breath and put his long sword away. He took his gaze from Rasche and looked at the woman.
"If I offended you, Lady, please know that I had no intention of doing so."
"I know that. It's just that these men have been entrusted to take care of me." She shot Rasche a quick glare. "They're acting on my father's orders. Much to my annoyance." Her silver eyes cut back to Rytagir. "I'm called Irdinmai."
The name meant nothing to Rytagir. But he could tell by her tone of voice that it meant something somewhere. He nodded. "Thank you, Lady. Then, with your leave, we'll inspect the ship."
"Of course. The sooner we deal with this, the better."
Rytagir walked through the water, deliberately setting himself apart from the alu Tel'Quessir who swam ahead of him. It was bad luck that he'd crossed paths with the sea elves. Captain Zahban wasn't going to be happy about the situation either. Rytagir fully expected to have the same argument with the ship's captain as he'd had with the sea elf woman. For the moment he chose to delay that confrontation.
At the entrance to the forward hold, Rytagir reached into his shoulder bag and took out a foot-long length of lucent coral. He unwrapped the heavy cloth that kept the pale blue light trapped inside.
With the coral, he could see several feet, but his vision was still blunted by the depth of the water. He fisted the coral and stepped through the cargo hold.
Many barrels floated against the opposite side of the hull. Most of those, according to the manifest, had been precious oils intended for use in perfumes and cooking. They were lighter than the water and floated as a result. Nearly all of the metal parts on the ship—and there were few—had rusted away. What remained wasn't worth salvaging.
The timbers, however, were a different matter. Most of them, if not all, had been preserved in the cold water. Also, most of the wood was precious. Peilam hadn't stinted on the construction of his vessel.
"What are you thinking?" Irdinmai asked.
"The salvage profits would be raised a lot if we could get the ship back to the surface." Rytagir rubbed a hand on the smooth wood.
Irdinmai shook her head. "I won't have this place destroyed. Or moved. It has become part of the sea now."
"These timbers are quite expensive," Rytagir pointed out. "If we were to salvage them, the profits from this shipwreck—"
"If we were to salvage these timbers," the maid said, "then
the creatures that have chosen to live and spawn here would lose their safe homes. The sea is cruel. Only the smartest and the quickest survive. This has been a home to these creatures for many generations. We're not going to move it."
Rytagir nodded. He knew Captain Zahban wouldn't care for the decision, but there was no choice. Not unless they wanted to fight the sea elves.
One of the elves called out in an excited voice, "Lady Irdinmai, please come see this."
6
Irdinmai pushed herself up from the ship's side and swam back toward the stern. Rytagir trailed in her wake.
Only a short distance farther on, he reached the midships. Cargo had to be carefully planned and balanced by the quartermaster so it would ride comfortably during a voyage. It stood to reason that the gold would have been placed amidships.
Thick yellow bars of gold had spilled across the other side of the hull. The pale blue light of the lucent coral brought the dull shine to life.
Perhaps there wasn't enough of it to build a house, not even a small one, but there was enough to make them all wealthy for a short while.
Irdinmai looked at Rytagir. "When we begin taking this gold to the surface," she asked, "will we be able to trust that captain and crew?"
"Yes," Rytagir answered.
The sea elf maid regarded him coolly. "The alu Tel'Quessir know greed, not like the Lolth-loving Sser'tel'quessir, but we know it. We also know it is far stronger in surface dwellers."
"That captain and those men will stand firm by the bargain they have with me." Rytagir met her direct gaze full "measure.
Irdinmai was silent for a moment. "And you'll be held accountable for them."
¦©¦ ¦©¦ ¦©¦ ¦©¦
"I thought ye'd drownt," Zahban grumbled when Rytagir heaved himself aboard Azure Kestrel. "Either that or taken up residence with some sea hag what would have ye."
"Shame on ye to even say such a thing," Dorlon admonished. He was lean and gray, far from his youth but a good man to have as quartermaster. "If ye haven't a care, ye'U call down all manner of bad things up on our heads."
Zahban laughed at the other man. "Ye're turning into an old woman, ye are."
Dorlon cursed the captain good-naturedly.
As he stood on the deck, Rytagir studied the dark sky. He had to squint through the sheets of rain that swamped the ship's deck. Night was still hours away, but it was hard to tell given the storm. It was almost as dark as night already.
"Well," Zahban asked, "do we be rich men or poor men?"
Rytagir couldn't help grinning. He liked being right in his projects. "She was down there, captain. And so was the gold."
The crew cheered enthusiastically.
"The bad news is that we're going to be sharing the salvage. The good news is that getting it up from the sea floor is going to be a lot easier than I thought."
"What do ye mean by—?" Zahban clamped his big mouth shut as Irdinmai caught hold of the ship's side and hauled herself aboard.
"So this is yer bad news?" Zahban asked.
Irdinmai glanced at him with sharp disdain. She favored Rytagir with the same. "I've never been referred to in that manner."
"I guess she speaks our tongue," Zahban said sheepishly.
"Quite well, actually," Irdinmai replied. "And we're not any happier about the arrangement than you are, captain."
"I reckon not, Lady." The captain's tone was respectful. "Well then, let's just make the best of this." He rolled an eye at Rytagir. "I just hope ye left us some profit to be made."
"There's enough." But Rytagir knew that every man aboard was thinking about how there could have been more.
7
After the relay was set up, everything went easier. Rytagir stayed below and supervised the salvage. The sea elf warriors didn't have much experience at working shipwrecks, but they learned quickly.
The gold was taken up first. They placed the ingots in nets and swam the loads to the surface. Zahban's men stored the salvaged goods in Azure Kestrel's hold. Irdinmai stationed guards aboard ship to ensure it didn't depart unexpectedly.
Fatigue chafed Rytagir mentally and physically, but he kept himself working. Once he had the hold salvage squared away, he turned his attention to the captain's quarters.
He found the captain's log easily enough, but the papers he was looking for—the ones he'd heard about and read about in the research he'd done regarding the peace treaties—weren't there. At least, not within ready sight.
Then he started looking for secret places where documents, contraband, and the captain's personal fortune might be kept.
"Maybe those documents aren't here."
Walling away the frustration he felt, Rytagir turned to face Irdinmai. "If they're here, I'll find them," he promised.
"What's so important about those papers?"
"They'll provide a better understanding of the events that were taking place in this region three hundred years ago."
"And that's important?"
"Our histories tend to be more volatile than yours, Lady," he said. "Every time two cultures, two cities, or two nations fight, something of both is lost. If more than two are involved, even more is lost. The document I'm looking for was a peace accord. An early draft. It would be interesting to match it against the peace accord that was actually negotiated."
"Will that change anything?"
"I doubt it. But for those of us who really want the whole story and not part of one, these documents are a necessity."
"You really care more about finding this than the gold, don't you?"
"Yes. You have stories you hand down to your children, to teach them wisdom and your ways, and to teach them right from wrong."
"Of course. Every tribe does."
"Up there, few people live in tribes anymore. Many of them live in large cities."
Irdinmai bristled as if she had been insulted. "We too once lived in cities. I know what a city is."
"I meant no offense, lady. I only wanted to point out that cities are far larger than what you may be accustomed to down here. Many people—some of them from distant lands and different cultures—live in those cities. Thousands of them. As a result, our histories are not as pure as those among your people."
For a moment, sadness touched the silver eyes. "I've seen the ruins of cities that have fallen into Ser6s," she said. "I've wandered among the buildings. I can only imagine what it might be like to live in such a place as that."
There were tales of great cities of sea elves that had vanished on the ocean floor, but no one had ever found any truth of that. Rytagir believed in the myths more than most, but even he felt they might offer hope, but not truth.
"If ever you decide you should want to see a living city, Lady, get word to me. I'll be glad to show you around one." Rytagir didn't know what prompted him to make such an offer, hadn't even known he was going to make it until the words fell out of his mouth, and he felt foolish.
Instead, she said, "If I decide to see a city, I'll do that." Then she turned and began helping with the search of the captain's quarters. "Perhaps two of us will be more clever than one."
"Thank you," Rytagir said. He strove to wall off the barrage of questions that filled his mind about whether she would take him up on his offer, and what he would do and where they would go if she did. It didn't work. She was beautiful, and there were so many places he could have shown her.
He took a dagger from his boot and used the hilt to rap against the wooden walls and floor. The thump of metal striking wood sounded different underwater.
But the sharp crack of smashing wood behind him drew his attention immediately. He spun, not certain what he'd heard.
Then Irdinmai called out a warning.
In the gloom barely penetrated by the lucent coral he carried, Rytagir saw a powerful figure claw through the stern windows that led to the captain's quarters. It had six limbs, and the two additional arms helped it tear through the windows.
The creature looked more fish than man. Iridescent scales covered its powerful body and gleamed under the glow of the lucent coral. Black talons curved out from its fingers. As broad as it was, it didn't look tall. But Rytagir knew from the size of the window that the creature had to be almost seven and a half feet tall.
Large, magnetic black eyes sat under a ridge of bony growth. The creature's head was hard and angular, and the
jaw jutted forth. Sharp teeth filled the great, gaping mouth. Ridges carved the creature's face and gave it an inherently evil visage. Fins ran the length of the creature's arms, from its wrist nearly all the way to the shoulder.
Like the sea elves, the creature was lighter on its front than on its back. Most of the creature was teal in color, but it was uneven, stained with ragged splotches of gray and green. Great fins growing out from the sides of its head swept back to join the main dorsal fin along its back. The fins of the sahuagin of the outer sea stood out independently.
It wore a dark breechcloth of indeterminate color that hung to its first knees. The creature's legs were double-jointed, the second joint allowing the legs to bend back the other way. It carried a long club that looked like a spear. One end held a sharp-bladed point, and the other held a spiked club head. A leather harness crisscrossed its chest and held up a bag woven from underwater plants.
Rytagir had dealt with the sea devils before, each time barely escaping with his life.
"Meat," the creature shrilled in its language. It thrust the staff s blade at Irdinmai's chest.
8
Rytagir threw himself forward but knew he was going to be too late.
Irdinmai gave ground and drew her sword from her hip. The blade whisked in front of her and collided with the sahuagin's club. The club went wide of the mark.
The sahuagin snarled in angry frustration. Two more of its fellows, these with only two arms apiece, poured through the broken window.
With his feet planted, Rytagir swung his sword at the sahuagin's head. Its lower right arm flicked out and caught the blow on a bracer that covered it from wrist to almost
elbow. Metal rasped on metal as Rytagir drew his weapon back.
The two other sahuagin flew across the open space. But the room inside the cabin was limited. They got in each other's way. Rytagir feinted at the head of one and ducked down as his opponent chose to bring up his club to block the perceived blow.
Crouched now, Rytagir sprang forward and slashed his sword across the sahuagin's midsection. The creature's entrails spilled out. Without thought to its dying companion, the second sahuagin grabbed the mortally wounded one's innards and began to feast.
Deep Sashelas, Rytagir swore to himself. Even though he'd heard stories about how callous the sahuagin were, he'd never seen anything like this. The sahuagin shoved its maw full and chewed and swallowed. Even the wounded one turned and snatched loose pieces of itself from the water and ate them.
Rytagir stepped around the sahuagin he'd slashed just as it convulsed like a drowning man and died. A blood cloud spewed into the water from its massive jaws.
The second sahuagin stabbed its weapon at Rytagir. After blocking the blow with his sword, Rytagir kicked the sea devil in the face. The sahuagin's face shattered under the blow and fangs drifted out into the water.
Still, the fight hadn't gone out of it. The creature regrouped at once and attacked. Rytagir blocked the spear with his left forearm the second time and thrust the long sword straight into the sea devil's neck. The blade grated on the collarbone, then sank deeply into its chest. With a quick twist, Rytagir slashed the sahuagin's throat and freed his blade at the same time.
Fearfully, he shoved the dying sahuagin from him and glanced in the direction he'd last seen Irdinmai. He felt certain she was already dead.
Instead, she bravely fought on and succeeded in blocking her opponent's attacks. Several cuts on three of the sahuagin's four arms wept crimson into the water. She was good with her weapons. She held a dagger in her left hand and as he watched, she dropped her long sword and drew yet another knife.
In a blinding display of martial arts, Irdinmai slashed her opponent from head to toe. The sahuagin flailed at her, but she blocked the blows with her elbows and forearms.
Then her right hand shoved the knife up from under the sea devil's chin. The blade was too short to reach the creature's brain, but the second knife, swept across in her left hand, sank to the hilt in the sahuagin's right temple. For good measure, to kill the reptilian brain that drove her opponent, Irdinmai cruelly twisted her blade.
The sahuagin shuddered and went still.
Calmly, Irdinmai freed her knives and put them away before reclaiming her long sword. She glanced at Rytagir.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Rytagir nodded. "I thought you were in trouble."
"I was." She favored him with a tense smile. "We still are.
A shark invaded the captain's quarters. The fierce beast came at Rytagir with its mouth gaping. Rytagir rapped it on the nose with his sword hilt.
The shark turned tail and left, but not before it managed to grab one of the dead sahuagin by the leg and haul it back out into the open water. Before it had gone far, another shark zoomed in to rip one of the dead sea devil's arms off.
"Move," Irdinmai ordered.
Rytagir started for the door, then he saw a crack in the wall behind the elf maid. The hidden space there held several pouches and a waterproof wooden document box that just fit the description Rytagir had read about. He forced his way past Irdinmai and shoved all the contents into his shoulder bag.
Irdinmai led the way through the door. Rytagir paused just long enough to grab the lucent coral he'd dropped.
Though he couldn't see very far in any direction, Rytagir saw that the ship was overrun with sahuagin. The sea devils were locked in mortal combat with the sea elves.
"Merciful Sashelas,'' Irdinmai whispered in her tongue, "keep us in your benevolent sight."
"We've got to swim for the ship," Rytagir said. He spoke in her tongue so she would effortlessly understand his words. "We need to join forces while we're still able."
Irdinmai glanced at him in surprise. "The ship? On the surface?''
Rytagir knew the sea elves would be loath to leave the sea. "It's the only chance we have," he insisted. "You'll be out of place aboard, but so will the sahuagin. We can fight them off there."
Before Irdinmai could reply, two sahuagin shot out of the darkness into the lucent coral's pale blue globe. The sea elf maid knocked Rytagir aside. Sahuagin claws slashed across Rytagir s leather armor and the blow knocked him farther back.
The sea devils came around. Both grinned maliciously as they drew back their spears.
"Meat!" one of them shouted.
A dolphin swam like an arrow and struck the sahuagin before it could defend itself. The crack made by the spine shattering was loud in the water. Still, the sahuagin refused to die so easily. Even with its head on its shoulder, it fought to swim toward Irdinmai and Rytagir.
"Block him!" Irdinmai shouted.
9
Instinctively, Rytagir lifted his sword and turned aside the sahuagin's thrust as Irdinmai stepped toward it. Her blade sank deeply into the sahuagin's midsection. She used his spine
as a fulcrum and cut through the side of the sea devil's body. Blood filled the water.
Mortally wounded, the sahuagin drew back and gave vent to a full-throated blast of rage. Rytagir's ears ached from the pain of the assault.
He swam back and pulled at Irdinmai's arm by hooking his wrist inside her elbow. The glow from the lucent coral shifted and threw shadows of her body over everything.
"We have to go."
She turned and swam after him. The sahuagin outnumbered the sea elves. Corpses of both hung in the water. Dying warriors managed only feeble movements. Both were prey for the sharks.
"Get your people together," Rytagir ordered. "Get them out of the battle."
Irdinmai sheathed her sword and smashed her bracelets in quick syncopation. Evidendy the ringing tone created, or the pattern of the sounds, was unique to Irdinmai. At once the sea elves swam to their mistress's side and set up a defensive perimeter.
"Take them to the ship, "Rytagir said in the sea elf tongue so everyone would know. "We can better hold them there."
The sea elves hesitated. Irdinmai gazed at Rytagir.
"Now! "Rytagir roared as a line of dolphins intercepted the sahuagin and sharks that came at them. "Now, if you want to live."
Irdinmai gave the order and the sea elves swam for the surface.
Rytagir pricked his finger with a knifepoint and spoke a string of eldritch words. Nearly all of the sharks and sahuagin turned on the ones next to them and started rending and tearing with fangs, claws, and weapons. Death spread throughout the water. Only a few of the sahuagin escaped the spell's effect.
"What did you do?" Irdinmai asked.
"A spell," Rytagir explained as he swam up to meet her.
"Magic?" She looked appalled. "You're a wizard?"
"Only part of my studies, Lady. I don't know many spells. That one is small." Rytagir glanced over his shoulder. The sahuagin still fought each other and the sharks. "The spell puts blood spoor into the water and encourages predators into a blood frenzy."
"We should attack them while they're confused," Rasche said.
"No. That spell won't last long. Swim if you would live. I've got one more trick up my sleeve."
There were a few muttered oaths, but the sea elves swam together.
When he whirled in the water, Rytagir saw that the sahuagin had once again taken up pursuit. He was no longer dependent on the lucent coral alone to see them. Pale gray light from the sky above penetrated the water too.
He reached into his shoulder bag and took out a small bag of sharks' teeth. Then he waited as a score of sahuagin swam at him. Many of them suffered wounds from the hands of their fellows.
"Rytagir!" Irdinmai shouted.
When he knew he could wait no more, Rytagir spoke the words sharply, traced a sigil in the water, and shoved the bag forward. Heat nearly scorched his palm as the spell consumed the bag of sharks' teeth.
A silvery ripple shot through the water and spread out, eight feet wide and almost forty feet down. The enchanted water shredded the sahuagin like sharks' teeth. Bloody gobbets of flesh, limbs, heads, and torsos floated limply in the water after the spell exhausted itself.
The sea elves cursed again, and Rytagir knew they would never trust him again.
"Swim," Irdinmai ordered.
Captain Zahban and his sailors had their hands full repelling the sahuagin. The sea devils tried to board the ship, but the crew fought them off.
"Captain," Rytagir shouted as he broke the surface, "permission to come aboard!"
"Come ahead with ye then," Zahban shouted back. He yelled out orders to his crew, and eager hands swept down to pull Rytagir and the sea elves from the water.
Archers stood to arms and feathered as many of the sahuagin as they could.
"You're a fool for staying," Rytagir said.
"Ain't ever been one to cut an' run," Zahban replied as he cleaved a sahuagin's skull with his cutlass. Blood and brain matter splattered the deck. "But I wasn't gonna give ye much more time, I'll warrant ye that."
The sea elves fell into place with the ship's crew. Together, they fought to keep the sahuagin from the deck.
"Where'd ye bring them beasties up from?" Zahban asked.
"They came up on us unawares," Rytagir shouted. He thrust his long sword through the throat of a sahuagin that had climbed up the side of the ship. Then he kicked it off his blade and back into the ocean.
"From where?" asked the captain.
"I don't know."
"I've never seen so many in these waters." "There appear to be more coming." Irdinmai pointed to the east.
After booting another sahuagin in the face, Rytagir looked in that direction. There, on the crests of the sea, he saw four strange vessels making for them.
The vessels, mantas, were almost eighty feet across and two hundred feet long. They looked like a shambles, pieced-
together craft from several wrecks. As Rytagir watched, several of the sahuagin aboard revealed glow lamps, glass globes stuffed with the luminous entrails of sea creatures.
10
"We can't stay here," Rytagir yelled as he hacked at another sahuagin.
"We're not." Zahban shifted his attention to Irdinmai. "Lady, can ye an' yer warriors hold these animals off while we make ready the ship?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll leave ye to it." Zahban yelled orders to his crew and they broke off from the defense to raise sails. "Mystra watch over us."
Rytagir remained with the elves. His arm grew tired from the constant attacks. The elf next to him went down and a sahuagin crawled triumphantly onto the deck. Rytagir sank below his opponent's sweeping blow and hacked at the sea devil's legs. His effort severed one of them and bit deeply into the other.
In the next instant, Rasche planted his trident in the center of the sahuagin's chest. Rytagir rose and planted his shoulder into the sea devil's midsection and shoved him from the ship with the sea elFs assistance.
Rasche crowed in victory and clapped Rytagir on the back. Rytagir responded in kind, and they turned back to the battle.
Azure Kestrel rocked as canvas dropped and filled her 'yards. She heeled over so hard once in the crosswinds that Rytagir thought the ship was going to tip over. For a moment they were almost face to face with the sahuagin.
Then the ship righted.
"Bring them sheets about!" Zahban ordered. "Let her run, lads! Let her run!"
The ship leaped forward as the sails caught the wind. The elves kept fighting, aided by the ship's archers. Gradually, then faster, Azure Kestrel broke free of the sahuagin.
But the mantas, powered by oars wielded by the sahuagin, surged after them in quick pursuit.
"We can't outrun them," Irdinmai said.
"We ain't gonna outrun em," Zahban roared from the stern castle. "Fortrag and his apprentice have got a thing or two to show em."
'Rytagir raced up the sterncastle steps and joined the sea captain. The ship's mage and his apprentice stood on the rear deck. Ancient Fortrag, gray beard whipping in the wind, yelled incantations and held out his hand. Flames gathered there, growing larger and larger.
The four sahuagin mantas had closed the distance to less than eighty yards. Their oars dug relentlessly into the sea.
When the whirling fireball stood almost as tall as a man and the heat was so intense it drove back those near the wizards, Fortrag flung the fireball. It arced across the water and split into four separate fireballs. Three of the four hit their targets and the mantas disappeared in a maelstrom of flames.
Fortrag called out again. Rytagir felt the wind accelerate around him. A moment later, a waterspout rose from the sea and danced toward the last manta. Despite the sahuagins' attempt to steer clear, the waterspout overtook them and broke the vessel to pieces.
The ship's crew and the alu Tel'Quessir cheered, then they turned their efforts to saving those among the wounded that could be saved.
Two days later, Azure Kestrel put into port at Mordulkin. Rytagir was nearly exhausted. In addition to helping tend
the wounded and taking turns at keeping watch, he'd documented everything he could of the attack. He reproduced from memory the sigils the sahuagin had been wearing, as well as those of the sailors and the sea elves.
The whole port was in upheaval when they arrived. They quickly learned that theirs hadn't been the only ship attacked. In fact, Azure Kestrel was one of the few to make port safely. Several others remained unaccounted for.
Zahban found himselfburied in several offers of employment to get perishable goods across the Sea of Fallen Stars, but only foolish men were putting to sea at the moment.
Irdinmai was in a hurry to get back to her family, but her foremost thought had been to get medical help for those of her group that had been injured during the attack. Almost a third of the elves had died, and nearly the same number of Zahban's sailors.
After he'd helped the clerics tend the wounded and squared away the cargo, Rytagir tracked Irdinmai down. She remained with her warriors.
"Lady," Rytagir said.
When she looked up at him, he could see how tired and hurt she was. Rytagir knew the look from other captains of ships and guardsmen he'd talked to over the years who had lost men in battle. The pain was more spiritual than physical, and it would be years—if ever—in the healing.
"Yes," she replied.
"I've gotten word from some of the other captains," Rytagir said. "The Sea of Fallen Stars is filling with sahuagin. They've been freed from the Alamber Sea."
"I know," Irdinmai replied. "I've talked with other alu Tel'Quessir that have arrived here. Many were chased from their homes." She paused, and fear touched her silver eyes. "There is a being called Iakhovas who shattered the Sharksbane Wall and called forth the sahuagin. He plans
to take all of Serds as his domain."
Stunned, Rytagir sat beneath the canvas stretched over the litters of wounded elves. As he watched, dwarves and humans helped dump buckets of saltwater from the sea onto the injured alu Tel'Quessir. The old distrust that had existed between the races along the Inner Sea was set aside.
At least for now.
Rytagir turned to Irdinmai. "I'm going to talk to Zahban. He's not unreasonable. The split of the salvaged cargo is going to be fifty-fifty. Your people have shed as much blood, if not more, than ours have."
"We had an agreement before this happened. You don't have to set that a—"
"I didn't set it aside, Lady. The sahuagin did." Rytagir looked out to sea and remembered all the stories of wars that he'd read about and researched. "What lies before us isn't going to be quick or easy. If the sahuagin are truly free of the Sharksbane Wall, it's going to take everything we have to hold them back."
"I know."
Men hurried along the dock as yet another ship—showing obvious scars from recent battle—limped back into port.
Rytagir looked into Irdinmai's silver eyes. "The old fears and distrust the surface dwellers have had of the sea folk are going to have to change. And your people will have to change, too. If we hope to survive this, we have to forge new friendships."
"I know," Irdinmai agreed. "The word has already started to spread among my people."
"I'm spreading it among mine. I've already drafted letters and have sent them out to scholars and merchant guildsmen whose ears I have. It will take time."
"Then let us hope it doesn't take too much time." Irdinmai reached out for his hand and took it gently in hers. She pulled
him close to her. "I'm tired, and I don't want to be alone. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Lady." Rytagir felt her lean against him as they sat with their backs to a crate. After a time she slept and he felt her breath, feather-soft against his arm.
As he sat there, Rytagir knew things were going to change. Some things would be better and others would be worse. War always brought those changes, and he had no doubt that war was coming to the Sea of Fallen Stars.
CHASE THE PARK
Jaleigh Johnson
Charlatan. Trickster. Blasphemer. In Amn, the only thing worse than hurling magic is pretending to hurl it. They laughed at me, said I'd never be worth spit to my people. Then the monsters came. When the ogres marched on the cities, I was the one whistling the merry tune. I had a purpose again. If you don't have it in you to live an honest life, the least you can do is plan a heroic death.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil 11 Hammer, the Year of the Tankard (1370DR)
"Ten in coin says I make a pikeman drop his stick! Who'll take an honest wager?"
Devlen Torthil smiled, raking his long brown hair out of his eyes. He rolled up his dirty sleeves and surveyed the line of men guarding the camp. Easy plucking.
A plain-faced sentry named Kelsn stepped forward. "I'll take that bet."
"Splendid, man, come here, then! The problem is distraction, see?" Flipping his palm to the torchlight, Dev flourished a red scrap of cloth in the sentry's face.
"Is that blood?" The sentry was tall, his blond hair thin under his helmet. Warily, he clutched his pike against his collarbone. Behind him, the foothills of the Small Teeth rose in a jumbled wreck, purple with the setting sun.
"Not a bit, not... a... bit. Ogre tears, that's what they are." Dev wadded the red cloth into a ball, completely encasing it in his right fist. Twisting his wrist, he came up under the sentry's nose, fingers waggling above an empty palm. The scrap of cloth had disappeared.
"Wizardry." The sentry spat on the ground, dark already with mud.
Like a good soldier of Amn, Dev thought, and bit back his sharp smile. He looked up and wiped rain from the bridge of his blunt nose.
Thunder rolled across the plain, a guttural, urgent murmur that seemed to carry words into the camp and had the sentry turning north on a muttered prayer. More of the wizardry Amn feared.
Dev sighed. Wasn't right, stealing a man's audience.
"Look here, Kelsn, pay attention. You think I'd be hanging around with this bunch if I had even a breath of wizardry?" Dev waggled his fingers again. The sentry reluctantly tore his gaze from the horizon. "The problem was you were looking at my hand. You should have been putting your eyes elsewhere."
The sentry snorted. "Where then, down yer breeches?" "Later, sunshine." This time it was Dev who spat. "Watch this first."
Oev drew a knife from his belt and laid the bare blade against his own right thumb. He held it up so Kelsn could see.
"Oh, Dev, don't be playing at that. You know we lost our holy man in the last raid—"
The torchlight flickered and succumbed to the rain, taking the sentry's words with it. In the instant before the light died, he saw Devlen cleanly sever the tip of his thumb. The appendage fell to the ground.
"Godsdamnit, I knew you were some sick bastard!" The sentry took a jerking step back from the severed digit, as if it might leap up and bite him. His pike slipped and sank, forgotten in the mud.
Dev howled with laughter. The commotion drew the attention of Breck, head of the night watch.
"Shut yer flapping mouths, the both of you!" He squatted in the mud and fished out the thumb. Angrily, he plucked up the sentry's pike and slapped the muddy weapon against the man's chest, nearly throwing the sentry off balance. "It's a fake, you idiot! I saw him do the same trick to Fareth two nights ago."
Dev tried to contain his laughter while the sentry examined the fake digit. He pulled the red cloth from the hollow end where it had been hidden all along. Comprehension wormed its way slowly over his face.
Dev waited for the rest. Anger? Wonder? Without fail, folk had one or the other reaction to his tricks.
"Rotten cheat," the sentry growled. Dev was entirely unsurprised. "I'm not putting up good coin for trickster's wizardry—"
"Part the way!"
The shouts came from beyond the perimeter of the camp. The remaining torches snapped up, illuminating a trio of men striding slowly up the hill. They carried a litter among them. In their wake, figures scuttled across the plain, bodies riding low to the ground.
Moves like an animal, Dev thought, except the beasts carried swords, and their eyes gleamed with feral cunning.
"Kobolds!" The blond sentry hefted his pike in one hand. With the other, he drew a short blade from his belt. He tossed it at Dev. "Move, trickster!"
Breck intercepted the toss. He spun the blade and planted it in the mud. "Lady Morla's orders. No weapons for this one. You know that, Kelsn, you damn fool!"
Reprimanded, the sentry jerked his head in acknowledgment and sprinted down the hill, where guards were already assembling a line to meet the charging creatures.
The litter bearers crossed into the relative safety of the camp. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion. The man draped across the litter was dying. Dev could tell by the pallor of his skin and the steaming trail he left on the cold ground. Dev didn't know his name, but he knew the man was a scout.
A cold, sharp thrill went through Devlen's body. That meant it was time for him to shine again.
On the hill, the raiding party slammed into the Amnian defenders, their hairy bodies impaled and wriggling on the pikes. Squeals of dying animals shivered through the night air. Hearing the sound, the kobolds in the back of the party broke ranks and fled.
Dev observed the whole spectacle with detached curiosity. Weaponless* he trailed behind the litter up the hill to the commander's tent. His mind was too busy to be disturbed by the screams. He was already planning his next trick.
I work alone. That's the only rule. When you have more than one mouth along on a mission, it doubles your chances of slipping the charade. And whatever you do, never pair up with a priest in war, unless he swears by his god to heal you first and even then, I've never seen anyone so twitchy as a priest on a battlefield.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
Morla was field commander of the Amnian Watch Tower Guard, affectionately named for their mission in the Small Teeth.
Morla's task had been to reclaim the watch towers being garrisoned by the monster army, led by the ogre mages Sythillis and Cyrvisnea. With those precious eyes in the foothills, Syth and Cyr could see armies marching across the land, to say nothing of what scrying spells might reveal of such a force. Armed with superior reconnaissance, the monster army had stalled or thwarted outright Amn's attempts to relieve the besieged city of Murann on the coast. Amn needed her towers back, and it was for Morla, a lone woman on the darker side of fifty, to do.
Dev might have admired her gall, if he didn't despise the old hag personally.
He lifted the tent flap and immediately regretted disturbing the air. Hot, fresh blood and the stench of burning herbs wafted liberally from the tent. Dev put a hand over his mouth.
"Where's the priest?" He coughed, trying to see into the smoky interior. "The poor devil's running out of prayer time."
Three pairs of eyes lifted from the dying scout's pallet to regard Devlen. They watched him walk among them as one
might an insect that had wandered onto a lord's feasting table. Morla was the only one who spoke.
"Be welcome, Scout Devlen." She gestured for Dev to stand in the corner of the tent. Her dull gray hair was pulled tightly back, revealing a broad, wrinkled forehead. Her nose was too long for her face; she had never been a beauty, so the men whispered, but het eyes were stinging bright. It was rumored that her vision was so keen at night she could see the pinpricks of light from a kobold's eyes, miles away in the hills.
Morla's single guard stood at her left hand. Opposite the pallet squatted a short, compact figure. His robes were filthy around the knees. Silently, he fed the reeking herbs into a brazier hanging from one of the tent poles near the scout's body.
"Why the quiet, priest?" Dev asked. He wiped his streaming nose. "Aren't you supposed to be sending him to his god?"
"My name is Gerond," the priest replied without looking up. He pressed a handful of the herbs to the scout's chest, but the man was too far gone to be bothered by the stench. "The lad wanted to smell the herbs of the Wealdath, the land of his birth." The priest pointed to the brazier. "What I have is a poor substitute, but I burn them in his honor."
"Wonderful way to die," Dev muttered.
"The scout made his last report," Morla cut in. She narrowed her hawkish eyes on Dev. "I have another mission for you, charlatan."
"Sending me off again, are you? Will you miss me, Morla my love, when I'm traipsing through the dark and wet, risking death for you?"
Morla's voice was flat. "On the contrary, charlatan, the only time I think of you at all is when I'm feeding information to the enemy regarding your whereabouts."
Devlen laughed. "What sweet thoughts they are, I'm sure."
He tried to sound derisive, but inwardly he thrilled to this
latest challenge. He may not have possessed Morla's cold dignity or the priest's piety, but then, he'd never needed either. Deception was his arena. He was Aim's decoy, sent to play the fiddle of Syth and Cyr. He knew the song and dance better than anyone.
Morla pointed to a map spread across a long, wooden table. "This is the route I want you to take." She pointed to the camp's current position. "Northwest across this plain—after you've gone, I'll spread the word to their spies that a courier has been dispatched to try to round up our scattered forces. You'll leave tonight and be at your destination before dawn, or you'll be dead from their archers when the light breaks and you're seen from the towers."
"What a prospect," Dev murmured. "Why that route? A shorter path and tree cover lie straight north."
"Because that ground," Morla traced a swathe of flat land with her dagger blade, "if you fail to recall, is where this army fought two days ago. We lost over four hundred souls on that plain, more than half our remaining strength. That's the route they'll expect you to take to search for survivors."
Devlen recalled the battle, but he hadn't fought in it, as Morla knew well. She would not allow a wizard—even a charlatan wizard—the honor of fighting in her army.
"So you want me to cross an open field, sweetly seasoned with the dead and dying, in clear sight of any goblins, kobolds, or ogres that might still be lingering? You know I'll do it, Morla my light, but it'll be a short walk, I can tell you that, and meanwhile your real courier won't have much of a head start getting your message through."
That was Amn's bane, of course: communication. Syth and Cyr had arcane means to carry their whispers between their forces. Battle after battle had splintered Morla's army into smaller bands that wandered like aimless, beheaded chickens. Foot traffic and brave—or stupid—couriers
were the only means of exchanging information. More often than not, Amn's couriers had met with bloody disaster on these missions, until Dev had stepped in and offered his services. Now there were two messengers: the man who carried the truth, and Devlen the charlatan, with his well-oiled fiddle. Dev didn't mind being the decoy. It was his gift. He would lend it to Amn, in return for a favor to be collected later.
"You'll have company," Morla was saying, "so perhaps you'll last until the dawn."
Absorbed in his thoughts, Dev snapped to attention quick enough on hearing this last. "That's not part of the arrangement, Morla dear. This is my show."
"Not this night," Morla said. She handed him a stack of parchment, folded neatly and warmed by fresh wax. The papers bore the commander's personal seal. "Follow the route I showed you. In the center of the battlefield there is an overturned statue. Find it, and you'll know you're on the right path. Chieva, Lady Sorrow, is her name. She was planted in the field by Chauntea's faithful, in hopes of a better harvest. Can you remember this, charlatan? When you find her, break the seal on my instructions. They'll tell you where to lead the enemy. Once the trail is laid, get back here. You'll have to hurry. As it is, you'll be chasing the dark the entire journey."
"Maybe you didn't hear me." He was straying dangerously close to defiance, but Dev didn't care. "On his best day, every man in this camp moves slower than me, and makes a lot more noise."
"But they will fight to their deaths, even to protect a charlatan," Morla said. "So you'll take two and be silent about it, or I will have you beaten silent. I imagine that will slow you down enough."
Tension sat thickly in the stinking tent. The blunt-faced charlatan and a commander who'd lost half her army stared
each other down. Finally, Morla lifted her left hand, the one she always clutched around her sword hilt. As soon as it left the steel, the hand began to tremble violently, a thing apart from the rest of her rigid body. Dev saw Morla's guard avert his eyes, in pity or disgust.
She clamped the hand on Dev's shoulder, where it steadied into a claw. Forcibly, she turned him to face the back of the tent. Her voice rasped in his ear, setting his teeth on edge. "There is the first of yout companions, charlatan. Do you think he moves with more quiet than you?"
Dev blinked. He'd had no idea there was anyone else in the tent. But a figure stepped from the shadows, a large, hulking shape Dev recognized immediately.
"Resch," he said. He glanced at Morla. "You're sending him with me?" i am.
Resch, "The Silent," came to stand next to the priest. He was tall, with well-defined muscles and no tunic to hide them. His shaved head bore a wormlike scar behind his right ear. He was called The Silent because he never spoke a word to anyone. He never spoke a word to anyone because an ogre had ripped out his tongue in the initial attack on Murann, in the early days of the war.
Resch, by his manner, was still holding a grudge. Dev couldn't blame him.
"Gerond will go along as well." Morla offered the fat priest her right hand to help him to his feet. Her left had returned to its place at her sword hilt. "As you know, we recently lost our priest, Hallis. Gerond tells us he was a colleague of his," Morla said.
"Then why don't you keep him here, seeing as he's your only holy man now?" Dev asked.
Morla smiled thinly. "You're wasting time, charlatan. Dawn is waiting." She gestured to the guard, who turned and
lifted the lid on an ornate, brass-handled trunk. He removed a bow and full quiver of arrows and handed them to Dev.
"You will return them, Scout, when your mission is complete," Morla said, "according to our bargain."
"How could I forget," Dev said, and this time he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
¦©¦¦©¦
So you know what I said about priests, yet there I was, shackled up to one, and it didn't make me feel that much better, having the healer along. You know, I once asked a boy who'd survived battle if he thought his god had saved him. The boy said he didn't remember his own name out on that field, said he was pissin' blood he was so scared and didn't think any god could make it better. Some things a healing won't cure.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
The bodies weren't two days cold on the ground, and the field already had a name. Chieva's Sorrow, it was called, for the pile of ruins that used to be the centerpiece of a fallow farming ground. Chieva, the Stone Lady, hadn't lasted the season. Her vacant eyes would be staring up at the night sky, just another body in the ripening pile. Dev had to find her, somewhere in the dark.
Their unlikely trio crouched in the shadow of a clump of trees bordering the bare edges of the field. They could hear sounds: murmurings and the suggestion of movement out in the darkness.
"They were supposed to be dead," Gerond whispered. His pudgy face flooded white in the shallow moonlight. "It's been two days."
"Thought your kind wasn't squeamy around the dying," Dev said. He never took his eyes off the penetrating darkness. Beside him, he heard a soft whistle. Resch was impatient to be on the move.
The priest's eyes narrowed. "So what's your plan, Torthil?"
"Good start would be to shut yer mouth while I'm thinking," Dev said mildly. He turned to Resch. "You think you could bring down a couple of these stout branches without making too much noise?"
Resch rose from his haunches and went to the nearest tree. He shimmied up the trunk with a grace that defied his size. He disappeared into the foliage. A moment later, two branches dropped from the leaves. Dev caught them and handed one off to the priest.
"Shave the leaves, then give me your outer robe."
"What?" the priest sputtered, forgetting to be quiet.
Dev pressed a dirty finger to his lips. "We need to make a litter, and I want your holy symbol swingin' free. Any watching eyes, we want 'em to think we're out collecting the wounded."
Resch dropped soundlessly from the tree, landing next to Dev
"Resch here, he's going to be our invalid," Dev explained. "He'll be on the litter, waiting to pop up if we get detained."
"But shouldn't we save the litter for the actual wounded?" the priest asked.
"We're not planning any stops on this trek. You heard Morla; this is a grand charade, not a rescue mission. All we've got to get us across that plain is foot speed, and evety breath we waste on prayers slows us down. You understand, holy man?
"You can't expect me to ignore that there are wounded men on that field," the priest said. "Gods, you can hear them.
Think how many could be healed. They could join us. If the purpose of this mission is to find more men—"
"The purpose of this mission is to reunite an army that can make a run at the towers," Dev said. "The few stragglers we can pluck off this ground won't be worth anything to Morla, not in their condition." He took the thick outer robe from the priest and knotted both ends around the poles.
"You think very highly of your comrades," Gerond sneered, "but I tell you I could restore a pair of men, maybe more, to full fighting strength."
Dev chuckled, truly amused. "You think that'll solve our problems, do you? You wave your digits and we've got a pile of whole men ready and eager to fight on? " 'Cept maybe,"—he tapped his temple—"they aren't quite whole, eh?" He pointed at the litter. "Try it out, big man, and let's hope your tongue bore the worst of your weight."
He heard the priest catch his breath in alarm, but Resch merely made a rude gesture and lay back on the litter. Dev saw the scarred man tuck his mace in the dangling folds of cloth.
Dev looked again across the field. He guessed they had at least two miles of open ground to cover, carrying corpse-weight all the while. The bulky priest would slow them to a crawl. Dev cursed. It would be a miracle if they cleared the field before midday.
"Up and out," he said, and they were moving, hauling the litter over the rough pile of stones that marked the border of the field.
In truth, Dev had no idea if his plan would buy them any degree of safety. His best hope was that any passing patrols would see a pair of desperate humans collecting their dead, not worth the effort of returning to a field where so many of their own lay rotting.
Dead grass crunched under Dev's boots. For a long time, it was the only sound in the party. When the desolate earth
gave way to oddly formed lumps and piles, Dev fixed his gaze firmly on the horizon.
He let his boots fumble aside the bodies, wincing when the soft suede came away wet and, in some cases, still warm.
The smell was harder to ignore. Sweet, sickly wafts of rot and human waste hit his nose. Dev gagged and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. If he'd had any sense, he'd have fashioned a mask for his nose and mouth. He glanced back at Resch and saw the man's chest heaving.
"Get it under control," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Better they think you've expired already, makes us less of a threat. What say, priest?" he asked. "Can your god clear this air for us, or does he only believe in the reeking herbs?"
"Fair punishment, for leaving these men behind," Gerond said. The priest's voice was strained from the load he carried. His face shone bright red, his cheeks sucking in and out on each breath. Every few feet, he hesitated, casting furtive glances all around in the dark.
"Keep moving!" Dev snapped. "I told you these men are no use to us."
"What are you talking about? You're a damn fool if you think I can't help them!"
On the litter, Resch made a soft clicking sound with his teeth. A warning.
"You're injured. Play the part," Dev barked, but he lowered his voice.
He glanced back at Gerond to pry the man's attention from the field. "Do you know why Morla's hand shakes, holy man?"
"No," Gerond admitted. "I have not had the opportunity to treat the commander, but I assumed the ailment stemmed from some sort of palsy. Age, I expect. What does that have to do with anything?"
Resch clicked his teeth again, fast and low, an eerily perfect parody of amusement.
"Her first engagement, Morla got herself stuck in the gut with a spear," Dev said. "Not one of them sleek sentry's blades, either, I'm saying barbed teeth, a goblin weapon wielded with an animal's brute strength." Dev heaved aside another body. A cloud of flies stirred up by the motion drifted lazily in front of his face. Dev spat at the air, but the insects buzzed relentlessly around his hair and ears. "Well, Hallis the holy man wasn't anywhere nearby at the time, so what's she going to do? Gut wound won't kill you quick, and Morla, she'd rather slit her own throat than lay out in the sun with an open wound, so what'd she do? No bandages, no time to make em, so she just balls up her left fist and sticks it in the wound to stop the blood."
"Merciful gods," Gerond murmured.
"Not so merciful, as it turned out," Dev said cheerfully. "The men lost sight of her. Eventually, they found old Morla wandering the battlefield as the fighting was winding down. She was half dead with fever and infection, but it took Hallis the longest time to get her to sit down and take her hand out of her own entrails. Turns out, she'd pressed that fist so hard in her wound she'd made it twice as painful as it could have been." That pain was something Dev didn't want to contemplate. "But Hallis treated her in time, knitted that wound up smart with his prayers and beseeching to his god. Didn't even leave a scar on her lovely, wrinkled belly. But that left hand, you can't make it forget. Unless she minds it with her whole strength, that hand trembles. No priest or prayer in this whole world going to fix that. The only cure's in Morla's mind, and she hasn't rooted it out yet."
Dev had turned away, his eyes back on the horizon, but he could feel Gerond watching him.
"All men are not created the same," the priest said after a moment. "Most would rather live than die. Most would prefer to walk off this battlefield alive, if not whole."
"Better they'd died."
"Then why do you serve Morla?" Gerond demanded. "Won't a similar fate await you?"
Dev shrugged. "I serve Amn any way I can, holy man, any way they'll let me—for a price."
"Whatever gold you receive won't be enough, if you die out here," the priest said.
"Is that so?" Dev asked, his voice rich with scorn. "Who said I wanted gold?"
"Then what?"
Dev halted and gestured for Gerond to lower the litter. "Shut it, now. We're here." "How do you know?"
"Because I just busted a shin trying to move this body here," Dev said.
He pointed to the ground. A large stone statue lay across their path. Like a lass sleeping in moonlight, Chieva had her serene face turned to the stars. Moss and curling weeds twined around her solid arms, which were raised in supplication to the goddess.
Dev motioned for Resch to remain on the litter. He and the priest took cover at the base of the statue. Leaning against the stone, Dev took out Morla's instructions and broke the wax seal. He folded back the parchment and began to read.
There was quiet on the field for a long time after that.
Dev didn't know how much time passed, but suddenly, someone was shaking him insistently. He looked up into Resch's wide, shadowed face. He hadn't registered the man's presence.
"What's wrong with him?" he heard Gerond whisper. Resch motioned for the priest to be quiet. His gaze moved between the parchment and Dev's face. The question was obvious, and abruptly, Dev realized that Resch the Silent probably couldn't read.
Dev handed the parchment to the priest. "Tell 'im," he said. Gerond took the instructions and read aloud:
"Scout Devlen, if you are reading this, you have reached Lady Chieva, and here your true task begins. You will not be leading a decoy mission this night. Instead you carry vital missives to be distributed to our fractured camps throughout the fiwthills of the Small Teeth. My own men are leading the kobold and goblin patrols astray so you may move among the enemy. Your skills in the wild will be put to the ultimate test in this, as will your tactics of deception. Good fortune to you, charlatan, andItrustyou'llforgive me my own deception—"
He stopped reading when Dev wheeled around and vomited on the statue.
Mouth burning, Dev emptied the contents of his stomach. The field around him wavered, seeming to take on an unreal quality. Resch and the priest were far away. He was alone, drifting in the land of the dead, with only Chieva for company. The arms of the statue dug into his chest. Chauntea's emissary was holding him up in sympathy, Dev thought. He almost felt ashamed for fouling her with his terror.
Then, in a rush, the world returned to normal pace. The priest was speaking, too loud. The priest was always speaking, Dev thought. He wanted to cave in the man's skull.
"I didn't understand before," Gerond said, shaking his head in wonder. "I thought you a mercenary, but now I know better. Amn hates you for pretending wizardry. The only way for you to salvage any honor at all is to die a hero's death, in service to the land that shuns you."
"Hard to do out here, chasing the dark with a couple of mouthy hangers-on," Dev muttered, but he hadn't recovered his dignity. He wiped his dripping chin.
Gerond chuckled. "But you wanted to die alone out here, didn't you? Playing the part of the reckless decoy, responsible for nothing and no one except yourself. It doesn't matter that no one's here to see. You have Morla, a respected commander, to relate the tale of your deeds once you're gone. That's your price." The priest leaned in close and dropped his voice. "But now everything's fouled up, isn't it? Foul as your wet breath. Lives other than your own have been placed in your hands and you're terrified you'll fail them. Then no one will ever speak well of you."
Dev hurled himself at the priest, but Resch stepped between them, catching him with an immovable arm against his chest. With the other, he shoved Gerond back. He shot the priest a fierce glare when Gerond opened his mouth to speak.
Slowly, Dev relaxed. Things had spun wildly out of control. The deceiver had finally been deceived, and look how he'd fallen apart because of it. He shook his head. A mess, Dev, that's what you've always been. That's what they've always told you.
"We have to move," he said, gathering himself. He shook his head when Resch went to the litter. "No more time for that, pretty face. You weigh too much, and speed is our only chance now." He took his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow from the quiver. The fletching felt soft against his fingers, his muscles comfortably tight as he drew the string. "Let's go," he said.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, his mind whirling with the implications of the mission Moda had given him.
Was it a punishment? Did she expect him to fail? Dev had a hard time believing the old woman could be so cruel, but then, he'd been wrong before about her.
Dev stepped around the sprawled body of an ogre with a line of arrows brisding from its spine. Goblins and kobolds
lay in similar frozen agony, the blood crusting their muzzles. Dev averted his eyes. His stomach felt wrung out, twisted with stale nausea. He breathed through his teeth until his tongue ached and he couldn't stand it.
Testing the air a moment later, he was surprised to find it fresher, so much so he thought he could breathe without fear of retching. Even the clouds of flies had dissipated. For an instant Dev was relieved, then he felt a wave of fresh terror course through his body.
The air shouldn't be so pure, not with all the dead monsters lying in piles. It should be foul with rotting ogre flesh.
Unless some of the monsters were still breathing.
Dev kept walking, trusting his companions to be behind him. He could hear the priest huffing along to his left. He heard nothing to his right, but he could smell Resch s faint odor. A swift night breeze at his neck told him the way was clear directly behind him. Just ahead and to the east, he saw the mangled remains of a dead horse and her rider. They'd collapsed together on the field. Amn's banner fluttered slackly from the rider's hand. It was no sort of fortification, Dev thought, but it was close enough. He headed straight for the banner, motioning for his companions to follow.
A fine mess, Dev, and that's the truth, he berated himself. You should have seen this ambush coming before you put your foot in it.
When he could see Amn's colors, Dev spun, drew his bowstring taut, and released.
The arrow whistled past Resch's shoulder, but the big man didn't flinch. He dropped flat to his stomach behind the dead horse and yanked the priest down with him. In the distance, the arrow thudded into a dead ogre's neck.
"What in the Nine Hells is he doing!" hissed Gerond. "Have you gone completely mad?"
When there was no response, no break in the night air,
776 • Taffttcrh Tnhnsnn
Dev honestly wondered if he had gone insane. But he waited, his own eyesight as keen as Morla's in the dark, and where his arrow met gray ogre flesh, he saw a core of blood well up, overflow like a fountain, and bubble down the monster's neck. The ogre had only been playing dead, but Dev had made it true.
Resch shouted a garbled warning. Automatically, Dev pivoted and fired a second shot, aiming at what might have been a drifting shadow. Arrow thudded again into flesh, and this time an animal cry broke out across the battlefield. It was the worst sound Dev had ever heard.
Gods keep us, he thought, we're already surrounded.
"Stay down!" he bellowed. Resch and Gerond scrambled to make room for him as Dev rolled over the dead horse's flank. Viciously, he twisted the animal's legs out of the way to make room for his quiver.
Two more creatures leaped up from their death poses. Dev laid his bow across the saddle and fired, clipping a kobold's haunch. To his right, Resch swung his barbed mace, caving in the skull of the second kobold as he crawled over the makeshift wall to get at them. When the creature stopped twitching, Resch hauled its body up next to the rider's, but the cover still felt pitifully inadequate.
The priest chanted a low, monotone prayer, and touched Resch on the shoulder. Green light shone through his fingers, casting hollow, eldritch shadows on the vacant-eyed horse. Then the spell drained away, and Resch's flesh seemed darker, healthier, his movements more precise. The priest then turned to Dev, but Dev waved him off.
"Save it," he snapped. "Keep them back. If they get close enough, they'll rip us apart!"
Grimly, Dev thought that seemed precisely the monsters' plan. More bodies became animate from the field, until five stood between them and freedom.
Dev took bowshots at random, more to keep the monsters
at bay than with any real aim. He planted a stack of arrows in the mud at his knees, determined to keep shooting until they were too close to pick off.
The priest raised his holy symbol. His eyes were closed, so Dev couldn't tell if he was frightened or merely concentrating. The monotone chant sounded again. Dev thought he must be seeing things. He could actually see the spell cloud seeping from the priest's lips, a white fog that had no scent, and no more consistency than pipeweed smoke. The divine magic drifted past Dev's cheek, numbing him with cold. Dev recoiled, and his next shot went wild.
The monsters took the distraction and scurried closer, using the bodies of their own slain companions to absorb Dev's shots.
"Get that mace ready, sharp tongue!" Dev cried. "They're coming in for a visit!"
He grabbed the silent man by the shoulder, but Resch didn't move. He was doubled over, his forehead against the ground. He clutched his stomach, his mouth slack in soundless pain. Dev couldn't see the wound, but the way Resch s body convulsed told him it was bad. It had happened so fast, the attack, and now they would be overrun. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
Furious, defeated, Dev fired blindly into the night. He didn't care if he ran out of arrows. He'd take some of the bastards down with him. Damn them and damn Morla for trusting a charlatan.
Resch had managed to maim one of the kobolds before he went down. The creature limped away, clutching a ruined leg. Dev took one more in the eye when it looked out from its hiding place. There were still three left, too many for himself and the worthless priest.
Dev hooked the bow on the slanted saddle horn. He'd never been skilled enough to wield a sword, but his fists
would serve. He was about to vault over the horse when he felt the vibration.
He wasn't able to identify the source at first. But then the white mist came again, this time emanating from the dead horse's mouth.
Atrophied muscles contracted, and the beast's bent legs jerked weirdly back into their proper alignment. Dev fell back on his elbows, too frightened to put up a defense against the advancing monsters. His mouth hung open, horrified at the sight of the dead horse rising up before him, dragging her limp rider across her back.
The animal got to its feet in time to block the final advance of an ogre and its kobold minions. The creatures hesitated, as stunned as Dev by the animated horse. The beast's black mane was pressed to its back by dried blood. A long sword slash cut across its neck, exposing musculature and white bone.
Shaking itself, the horse reared. It turned on the closest kobold, spewing white vapor and with its dead rider in tow. Rotting hooves came down, trampling the creature before it could run. Horse screams joined the dying kobold's pitiful wailing.
The remaining kobold and ogre fled. Dev could hear the priest casting another spell. He turned in time to see a cluster of black shadows hanging in midair. The lifeless forms shaped into the outline of some kind of mallet or hammer.
Dev watched it spin through the air, slamming into and through the back of the retreating ogre's skull. Shadows and blood exploded in the air, and a second hammer followed the first. Dev waited for it to find the skull of the fleeing, screaming kobold, wondering if the creature would feel the same numbing chill Dev had tasted when the priest's magic touched him.
Then the shadows were spinning toward him, blocking out the moon. Dev didn't realize the hammer was meant for his
skull until it was almost too late. He ducked, but the spectral weapon clipped him on the side of the head.
Dev thought he felt his eardrum shatter. He fell sideways, one arm crushed under him, his body hitting the ground like a limp doll's—or a dead horse, he thought. He appreciated the irony for a breath until he lost consciousness.
¦©¦¦©¦ ¦©¦¦©¦ ¦©¦
/ know what yer thinking, and it's absolutely right. He could have killed us at any time. He had something a little more painful in mind.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
"Don't worry," Gerond said, "your friend won't be in pain much longer. The poison will soon run its course."
For an interminable amount of time since he'd regained consciousness, Dev had been watching Resch squirm and convulse on the ground. Every muscle in his body stretched taut, it looked like the man would rip himself apart before it was over. Sweat poured down Resch's face, but he never made a sound. The silence was the worst part. Dev thought he could have handled it better if the dying man had been screaming obscenities.
"The spell is an interesting twist on traditional invigora-tion magic," Gerond explained, as if Dev was curious. "For a brief time, it strengthens the target immeasurably, but at the cost of disintegrating many of the vital functions of the body. That part of the process takes a bit more time."
"Cyric preach that one to all his followers, or just the fat ones?" Dev asked. His head throbbed, and his muscles were stiff where the priest had tied his arms. Taunts were the only weapons he had left.
"To think I almost killed you while you were sleeping," Gerond said. He knelt next to Dev and twisted his head around by the hair. "Lucky for you, I wanted one last conversation."
Pain flooded Dev s skull, and he whimpered involuntarily at the sight of the shadowy hammer floating in midair above the Cyricist's shoulder. He forced a laugh, though his jaw was locked with pain.
"No wonder your herbs reeked," he murmured. "And they call me the blasphemer."
Gerond smiled faintly. "You don't know what a relief it is not to have to play the charade any longer. Or do you? Do you ever grow tired of being the deceiver, Devlen?"
Dev would have shrugged, if the pain of it hadn't threatened to put him out again. "All I know," he said, his eyes straying to the dead kobolds lying nearby, "is you killed your companions."
"True, but like you, they're not very reliable." Gerond leaned forward, flipping Dev onto his stomach with a casual hand.
He's stronger than I thought, Dev realized sickly. His breath quickened, thinking the priest was going to cave in his skull after all, but instead he felt the priest clasp one of his bound hands.
"Why are you out here, fighting for Amn?" Gerond asked. "What is between you and the commander? I might be able to use it later, but either way, it will satisfy my curiosity."
Dev didn't answer. The pain was swirling in his head. He wondered if the sensation was blood, filling up his skull. If he were truly lucky, he would die before the bastard had a chance to be done with him.
"Suddenly you're not all mouth," the priest murmured. "But I hope you can still appreciate a good jest."
Dev heard the clink of steel as Gerond drew a knife from
his belt. Still holding Dev's hands, the priest peeled one of his thumbs back. Dev felt the blade against his skin.
"What is between you and Morla?" Gerond repeated the question calmly. When Dev still didn't answer, he pressed the blade into Dev's thumb, neatly severing it below the nail.
Dev howled, curling automatically into a fetal position. The priest held onto his hands, slick now with blood. He thrashed and screamed over and over, the cries turning finally to frenzied laughter. He couldn't seem to stop, even when the Cyricist's dark prayers sealed over his wound, leaving an empty stump that was cleaner than any magician's trick.
The watching gods are going to slay me with irony. Dev beat his head against the hard-packed earth until his vision swam. Darkness cheerfully claimed him, but he knew that when he awoke he would still be maimed, and he would have to tell the priest everything.
¦<S> -©¦ "®- <§>¦
When you're a soldier, there's nothing more valuable than the trust of the man—or woman—-fighting next to you. If that trust is broken, the whole army suffers. To be a good soldier, or a good commander, you have to understand this. Even if it ruins a life.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
"I was in the militia, Esmeltaran," Dev said. "This was years before your friends came to drive us out."
Dev was dimly aware of the priest, standing somewhere behind him, probably watching for more patrols. He could hear Resch farther away, in the last throes of the poison. If sound was any indication, the man was throwing up blood
and gods knew what else.
The animated horse trudged the field in slow circles, a spell-locked trance from which it couldn't escape. Dev remembered a time in his home village, when he'd seen a lame foal shuffling around its paddock, just before a farmer put a knife across its throat.
"Step and drag... step and drag you here tome... hush you little pony... hush you goodnight," the farmer sang.
"Go on," the priest said. "Did you know Morla then?"
"We were on the wall together," Dev said. "Morla and I had the best eyes. Esmeltaran's militia is small. We all knew each other."
"You were friends," Gerond said, surprised. "I hear it in your voice. What happened?"
"One night, I saw something from the wall, something Morla didn't see." Dev stopped speaking, but he knew it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the priest.
"What did you see?" Gerond asked.
"Nothing, as it turned out," Dev said, "a trick of my eyes, a shadow. If I could have bitten my tongue, my life might have turned out a little differently than it has."
"I don't understand," the priest said. Dev could hear the impatience in his voice. He shifted, and managed to roll onto his back so he could look the priest in the eyes.
"I was scared, see? I was young, and I didn't trust my instincts—that what was out there wasn't a threat to me or Morla. My heart was thumping like to leap out of my chest, and then my whole body started to shake. It had to be sure. It needed to see that there was nothing out there. They say that's what happens with sorcery, and those that can juggle it. The need overwhelms any common sense. Suddenly, a person can do things, things that no soldier of Amn has a right to do. Like send a shaft of light—bright as sunshine—across a city wall to pierce shadows that hold... nothing."
Dev's head had started up a pounding again. He closed his eyes until the pain became bearable.
"So you touched the Weave, completely unaware, and the city—Morla—expelled you from the militia," Gerond said. He almost sounded sympathetic. It made Dev's skin crawl. "Was it then you became the charlatan?" the priest wanted to know. "Or have you always been the deceiver, Torthil, and just didn't know it?"
"You've had enough of my stories," Dev snapped. His eyes offered a challenge. "Time for sleep."
"As you wish," Gerond said. "No more deceptions, no more decoys."
He moved forward, and Dev braced himself. Thank the gods the story of my life is a short tale, Dev thought, or poor Resch might have died in the middle.
"The problem is distraction, see?" Dev said, and gasping, sobbing, the dying warrior that had once been Resch the Silent, heaved his body up from the ground, using muscles, bones, and bowels that had ceased to obey him. But somehow, he got to his feet and slammed his body into the priest's back.
They hit the dirt hard, but Resch was already dead. His weight pinned the priest long enough for Dev to lunge onto his back.
Wrapping his bound hands around the priest's neck, Dev thrust back, clumsily, using his heels. The rope bit into fleshy folds and lodged somewhere beneath Gerond's chin. There it would stay, or Dev knew he would be as dead as Resch.
"No prayers, no thoughts." Dev pushed down, grinding the priest's hands into the ground when he would have reached for his holy symbol. "Hush, litde pony, hush."
Convulsions wracked the priest's body, but Dev kept his grip. He waited until the bloated body flopped once then lay still on the field. Only then did Dev roll away.
A dull thud sounded nearby. Dev snapped around, tense at the thought of more enemies, but it was only the horse. Freed from the Cyricist's hold, the beast crumpled in a heap of ungainly legs next to Resch s body.
Dev closed the scarred man's eyes, then went to find the priest's knife for his bonds. He tried to ignore the blood staining the blade.
¦©¦ ¦©¦ <§?
Not quite the hero's grand tale. Me on my belly with an insane priest lopping off all my precious appendages. I was too damn scared to do anything, and all the while there's Resch, thrashing and bleeding out poison, trying to hold onto what was left of his body long enough to help me. I wouldn't have blamed him for rolling over and calling it done, but I didn't understand. I didn't realize how long he'd been waiting to get back at someone for the way he'd been violated. Death wasn't going to take precedence over revenge, not for Resch. Never underestimate the power of trauma to bring on clarity.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
"I read your account of what happened. You did well. More than well."
Morla stood at the opening of the tent. She'd sent her guard away. They were alone. When she turned, finally, to look at Dev, her face was the color of brittle bone.
"By Lady Selune, I swear I didn't know about Gerond." Morla looked sick. "How could I have known?"
"How could you?" Dev echoed. He thought she seemed small, somehow, without her guard and armor. An old warrior woman. Tired. "You know I forgive you, Morla my light." The
words came out hollow, with none of the usual bluster.
"Do you?" Morla was watching him, with her keen vision that missed nothing. "Do you know why I acted as I did?"
"You always do what you think is best for your people."
"For Amn. Your home."
Dev inclined his head. "Your people, as I said."
"Without stability, without trust, Devlen, everything falls apart. Amn will not—"
"Amn doesn't need to think of me as being more than a charlatan, Morla," Dev interrupted. "I see that now. Comes to it, I'd rather be the decoy."
"You have the potential to be so much more."
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "That was a long time ago. What do you want from me now, Morla? Absolution? I gave it. Your army? I carried out your mission. I'm finished now."
"You can still serve Amn. You wanted to die a hero," Morla said. "I want you to live as one. My penance, if you want it that way." Her hand shook minutely, though she still clutched her blade. "Please consider it."
A hero. That's the best bait to dangle, and Morla knew I'd wanted it bad. When I walked off Chieva's Sorrow that dawn, I had to leave Resch's body behind. Resch was a hero, but he'd had to die in agony for it, and the only thing folk would ever truly remember about him was that he'd lost a tongue in battle. At least he'd repaid one of the bastards in kind. So I walked off that field to become a war hero—better than dying, but somehow it didn't have the fire I expected. I was still a charlatan; that's whatfolk would always remember about me. A charlatan with a cap off his thumb. But I still played the best game in Amn. I was the trickster who could fool the monsters. Maybe they'll remember that too. Or maybe all of this is a load ofpiss,
and I never did anything heroic. Maybe I just wrote that I did. That's the point, see? You never know when someone's playin'yer fiddle. You just never know.
—From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil
BONES AND STONES
R.A. Salvatore
The Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)
,A.n uneasiness accompanied Thibbledorf Pwent out of Mithral Hall that late afternoon. With the hordes of King Obould pressing so closely on the west and north, Bruenor had declared that none could venture out to those reaches. Pragmatism and simple wisdom surely seemed to side with Bruenor.
It wasn't often that the battlerager, an officer of Bruenor's court, went against the edicts of his beloved King Bruenor. But this was an extraordinary circumstance, Pwent had told himself-—rhough in language less filled with multisyllable words: "Needs gettin' done."
Still, there remained the weight of going against his beloved king, and the cognitive dissonance of that pressed on him. As if reflecting his pall, the gray sky hung low, thick, and ominous, promising rain.
Rain that would fall upon Gendray Hardhatter, and so every drop would ping painfully against Thibbledorf Pwent's heart.
It wasn't that Gendray had been killed in battle—oh no, not that! Such a fate was accepted, even expected by every member of the ferocious Gutbuster Brigade as willingly as it was by their leader, Thibbledorf Pwent. When Gendray had joined only a few short months before, Pwent had told his father, Honcklebart, a dear friend of many decades, that he most certainly could not guarantee the safety of Gendray.
"But me heart's knowin' that he'll die for a good reason," Honcklebart had said to Pwent, both of them deep in flagons of mead.
"For kin and kind, for king and clan," Pwent had appropriately toasted, and Honcklebart had tapped his cup with enthusiasm, for indeed, what dwarf could ever ask for more?
And so on a windy day atop the cliffs north of Keeper's Dale, the western porch of Mithral Hall, against the charge of an ore horde, the expectations for Gendray had come to pass, and for never a better reason had a Battlehammer dwarf fallen.
As he neared that fateful site, Pwent could almost hear the tumult of battle again. Never had he been so proud of his Gutbusters. He had led them into the heart of the ore charge. Outnumbered many times over by King Obould's most ferocious warriors, the Gutbusters hadn't flinched, hadn't hesitated. Many dwarves had fallen that day but had fallen on the bodies of many, many more ores.
Pwent, too, had expected to die in that seemingly suicidal encounter, but somehow, and with the support of heroic friends and a clever gnome, he and some of the Gutbusters had found their way to the cliffs and down to Mithral Hall's western doors. It had been a victory bitterly
won through honorable and acceptable sacrifice.
Despite that truth, Thibbledorf Pwent had carried with him the echoes of the second part of Honcklebart Hardhatter's toast, when he had hoisted his flagon proudly again and declared, "And I'm knowin' that dead or hurt, Thibbledorf Pwent'd not be leavin' me boy behind."
Tapping that flagon in toast had been no hard promise for Pwent. "If a dragon's eatin' him, then I'll cut a hole in its belly and pull out his bones!" he had heartily promised, and had meant every word.
But Gendray, dead Gendray, hadn't come home that day.
"Ye left me boy," Honcklebart had said back in the halls after the fight. There was no malice in his voice, no accusation. It was just a statement of fact, by a dwarf whose heart had broken.
Pwent almost wished his old friend had just punched him in the nose, because though Honcklebart was known to have a smashing right cross, it wouldn't have hurt the battlerager nearly as much as that simple statement of fact.
"Ye left me boy."
¦©¦ ¦©¦¦©¦
/ look upon the hillside, quiet now except for the birds. That's all there is. The birds, cawing and cackling and poking their beaks into unseeing eyeballs. Crows do not circle before they alight on a field strewn with the dead. They fly as the bee to a flower, straight for their goal, with so great a feast before them. They are the cleaners, along with the crawling insects and the rain and the unending wind. _
And the passage of time. There is always that. The turn of the day, of the season, of the year.
G'nurk winced when he came in sight of the torn mountain ridge. How glorious had been the charge! The minions of Obould, proud ore warriors, had swept up the rocky slope against the fortified dwarven position.
G'nurk had been there, in the front lines, one of only a very few who had survived that charge. But despite their losses in the forward ranks, G'nurk and his companions had cleared the path, had taken the ore army to the dwarven camp.
Absolute victory hovered before them, within easy reach, so it had seemed.
Then, somehow, through some dwarven trick or devilish magic, the mountain ridge exploded, and like a field of grain in a strong wind, the ore masses coming in support had been mowed flat. Most of them were still there, lying dead where they had stood proud.
Tinguinguay, G'nurk s beloved daughter, was still there.
He worked his way around the boulders, the air still thick with dust from the amazing blast that had reformed the entire area. The many ridges and rocks and chunks of blasted stone seemed to G'nurk like a giant carcass, as if that stretch of land, like some sentient behemoth, had itself been killed.
G'nurk paused and leaned on a boulder. He brought his dirty hand up to wipe the moisture from his eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he served Tinguinguay with honor and pride, or he honored her not at all.
He pushed away from the stone, denied its offer to serve as a crutch, and pressed along. Soon he came past the nearest of his dead companions, or pieces of them, at least. Those in the west, nearest the ridge, had been mutilated by a shock wave full of flying stones. —
The stench filled his nostrils. A throng of black beetles,
MO . I? A C9Wa«
the first living things he'd seen in the area, swarmed around the guts of a torso cut in half.
He thought of bugs eating his dead little girl, his daughter who in the distant past had so often used her batting eyes and pouting lips to coerce from him an extra bit of food. On one occasion, G'nurk had missed a required drill because of Tinguinguay, when she'd thoroughly manipulated out of him a visit to a nearby swimming hole. Obould hadn't noticed his absence, thank Gruumsh!
That memory brought a chuckle from G'nurk, but that laugh melted fast into a sob.
Again he leaned on a rock, needing the support. Again he scolded himself about honor and duty, and doing proud by Tinguinguay.
He climbed up on the rock to better survey the battlefield. Many years before, Obould had led an expedition to a volcano, believing the resonating explosions to be a call from Gruumsh. There, where the side of the mountain had blown off into a forest, G'nurk had seen the multitude of toppled trees, all foliage gone, all branches blasted away. The great logs lay in rows, neatly ordered, and it had seemed so surreal to G'nurk that such a natural calamity as a volcanic eruption, the very definition of chaos, could create such a sense of order and purpose.
So it seemed to the ore warrior as he stood upon that rock and looked out across the rocky slope that had marked the end of the horde's charge, for the bodies lay neady in rows—too neatly.
So many bodies.
"Tinguinguay," G'nurk whispered.
He had to find her. He needed to see her again, and knew that it had to be there and then if it was to be ever—before the birds, the beetles, and the maggots did their work.
When it is done, all that is left are the bones and the stones. The screams are gone; the smell is gone. The blood is washed away. The fattened birds take with them in their departing flights all that identified those fallen warriors as individuals.
Leaving the bones and the stones to mingle and to mix, as the wind or the rain break apart the skeletons and filter them together, as the passage of time buries some, what is left becomes indistinguishable to all but the most careful of observers.
¦©¦¦©¦ ¦©¦
A rock shuffled under his foot, but Pwent didn't hear it. As he scrambled over the last rise along the cliff face, up onto the high ground from which the dwarves had made their stand before retreating into Mithral Hall, a small tumble of rocks cascaded down behind him—and again, he didn't hear it.
He heard the screams and cries, of glory and of pain, of determination against overwhelming odds, and of support for friends who were surely doomed.
He heard the ring of metal on metal, the crunch of a skull under the weight of his heavy, spiked gauntlets, and the sucking sound of his helmet spike driving through the belly of one more ore.
His mind was back in battle as he came over that ridge and looked at the long and stony descent, still littered with the corpses of scores of dwarves and hundreds and hundreds of ores. The ore charge had come there. The boulders rolling down against them, the giant-manned catapults throwing boulders at him from the side mountain ridge—he remembered vividly that moment of desperation, when only the Gutbusters, his Gutbusters, could intervene. He'd led that
counter-charge down the slope and headlong, furiously, into the ore horde. Punching and kicking, slashing and tearing, crying for Moradin and Clanggeddin and Dumathoin, yelling for King Bruenor and Clan Battlehammer and Mithral Hall. No fear had they shown, no hesitance in their charge, though not one expected to get off that ridge alive.
And so it was with a determined stride and an expression of both pride and lament that Thibbledorf Pwent walked down that slope once more, pausing only now and again to lift a rock and peg it at a nearby bird that was intent to feast upon the carcass of a friend.
He spotted the place where his brigade had made their valiant stand, and saw the dwarf bodies intermingled with walls of dead ores—walls and walls, piled waist deep and even higher. How well the Gutbusters had fought!
He hoped that no birds had pecked out Gendray's eyes. Honcklebart deserved to see his son's eyes again.
Pwent ambled over and began flinging ore bodies out of the way, growling with every throw. He was too angry to notice the stiffness, even when one arm broke off and remained in his grasp. He just chucked it after the body, spitting curses.
He came to his first soldier, and winced in recognition of Tooliddle Ironfist, who had been one of the longest-serving of the Gutbuster Brigade.
Pwent paused to offer a prayer for Tooliddle to Moradin, but in the middle of that prayer, he paused more profoundly and considered the task before him. It wouldn't be difficult, taking Gendray home, but leaving all the rest of them out there...
How could he do that?
The battlerager stepped back and kicked a dead ore hard in the face. He put his hands on his hips and considered the scene before him, trying to figure out how many trips and how many companions he would need to bring all those boys home. For
it became obvious to him that he couldn't leave them, any of them, out there for the birds and the beetles.
Big numbers confused Thibbledorf Pwent, particularly when he was wearing his boots, and particularly when, as on this occasion, he became distracted.
Something moved to the northwest of him.
At first, he thought it a large bird or some other carrion animal, but then it hit him, and hit him hard.
It was an ore—a lone ore, slipping through the maze of blasted stone and blasted bodies, and apparendy oblivious to Pwent.
He should have slipped down to the ground and pretended to be among the fallen. That was the preferred strategy, obviously, a ready-made ambush right out of the Gutbusters' practiced tactics.
Pwent thought of Gendray, of Tooliddle, and all the others. He pictured a bird poking out Gendray's eyes, or a swarm of beetles crunching on his rotting intestines. He smelled the fight again and heard the cries, remembering vividly the desperate and heroic stand.
He should have slipped down to the ground and feigned death among the corpses, but instead he spat, he roared, and he charged.
¦©¦
Who will remember those who died here, and what have they gained to compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?
The look upon a dwarfs face when battle is upon him would argue, surely, that the price is worth the effort, that warfare, when it comes to a dwarven clan, is a noble cause. Nothing to a dwarf is more revered than fighting to help a friend. Theirs is a community bound tightly by loyalty, by blood shared and blood spilled.
And so, in the life of an individual, perhaps this is a good way to die, a worthy end to a lift lived honorably, or even to a lift made worthy by this last ultimate sacrifice.
¦©¦ ¦&
G'nurk could hardly believe his ears, or his eyes, and as the sight registered fully—a lone dwarf rushing down the slope at him—a smile curled on his face.
Gruumsh had delivered this, he knew, as an outlet for his rage, a way to chase away the demons of despair over Tinguinguay's fall.
G'nurk shied from no combat. He feared no dwarf, surely, and so while the charge of the heavily armored beast—all knee spikes, elbow spikes, head spikes, and black armor so devilishly ridged that it could flay the hide off an umber hulk—would have weakened the knees of most, for G'nurk it came as a beautiful and welcome sight.
Still grinning, the ore pulled the heavy spear off his back and brought it around, twirling it slowly so that he could take a better measure of its balance. It was no missile. G'nurk had weighted its back end with an iron ball.
The dwarf rambled on, slowing not at all at the sight of the formidable weapon. He crashed through a pair of dead ores, sending them bouncing aside, and he continued his single-noted roar, a bellow of absolute rage and... pain?
G'nurk thought of Tinguinguay and surely recognized pain, and he too began to growl and let it develop into a defiant roar.
He kept his spear horizontally before him until the last moment, then stabbed out the point and dropped the weighted end to the ground, stamping it in with his foot to fully set the weapon.
He thought he had the dwarf easily skewered, but this one
was not quite as out of control as he appeared. The dwarf flung himself to the side in a fast turn and reached out with his leading left arm as he came around, managing to smack aside G'nurk's shifting spear.
The dwarf charged in along the shaft.
But G'nurk reversed and kicked up the ball, stepping out the other way and heaving with all his strength to send the back end of the weapon up fast and hard against the dwarf s chest, and with such force as to stop the furious warrior in his tracks, even knock him back a bouncing step.
G'nurk rushed out farther to the dwarf s left, working his spear cleverly to bring it end over end. As soon as he completed the weapon's turn, he went right back in, stabbing hard, thinking again to score a fast kill.
"For Tinguinguay!" he cried in Dwarvish, because he wanted his enemy to know that name, to hear that name as the last thing he ever heard!
The dwarf fell flat; the spear thrust fast above him, hitting nothing but air.
With amazing agility for one so armored and so stocky, the dwarf tucked his legs and came up fast, his helmet spike slicing up beside the spear, and he rolled his head, perfectly parrying G'nurk's strike.
He kept rolling his head, turning the spear under the helmet spike. He hopped back and bent low, driving the spear low and getting his belly behind the tip. And, amazingly, he rolled again, turning the spear!
Almost babbling with disbelief, G'nurk tried to thrust forward on one of those turns, hoping to impale the little wretch.
But the dwarf had anticipated just that, had invited just that, and as soon as the thrust began, the dwarf turned sidelong and slapped his hand against the spear shaft.
"I'm taking out both yer eyes for a dead friend," he said, and
G'nurk understood him well enough, though his command of Dwarvish was far from perfect.
The dwarf was inside his weapon's reach, and his grip proved surprisingly strong and resilient against G'nurk's attempt to break his weapon free.
So the ore surprised his opponent. He balled up his trailing, mailed fist, and slugged the grinning dwarf right in the face, a blow that would have knocked almost any ore or any dwarf flat to the ground.
<3r ¦©¦ ¦©¦
/ cannot help hut wonder, though, in the larger context, what of the overall? What of the price, the worth, the gain? Will Obould accomplish anything worth the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of his dead? Will he gain anything long-lasting? Will the dwarven stand made out on that high cliff bring Bruenor's people anything worthwhile? Could they not have slipped into Mithral Hall, to tunnels so much more easily defended?
And a hundred years from now, when there remain only the bones and the stones, will anyone care? I wonder what fuels the fires that burn images of glorious battle in the hearts of so many of the sentient races, my own paramount among them. I look at the carnage on the slope and I see the inevitable sight of emptiness. I imagine the cries ofpain. I hear in my head the calls for loved ones when the dying warrior knows his last moment is upon him. I see a tower fall with my dearest friend atop it. Surely the tangible remnants, the rubble and the bones, are hardly worth the moment of battle. But is there, I wonder, something less tangible there, something of a greater place? Or is there, perhaps—and this is my fear—something of a delusion to it all that drives us to war again and again?
Along that latter line of thought, is it within us all, when the memories of war have faded, to so want to be a part of something great that we throw aside the quiet, the calm, the mundane, the peace itself? Do we collectively come to equate peace with boredom and complacency? Perhaps we hold these embers of war within us, dulled only by sharp memories of the pain and the loss, and when that smothering blanket dissipates with the passage of healing time, those fires flare again to life. I saw this within myself, to a smaller extent, when I realized and admitted to myself that I was not a being of comforts and complacency, that only by the wind on my face, the trails beneath my feet and the adventure along the road could I truly be happy. I'll walk those trails indeed, but it seems to me that it is another thing altogether to carry an army along beside me, as Obould has done. For there is the consideration of a larger morality here, shown so starkly in the bones among the stones. We rush to the call of arms, to the rally, to the glory, but what of those caught in the path of this thirstfor greatness?
¦©•¦©¦¦©¦¦©•¦©¦
Thibbledorf Pwent wasn't just any dwarf. He knew that his posture, and his need to speak and grin, would allow the punch, but indeed, that was how the battlerager preferred to start every tavern brawl.
He saw the mailed fist flying for his face—in truth, he might have been able to partially deflect it had he tried.
He didn't want to.
He felt his nose crunch as his head snapped back, felt the blood gushing forth. He was still smiling. "My turn," he promised.
But instead of throwing himself at the ore, he yanked the spear shaft in tight against his side, then hopped and rolled over the weapon, grabbing it with his second hand as well as he went. That's when he came back to his feet, he had the spear in both hands and up across his shoulders behind his neck.
He scrambled back and forth, and turned wildly in circles until at last the ore relinquished the spear.
Pwent hopped to face him. The dwarf twisted his face into a mask of rage as the ore reached for a heavy stone, and with a growl, he flipped both his arms up over the spear, then drove them down.
The weapon snapped and Pwent caught both ends and tossed them out to the side.
The rock slammed against his chest, knocking him back a step.
"Oh, but yerselPs gonna hurt," the battlerager promised.
He leaped forward, fists flying, knees pumping, and head swinging, so that his helmet spike whipped back and forth right befote the ore's face.
The ore leaned back, back, and stumbled and seemed to topple, and Pwent howled and lowered his head and burst forward. He felt his helmet spike punch through chain links and leather batting, slide through ore flesh, crunch through ore bone, a sensation the battlerager had felt so many times in his war-rich history.
Pwent snapped upright, taking his victim with him, lifting the bouncing ore right atop his head, impaled on the long spike.
Surprisingly, though, Pwent found himself facing his opponent. Only as the ore stepped forward, sword extended, did the battlerager understand the ruse. The ore had feigned the fall and had propped up one of the corpses in his place (and had retrieved a sword from the ground in the same
move), and the victim weighing down on Pwent's head had been dead for many days.
And now the real opponent seemed to have an open charge and thrust to Thibbledorf Pwent's heart.
The next few moments went by in a blur. Stabs and swats traded purely on reflex. Pwent got slugged and gave a couple out in return. The sword nicked his arm, drawing blood on his black armor, but in that move, the battlerager was able to drive the weapon out wider than the ore had anticipated, and step in for a series of short and heavy punches. As the ore finally managed to back out, he did manage a left cross that stung Pwent's jaw, and before the battlerager could give chase, that sword came back in line.
This one's good—very good for an ore—Pwent thought.
Another vicious flurry had them dancing around each other, growling and punching, stabbing and dodging. All the time, Pwent carried nearly three hundred pounds of dead ore atop his head. It couldn't last, the dwarf knew. Not like this.
A sword slash nearly took out his gut as he just managed to suck in his belly and throw back his hips in time to avoid. Then he used the overbalance, his head, bearing the weight of the dead ore, too far out in front of his hips, to propel him forward suddenly.
He came up launching a wild left hook, but to his surprise, the ore dropped into a deep crouch and his fist whipped overhead. Improvisation alone saved the stumbling Pwent, for rathet than try to halt the swing, as instinct told him, he followed through even farther, turning and lifting his right foot as he came around.
He kicked out. He needed to connect and he did, sending the ore stumbling back another couple of steps.
But Pwent, too, the corpse rolling around his helmet spike, fell off balance. He couldn't hope to recover fast enough to counter the next assault.
The ore saw it, too, and he planted his back foot and rushed forward for the kill.
Pwent couldn't stop him.
But the ore's eyes widened suddenly as something to the side apparently caught his attention. Before he could finish the strike, the battlerager, never one to question a lucky break, tightened every muscle in his body, then snapped his head forward powerfully, extricating the impaled ore, launching the corpse right into his opponent.
The ore stumbled back a step and issued a strange wail. But Pwent didn't hesitate, rushing forward and leaping in a twisting somersault right over the corpse and the living ore. As he came around, rolling over his opponent's shoulder, the battlerager slapped his forearm hard under the ore's chin while slapping his other hand across its face the other way, catching a grip on hair and leather helm. When he landed on his feet, behind the ore, Pwent had the battle won. With the ore's head twisted out far to the left and the warrior off-balance—surely to fall, except that Pwent held him aloft—and unable to do anything about it.
A simple jerk with one hand, while driving his forearm back the other way, would snap the ore's neck, while Pwent's ridged bracer, already drawing blood on the ore's throat, would tear out the creature's windpipe.
Pwent set himself to do just that, but something about the ore's expression, a detachment, a profound wound, gave him pause.
"Why'd ye stop?" the battlerager demanded, loosening his grip just enough to allow a reply, and certain that he could execute the ore at any time.
The ore didn't answer, and Pwent jostled its head painfully.
"Ye said 'for' something," Pwent pressed. "For what?"
When the ore didn't immediately respond, he gave a painful tug.
"You do not deserve to know her name," the ore grunted with what little breath he could find.
"Her?" Pwent asked. "Ye got a lover out here, do ye? Ye ready to join her, are ye?"
The ore growled and tried futilely to struggle, as if Pwent had hit a nerve.
"Well?" he whispered.
"My daughter," the ore said, and to Pwent's surprise, he seemed to just give up, then. Pwent felt him go limp below his grasp.
"Yer girl? What do ye mean? What're ye doing out here?" Again, the ore paused, and Pwent jostled him viciously. "Tell me!"
"My daughter," the ore said, or started to say, for his voice cracked and he couldn't get through the word.
"Yer daughter died out here?" Pwent asked. "In the fight? Ye lost yer girl?"
The ore didn't answer, but Pwent saw the truth of his every question right there on the broken warrior's face.
Pwent followed the ore's hollow gaze to the side, to where several more corpses lay. "That's her, ain't it?" he asked.
"Tinguinguay," the ore mouthed, almost silently, and Pwent could hardly believe it when he noted a tear running from the ore's eye.
Pwent swallowed hard. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He tightened his grip, telling himself to just be done with
it.
To his own surprise, he hoisted the ore up to its feet and threw it forward.
"Just get her and get out o' here," the battlerager said past the lump in his throat.
¦©¦¦©¦ ¦©¦¦€)¦
Who will remember those who died here, and what have they gained to compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?
Whenever we lose a loved one, we resolve, inevitably, to neverforget, to remember that dear person for all our living days. But we the living contend with the present, and the present often commands all of our attention. And so as the years pass, we do not remember those who have gone before us every day, or even every week. Then comes the guilt, for if I am not remembering Zaknafein—my father, my mentor who sacrificed himself for me—then who is? And if no one is, then perhaps he really is gone. As the years pass, the guilt will lessen, because we forget more consistently and the pendulum turns in our self serving thoughts to applaud ourselves on those increasingly rare occasions when we do remember! There is always the guilt, perhaps, because we are self centered creatures to the last. It is the truth ofindividuality that cannot be denied.
In the end, we, all of us, see the world through our own, personal eyes.
¦©¦ <Sr ¦©¦
G'nurk broke his momentum and swung around to face the surprising dwarf. "You would let me leave?" he asked in Dwarvish.
"Take yer girl and get out o' here."
"Why would you... ?"
"Just get!"Pwent growled. "I got no time for ye, ye dog. Ye came here for yer girl, and good enough for her and for yerself! So take her and get out o' here!"
G'nurk understood almost every word, certainly enough to comprehend what had just happened.
He looked over at his girl—his dear, dead girl—then
glanced back at the dwarf and asked, "Who did you lose?"
"Shut yer mouth, dog," Pwent barked at him. "And get ye gone afore I change me mind."
The tone spoke volumes to G'nurk. The pain behind the growl rang out clearly to the ore, who carried so similar a combination of hate and grief. —
He looked back to Tinguinguay. Out of the corner of his eye, lie saw the dwarf lower his head and turn to go.
G'nurk was no average ore warrior. He had served in Obould's elite guard for years, and as a trainer for those who had followed him into that coveted position. The dwarf had beaten him—through a trick, to be sure—and to G'nurk that was no" small thing; never had he expected to be defeated in such a manner.
But now he knew better.
He covered the ground between himself and the dwarf with two leaps, and as the dwarf spun to meet the charge, G'nurk hit him with a series of quick slaps and shortened stabs to keep him, most of all, from gaining any balance.
He kept pressing, pushing, and prodding, never allowing a counter, never allowing the dwarf to set any defense.
He pushed the dwarf back, almost over, but the stubborn bearded creature came forward.
G'nurk sidestepped and crashed the pommel of his sword against the back of the dwarf s shoulder, forcing the dwarf to overbalance forward even more. When he reached up to grab at G'nurk, to use the ore as leverage, G'nurk ducked under that arm, catching it as he went so that when he came up fast behind the arm, he had it twisted such that the dwarf had no choice but to fall headlong.
The dwarf wound up flat on his back, G'nurk standing over him, the sword in tight against his throat.
¦©•¦O- ¦©¦
¦*n<S • R A Salvatnrp
I have heard parents express theirfears of their own mortality soon after the birth ofa child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent, through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is notfar the child that they fear, should they die—though surely there is that worry, as well—but rather for themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old enough to remember him? For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?
-®- -®- -®-
"Bah, ye murderin' treacherous dog!" Thibbledorf Pwent yelled. "Ye got no honor, nor did yer daugh—" He bit the word off as G'nurk pressed the blade in tighter.
"Never speak of her," the ore warned, and he backed off the sword just a bit.
"Ye're thinking this honorable, are ye?"
G'nurk nodded.
Pwent nearly spat with disbelief. "Ye dog! How can ye?"
G'nurk stepped back, taking the sword with him. "Because now you know that I hold gratitude for your mercy, dwarf," he explained. "Now you know in your heart that you made the right choice. You carry with you from this field no burden of guilt for your mercy. Do not think this anything more than it is: a good deed repaid. If we meet in the lines, Obould against Bruenor, then know I will serve my king."
"And meself, me own!" Pwent proclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet.
"But you are not my enemy, dwarf," the ore added, and he stepped back, bowed and walked away.
"I ain't yer durned friend, neither!"
G'nurk turned and smiled, though whether in agreement
or in thinking that he knew otherwise, Pwent could not discern.
It had been a strange day.
¦©¦¦©•¦©¦<§>¦ ¦©¦
/ wish the crows would circle and the wind would carry them away, and the faces would remain forever to remind us ofthe pain. When the clarion call to glory sounds, before the armies anew trample the bones among the stones, let the faces ofthe dead remind us of the cost. It is a sobering sight before me, the red-splashed stones. It is a striking warning in my ears, the cawing of the crows.
—Drizzt Do'Urden
SECOND CHANCE
Richard Lee Byers
29 Flamerule, the Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)
The autharch's soldiers tied Kemas's hands together and pulled the rope over a tree limb so that only his toes touched the ground. Then they beat his naked back, shoulders, and ribs with a cane.
The boy tried clenching his jaw so he wouldn't cry out, but that didn't work. Then he tried not to hear anything the autharch, alternately cajoling and screaming as the mood took him, had to say. If he didn't understand the questions, he couldn't answer them and so betray his comrades and his faith a second time.
Preventing that was the most important thing in the world, but he could already feel that it wouldn't always be. The jolting pain would go on and on until stopping it was all that mattered. Then he'd tell the autharch whatever he wanted to know.
So why not give in now, if surrender was inevitable in any case? He struggled to push the tempting thought out of his head.
Then one of the legionnaires said, "Someone's here to see you, Autharch. An officer from Umratharos." The beating stopped as everyone turned to regard the newcomer.
The stranger possessed the thin, long-limbed frame of a Mulan aristocrat, like the autharch, or Kemas himself, for that matter, but contrary to custom, didn't shave his scalp. Straw-colored hair framed a face that might have been pleasant if it weren't so haggard and severe. The blond man bowed slightly, as if the autharch might conceivably outrank him but not by much, and proffered sheets of parchment with green wax seals adhering to them. He wore a massive gold and emerald ring on his middle finger, and Kemas sensed he was displaying that to his fellow noble as well.
Broad-shouldered and coarse-featured for a Mulan and possessed of mean, pouchy eyes, the autharch scanned the documents, then grunted. "A tour of inspection."
"Yes," the blond man said in a rich baritone voice. "Our master"—Kemas assumed he referred to Invarri Metron, thar-chion of Delhumide—"wants to make sure every noble in his dominions is loyal to Szass Tam and making ready for war."
The autharch peered about. "But where is your retinue, Lord Uupret? Surely such an important official isn't traveling alone."
"For the moment, yes. My men fell ill, and rather than stay with them and risk catching the sickness myself, I rode on alone. My business is too important to delay."
The autharch blinked. "Yes. I'm sure."
"Then I hope you'll be kind enough to explain what's going on. Why are you and your troops encamped in this field?"
"To furthet the northern cause, I assure you. Just east of us stands a temple of Kossuth. Obviously, I won't allow a bastion of His Omnipotence's enemies to exist on my own
lands, especially when it's positioned to threaten traffic on the Sur Road. I'm going to take the place, kill the fire worshipers, and then my wizards will raise them as zombies to serve our overiords."
The blond man nodded. "That sounds reasonable. But what about the boy?" Kemas flinched.
The autharch chuckled. "Oh, him. I attacked the temple last night, but we didn't make it inside the walls. Which was fine. I didn't expect to on the first try. I was really just feeling out the enemy. Anyway, after we fell back, this little rat evidently decided he doesn't like fighting very much. He sneaked out of the shrine and tried to run away, and our sentries caught him. Now we're persuading him to tell us everything he knows about the temple's defenses."
"He looks about ready." The blond noble advanced on Kemas and gripped his raw, welted shoulder. Kemas gasped and stiffened at the resulting stab of pain.
"Be sensible," the newcomer said. "Spare yourself any further unpleasantness. Give the autharch what he wants."
Kemas felt lightheaded. He thought he was fainting or dying, and would have welcomed either. But the sensation passed, and he started talking.
It shamed him. He wept even as he spoke. But he couldn't stop.
When he finished, the autharch said, "That's that, then. He'll make a scrawny excuse for a zombie, but at least he won't be chickenhearted anymore."
"My lord," the blond man said, "I would regard it as a favor if you'd give the lad to me. As you say, he wouldn't be all that impressive an undead, and I confess, I'm fond of certain pleasures. Seeing him like this, teary-eyed, barebacked, and bloody, reminds me that I haven't had the opportunity to enjoy them since I set forth on my journey."
Kemas had imagined he couldn't feel any more wretched,
but he was wrong. He shuddered, and his stomach churned. He wondered if his further torment, whatever it turned out to be, would be Kossuth's punishment for his treachery.
The autharch cocked his head. "Since the boy isn't fit to travel, I take it that you plan to bide with me for a while."
"With your permission. It's a stroke of luck that I have the chance to watch you and your men actually fight a battle. It will give me a better idea of your capabilities than anything else could."
"Well, I'm delighted to offer you my hospitality, especially if it will lead to you carrying a good report of me to Tharchion Metron." The autharch shifted his gaze to one of the soldiers. "See to Lord Uupret's horse and provide him with a tent."
"You can toss the boy inside it," the blond man said. "It will be convenient to have him close at hand."
The legionnaire didn't literally toss Kemas, but he shoved him. The push sent a fresh burst of pain through the boy's back and sent him staggering. He fell, and with his hands tied behind him, could do nothing to catch himself. He slammed down on his belly, then rolled over on his side to peer up at the tharchion's emissary. He was afraid to look at him, but afraid not to, also.
The blond man's face was as cold as before, but revealed none of the gloating lust or cruelty his prisoner had expected. The officer sang something, crooning so softly that Kemas couldn't make out the words, then darkness swallowed everything.
When Kemas woke, a pang of fear froze him in place until he remembered what had befallen him and that, in fact, he ought to be afraid. Hoping to take stock of his situation without revealing that he'd regained consciousness, he opened his eyes just a little.
Night had fallen, and the wavering yellow light of a single lantern pushed the deepest shadows into the corners of the tent. The flaps were closed, but the blond man sat on a camp
stool facing them anyway, as if he could still see out. He slumped forward with his left hand supporting his forehead, seemingly weary or disconsolate.
Which was to say, he had his back to Kemas, and scarcely seemed alert. He had, moreover, untied his captive's hands.
Kemas cast about. He didn't see any actual weapons within easy reach, but a wine botde sat on a little folding table. Trying to be silent, he pushed back his blanket, rose from the cot, picked up the bottle, and tiptoed toward the man on the stool. He swung his makeshift bludgeon down at his captor's head.
The blond man jerked his upper body to the side, and the bottle only clipped him on the shoulder. Kemas jerked it up for another blow, but twisting around, his captor grabbed his forearm and immobilized it. Then he jumped up, hooked his leg behind Kemas's, and dumped him onto his back. Still gripping the boy's arm, twisting it, he planted his foot in the center of Kemas's chest.
"I don't want to hurt you," the blond man said.
Kemas kept struggling, but the only result was to grind pain through his shoulder joint.
"It's true," the blond man said. "If I were your enemy, why would I untie you or lay you on the cot? Why would I use my songs to heal you? You did notice that someone tended your wounds, didn't you? Otherwise you wouldn't have the strength to play tricks."
Kemas hadn't noticed, but recalling the beating he'd taken, he realized it must be so. "All right. I yield."
The blond man gave him an appraising stare, then released him. He moved to the tent flaps, pulled them slightly apart to make a peephole, and peered out. "Good. It doesn't look like anyone heard us scuffling."
Keeping hold of the bottle—not that it had done him much good before—Kemas clambered to his feet. "I don't understand any of this."
The blond man waved for him to sit down on the cot and dropped back onto the stool. "Then let me explain, starting with the basics. Are you aware that the zulkirs have gone te war with one another?"
"I heard you and the autharch say something about a war, but I couldn't take it all in."
"Well, here's the nub of it: Szass Tarn wants to make himself supreme ruler of Thay, and the other archwizards refuse to accept him as their overlord. By and large, Delhumide and the other northern tharchs stand with the pretender, while the southern provinces support the rest of the council."
"But what does that have to do with the temple? Why did the autharch attack us?"
"The Church of Kossuth stands with the council, as well it should. Szass Tarn betrayed and murdered scores of your priests and monks. The news just hadn't reached you in this remote location. But it did reach your autharch, and he decided to wipe out your enclave before you could strike at him or his masters."
"Judging from the way you talk, you're against Szass Tam, too.
"Yes. My real name is Bareris Anskuld, and I serve in the Griffon Legion of Pyarados. I'm on a scouting mission to find out what Szass Tarn's forces are up to in Delhumide and who still stands against them. I ran into the real Lord Uupret on the trail, and when I realized I could use his ring and documents to examine Szass Tarn's troops and fortresses up close, I killed him and assumed his identity."
"Didn't he have a company of guards protecting him, like the autharch asked about?"
"Yes, but I had my griffon, my magic, and a formidable comrade who dogs my steps whenever I'm not pretending to be somebody else."
Even so, fighting an important noble's retinue sounded
liked a desperate undertaking. "Aren't you afraid of meeting someone who knew the real Lord Uupret?" Bareris shrugged.
"And if you want people to think you're just an ordinary noble in the service of the tharchion, wouldn't it be wise to shave your head? So you don't look... peculiar?"
"I'm a bard. If I offer an explanation for my hair, I can make people believe it, just as I made the autharch think it reasonable that one of his master's chief deputies is traveling alone."
"I suppose." But it seemed clear that Bareris was taking risks that no prudent spy would have chanced, as if some self-destructive part of him wanted his enemies to penetrate his disguise.
The blond man scowled. "That's enough blather about me. The night won't last forever, and we need to talk about how to save your temple."
Kemas swallowed. "Do you think it can be saved? I. . . I told the autharch the truth. I told him everything."
"I know. I laid a charm on you to compel you."
"What?"
"Keep your voice down!"
"Why would you do that if you're really the autharch's enemy?"
"Because I judged that you were going to talk eventually in any case. Was I wrong?"
Kemas wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, his eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut to hold in tears. "No," he whispered.
"You don't need to be ashamed. Torture breaks nearly everyone in the end."
"Well, you should have let it break me!" Kemas didn't know why that would have been preferable, but he felt it nonetheless.
"Had it gone on much longer, it might have injured you badly enough that I couldn't heal you, and that wouldn't do. I have a task for you."
Kemas took a deep breath. "What?"
"After you gave the autharch what he wanted, he convened a council of war and made a battle plan. I used my influence to keep it from being as cunning a strategy as it might have been, though it's possible I didn't need to." For just an instant, Bareris's lips twitched up at the corners. Kemas realized it was the only time he'd seen the bard display any semblance of a smile. "Contrary to his own opinion, the autharch isn't a subtle man. If he were, he would have realized that your temple likely hadn't heard the tidings from the south and tried first to take the place by trickery."
"So the battle plan is worthless?"
"No. My magic couldn't accomplish that much. It simply isn't as good as it could be. But here's the real point. I now know exactly what resources the autharch commands, and precisely how he intends to employ them. It's information the temple's defenders can put to good use, once you carry it to them."
Kemas stared at him. "Me? I'm a prisoner!"
"It's dark, and I pilfered a legionnaire's cloak and tunic for you to wear. You should be able to sneak out of camp and back to the shrine."
"But you can cast spells. Your chances are better than mine. Why don't you do it?"
"I'm needed here. The autharch's troops aren't elite warriors, but they look fairly capable, they outnumber your temple guards, and they have a couple of necromancers to lend magical support. I can improve your chances by lurking in their midst and then lashing out at the right moment. I'll kill the wizards and proceed from there."
Once again, Kemas could only infer that his companion
had little regard for his own safety. "Is protecting our little shrine so important that it makes sense for you to run such a risk?"
"Anything that hinders Szass Tarn's forces for even an instant is worthwhile. I wrote down the autharch s plan while you slept. Are you ready to take the parchment and go?"
Kemas swallowed. "No."
Bareris frowned. "Do you think I'm trying to trick you?" "No, I believe what you told me. It's... you heard what the autharch said about me. I'm a deserter." "And so?"
"I'm afraid of all this! I want to get away from the danger, not put myself back in the middle of it."
"Yet the temple means something to you, or you wouldn't have resisted torture for as long as you did." 1 suppose.
"How long did you serve there?"
"Nearly my whole life. My family's Mulan, but we don't have much land or money, either, and I'm a younger son. My father enlisted me in the Order of the Fire Drake—the sworn protectors of Kossuth's holy shrines and relics—thinking it would make a good life for me."
"Did it?"
"Yes. I made friends, and I liked the masters and teachers." He sneered. "I even liked the martial training and thought I was becoming a fine warrior. I imagined I'd do well if I ever had to fight a real battle."
"But until the autharch came, you never did."
"No. The temple's in the middle of settled territory and has walls like a real fortress. Nobody's bothered it for generations. The garrison was mainly there for the sake of tradition."
"Tell me what happened during the battle."
"I was on the wall with my bow. I was about to start shooting, and then an arrow flew up from below and hit
Abrihando—the fellow next to me—in the chest. He fell down, thrashed, and screamed for me to help him. But I'm no healer. I couldn't do anything. I just stared at him until he stopped moving.
"Afterward, I wanted to crouch down behind a merlon and stay there so an arrow wouldn't hit me, too. Still, I made myself shoot a few times. Then zombies ran toward the foot of the wall with ladders. Our shafts couldn't stop them."
"No," Bareris said, "you generally have to cut them to pieces."
"People scurried to shove the ladders over backward, but some of the zombies made it onto the top of the wall anyway. They smelled rotten, and their eyes shined yellow. They swung their axes, and more of our folk fell, some shrieking, some already dead.
"I put down my bow and drew my sword. I really did mean to go and help. But then something even more horrible than a zombie climbed over the top of the wall. It was a dead man, too, but with its belly ripped open and lengths of gut hanging out and waving around like snakes. They even had mouths full of fangs."
Bareris nodded. "A vilewight."
"I just couldn't make myself go near it. Not even when it caught my friend Madivik with its gut-arms. He screamed for my help, too, but I stood frozen while the poison of the thing's bites shriveled him away. It turned toward me next and would have had me too, but one of the temple priests cast a blast of fire at it. I don't think he destroyed it, but he knocked it back over the wall.
"After that, I was done. I scurried down off the wall walk and hid in the stable until the autharch broke off the attack. Later on, I sneaked out one of the posterns."
Bareris nodded. "It was your first real battle, and fear got the better of you. It happens to many untried warriors,
especially if facing nasty foes like undead. You'll do better next time."
"I don't want there to be a next time."
"Deep down, you do. You'd grieve to see your comrades and your temple destroyed. It's evident in every word you say."
"You don't understand. When I ran away, I broke my vows. Even if I did manage to get back inside the temple, the other Fire Drakes would kill me themselves."
"Maybe not. If you consider them your friends, they're likely fond of you as well. Perhaps enough to show mercy, particularly considering that you'll have brought them useful information, and if not, at least you'll die knowing you've redeemed your honor."
"That's all that matters to you, isn't it? You don't care at all about staying alive, but I do!"
Bareris hesitated, then said, "I won't argue that you're mistaken. But I've taken your measure, too, and I can see that if you let it, shame will blight the rest of your life. Whatever else happens to you, in your own estimation you'll be the coward and oathbreaker forevermore. But it doesn't have to be that way, because you have what I never will: a second chance to make things right."
Kemas took a long breath. "All right. I'll try."
"Good." Bareris sprang to his feet, grabbed a pair of folded garments, and tossed them to the boy. "I have a sword for you as well."
When Kemas had donned his disguise, tucked Bareris's message inside the tunic, and hung his new baldric over his shoulder, he and the spy proceeded to the tent flaps. Bareris peeked out, then said, "Go on."
Kemas reached to pull the hanging cloths apart, then faltered.
"I can sing a song to bolster your courage," Bareris said. "I will if you need it. But I'm afraid that if I do, afterward you'll
worry that you only acted bravely because you were drunk on magic."
"I'm all right," Kemas said. Trying not to think or feel, just move, he forced himself out into the open.
No one was up and about anywhere close at hand. Kemas headed north, past officers' tents and the snoring mounds that were common soldiers asleep in their bedrolls on the ground. He averted his eyes from the dying campfires lest they rob him of his night vision and resisted the urge to tiptoe like a thief in a pantomime. Better to move as if he had nothing to fear and trust his stolen garments to protect him.
A figure emerged from the darkness. The soldier peered at Kemas, and he held his breath. Finally the legionnaire raised a casual hand, Kemas returned the wave, and the man turned and trudged away.
Another twenty paces brought Kemas to the edge of the camp. Now was the time to creep, so the sentries wouldn't spot him sneaking away. Even if they believed he was one of their own, slipping out of camp to engage in some sort of mischief, they'd still try to stop him.
Mouth as dry as desert sand, heart thumping, he kept low and skulked from shadow to shadow. Perhaps his dark mantle and wiry frame helped to hide him, or maybe the tired men on watch weren't, exceptionally vigilant. For no one spotted him, and eventually he peered back and judged that he'd left the camp a long bowshot behind.
Now he could turn his steps toward the temple, and until he drew near to the ring of pickets surrounding it, give more thought to haste and less to stealth. If that was what he really wanted to do.
Did he? At that moment, he was free. Safe. He needn't face the autharch's soldiers and undead horrors again, nor scorn and possible punishment from his own comrades. He could avoid it all simply by running away.
320 • Richard Lee Bvers
But he wouldn't avoid the guilt that would come as a result. Bareris, damn him, had warned that it would weigh on him like a curse till the end of his days.
Kemas made sure his broadsword was loose in the scabbard, then he headed east.
Stands of apple and cherry trees rose among the fields surrounding the temple. As Kemas had already discovered to his cost, the autharch s pickets were lurking in the groves, taking advantage of the cover, and no doubt eating the ripening fruit. Unfortunately, even knowing they were there, Kemas saw little choice but to skulk through the orchards himself. The only other option would be to attempt his entire approach to the shrine over open ground.
He made it far enough to spy the limestone wall of the temple complex between the trees. Then a soldier pounced down in front of him, or at least it startled Kemas so badly that it felt as if a wild beast had plunged out of nowhere to bar his path. In reality, the legionnaire had simply slipped down from the crotch of the tree where he'd been perching, his form obscured by the night.
"Who are you?" the picket asked.
Kemas reminded himself that it was dark. He was, moreover, wearing the uniform of the autharch's guards and coming from the direction of the noble's camp, not the temple. Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He took a breath and said, "The officers decided you could use a few more men standing watch up here."
"Did they send you without a bow?"
Kemas shrugged as if to convey disgust at the idiocy of the men in charge.
"Come talk to the sergeant," the picket said. "He'll tell you what to do."
No, Kemas thought, he'll recognize me. He had too good a look at me when you bastards caught me before.
He wanted to turn tail, but if he fled now, he'd never reach the temple. He smiled and said, "All right.'' As soon as the soldier turned his back to lead the way, he'd draw and cut the fellow down from behind.
But he was no accomplished deceiver like Bareris, and something in his tone or manner must have put the legionnaire on his guard, because the man frowned and gripped the hilt of his own blade. "Tell me the name of the person who ordered you here," he said.
Kemas whipped out his sword and ran at the picket, hoping to kill his adversary before the other man's weapon cleared the scabbard. But the soldier scrambled backward, and that gave him time to draw. He beat Kemas's blade out of line and extended his own, but fortunately, his aim was off by a hair. Otherwise, Kemas's own all-out charge would have flung him onto the point.
He hurtled past the picket, knew the man was surely pivoting to strike at him from behind, managed to arrest his forward momentum, and lurched back around. The guard's sword flashed at his neck, and he parried it.
The jolt stung his fingers but didn't quite loosen his grip. He riposted, and trained reflex guided his arm through one of the moves his teachers had drilled into him. He feinted to the flank, disengaged, and cut to the head. His sword split the left side of the picket's face from brow to chin and crunched into the bone beneath. The soldier's knees buckled and he dropped, dragging the blade down with him.
His feelings a tangle of relief, incredulity, and queasiness, Kemas stared down at the other swordsman. Shouts and the thuds of running footsteps jarred him from his daze. The legionnaire's comrades had plainly heard the ringing of blade on blade, and they were rushing to investigate.
Kemas yanked his sword free and sprinted onto the clear ground between the grove and the temple wall. When he'd
322 • Richard Lee Bvers
I covered half the distance, arrows started flying after him. He
\. couldn't see them, but some came close enough that he heard
¦¦ them whisper past his body.
He fetched up in front of one of the sally ports. The light of the torches on the battlements shined down over him, and
; he realized that, even though he'd distanced himself from the tress, he was likely a better target than before. He pounded on the sturdy oak panel. "It's me, Kemas! Let me in!"
With a crack, an arrow plunged into the door. Kemas threw himself flat and continued to shout. Other arrows clattered against the entry. Some rebounded and fell on his back and legs.
Then he caught the groan of bars sliding in their brackets. He looked around, and the postern opened just enough to admit a single person. He jumped up, scurried through, and the small gate slammed behind him.
With the arrows streaking at him, he hadn't been able to think of anything else, and felt a giddy elation at escaping them unscathed. Then, however, he observed his rescuers' glowering faces and the naked weapons in their hands.
"Surrender your sword," Zorithar said. With his long, narrow face and broken nose, he was one of the senior Fire Drakes and notorious for the harsh discipline he imposed on the youths in training. His expression and tone were like cold iron.
Kemas gave him the weapon hilt first. "I need to talk to Master Rathoth-De. It's important."
"Don't worry about that," Zorithar said. "He'll want to talk to you, too."
Kemas's new captors marched him to the hall where the high priest administered the temple in times of peace, and where he still sat in the place of honor at the head of the council table. But he had no martial expertise, and thus it was Rathoth-De who was actually directing the defense.
The commander of the Fire Drakes looked too old and frail for that duty, or any responsibility more taxing than drowsing by the hearth. But his pale gray eyes were clear and sharp beneath his scraggly white brows, and he carried the weight of his yellow-and-orange plate armor as if it weighed no more than wool.
He studied Kemas's face for a time, then said, "It was a crime to run away and folly to return."
"He ran afoul of the autharch s men," Zorithar said. "They were chasing him, and apparently he had nowhere else to run."
Kemas swallowed. "With respect, Masters, that isn't true. I mean, it is, but there's more to it. I came back to bring you this." He proffered Bareris's letter.
Rathoth-De muttered and ran his finger under the words as he read them. His scowl deepened with every line. "It says here that the autharch knows everything about the temple, including which section of the north wall has fallen into disrepair."
Kemas took a deep breath. "Yes, Master. He tortured me, and I told him." He might have explained that at the end it was a charm of coercion that had actually forced him to talk, but somehow that seemed a contemptible evasion.
Zorithar sneered. "No surprise there. You'd already proved yourself a coward." He rurned his gaze on Rathoth-De. "Maybe we can reinforce the wall."
"Master," Kemas said, "if you read on, you'll see that the scout from the Griffon Legion believes that our best hope is to let the autharch execute the plan he's devised and then turn it around on him."
Rathoth-De skimmed to the end, then grunted. "This does suggest possibilities." He explained Bareris's idea.
Zorithar frowned. "We've never even heard of this Anskuld person, and we don't know that we can believe a word he says. This could be a ruse."
"If I may speak, sir," a warrior said. "I have to say, I don't
think so. I was watching from the wall when Kemas ran to the temple. The archers were doing their best to hit him. Which they wouldn't, if the autharch wanted him to deliver a false message."
"I agree," said Rathoth-De, "and even if I weren't convinced, the autharch has the numbers to overwhelm our little garrison eventually. We need to try something both bold and clever to have any hope of defeating him."
Zorithar shook his head. "So that's your decision? To gamble everything on this one throw?"
"I think we must." The old man turned his gaze on Kemas. "The only question remaining is what to do with the lad."
"He forsook his comrades and broke his vows to the god," Zorithar said. "Drown him as the rules of the order decree."
"Even though he risked his life to return and make amends?"
"I'm not convinced that he did it out of remorse," Zorithar said, "or devotion, or of his own volition. But it doesn't matter anyway. The rule is the rule."
"Masters," Kemas said, "I know the punishment for what I did, and I'll accept if you say I must. But let me fight for the temple first. You can use every sword."
"Not yours," Zorithar said. "You'll shrink from the foe as you did before, and leave your brothers in the lurch."
"You may be right," said Rathoth-De, "but surely the boy has given us some reason to think he's found his courage. Enough, I think, to warrant putting the matter to a test. Are you willing, apprentice?"
Kemas drew himself up straighter. "Yes."
"Then approach Kossuth's altar."
The altar was a polished slab of red marble with inlaid golden runes. Tongues of yellow flame leaped and hissed from the bowl set in the top. Such devotional fires burned all around the temple complex, and Kemas had long since grown
accustomed to their heat. But as he came closer, it seemed to beat at him, because he knew and dreaded what was to come.
"Place your hand over the flames," said Rathoth-De.
Kemas pulled up his sleeve to make sure it wouldn't catch fire, then did as his master had commanded. For a moment, it didn't hurt, then the hot pain flowered in his palm and the undersides of his fingers. It grew keener with every heartbeat.
It occurred to Kemas that it shouldn't be this way. He was pledged to Kossuth, and his god and fire were one. But he wasn't a priest, just a glorified temple guard, unable to reach the ecstasy and empowerment presumably waiting inside the torment.
He told himself the ordeal surely wouldn't last for long, for unlike Zorithar, Rathoth-De wasn't cruel by nature. But it did last. The pain stretched on, and the old man kept silent.
By the burning chain, did Kemas smell himself? Was his hand cooking?
It was brutally hard to know that he could snatch it back whenever he chose, and no matter what else might follow, this particular agony would subside. He clenched his will and muscles to fight the urge.
Until hands gripped him and heaved him back from the flames. He peered about and saw that two of his fellow warriors had wrestled him away.
"I told you that you could stop," said Rathoth-De, "but you were concentrating so hard on keeping still that you didn't hear me."
Kemas took a breath. His hand throbbed. "Then I passed the test?"
"Yes." Rathoth-De shifted his gaze to Zorithar. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Zorithar grimaced and gestured in grudging acquiescence.
Steeling himself, Kemas inspected his hand. It wasn't
the blackened claw he'd feared to see, but it was a patchwork of raw, red flesh and blisters. "I put my off hand over the fire, so I can still use a sword. But I won't be able to manage a bow."
"Don't be so sure," said the high priest. "If there's one thing a cleric of Kossuth learns to do well, it's tending burns."
The priest chanted prayers over Kemas's hand, smeared it with pungent ointment, and wrapped it in linen bandages. The next day, though the extremity still gave its owner an occasional pang, it was well enough for him to aid in the preparations for the struggle to come.
To his relief, the other Fire Drakes accepted his presence among them without offering insults or objections. Evidently the majority believed him fit to resume his place.
He wondered if they were right. He'd fought and killed the picket, but it had taken only an instant, and desperation and his training had seen him through. He'd endured the fire, but realized now that that too had only taken a few moments, even if it had seemed an eternity at the time. It didn't necessarily mean he'd found the courage to stand his ground while a true battle raged on and on.
As Bareris had warned they would, the autharch s force approached the walls after sunset. Across the temple complex, horns blew the alarm, and Kemas rushed up the stairs to his assigned place on the wall walk.
When he squinted out over the parapet, it certainly appeared as if the autharch s entire company stood in battle array before the main gate. Supposedly the noble's mages had cast subtle illusions to foster that impression, and the darkness likely aided as well.
In any case, it steadied Kemas to know that he was looking out at a diversion, not a committed assault. A hurtling arrow could still kill him just as dead, but still, for the moment at least, the danger seemed limited and endurable. He strung his
bow, nocked a shaft, picked out a murky figure on the ground below, and let fly.
He continued that way for a while, shooting steadily and ducking down behind a merlon whenever it seemed that an archer or crossbowman on the ground was making a concerted effort to hit him. Twice, scaling ladders thumped against the parapet, but not near him, and the defenders who were closer dislodged them expeditiously.
Then, his kite shield and surcoat emblazoned with the rampant fire-breathing wyrm that was the emblem of the order, Zorithar came striding along the wall walk. He scowled at Kemas. "Rathoth-De thinks the real battle is about to begin. Find a place among those who are going to fight it."
Kemas swallowed. "Me?"
Zorithar snorted. "Of course, you. We've determined that you're a feariess hero, remember? Now, move!" He hurried on, no doubt deciding who else he could pull off the front wall without the enemy realizing that the defenders knew what was about to occur.
Kemas scurried down the stairs, ran across the temple grounds, and found a place to stand. After that he had nothing to do but wait. He strained, listening for some warning sign of what was to come.
He never heard it. Rather, the decaying section of the north wall exploded inward all at once, and men ducked and averted their faces to shield their eyes from flying gravel. By Bareris's reckoning, the autharch's wizards weren't especially powerful adepts, but even so, the crumbling stonework had been too weak to withstand them.
Beyond the breach, men howled like banshees, and charging feet pounded the ground. The autharch's troops meant to penetrate the opening before their foes could shake off their surprise and move to defend it.
It was only when the first attackers had scrambled
inside, and were attempting to find their bearings amid the darkness and choking dust, that they perceived their counterparts hadn't been surprised. The Fire Drakes had expected their enemies to enter how and where they had, and had spent the day transforming the immediate area into a killing box. Carts, benches, piles of brick, and anything else that could be incorporated into barricades shielded ranks of warriors standing poised and ready for slaughter. Archers perched on the sections of wall to each side of the breach, and on nearby rooftops.
The priests of Kossuth cast their most destructive spells, and blasts of flame ripped through the mass of the enemy. The temple bowmen shot. Kemas caught himself nocking, drawing, and releasing as fast as he could and forced himself to slow down and aim.
Though it was scarcely necessary. The autharch s men were jammed so tightly together that any arrow was likely to find a mark, and the flying shafts and bursts and sprays of fire did such grievous harm that surely the attackers' first impulse was to turn and flee.
But they couldn't. They still had comrades, oblivious to the slaughter erupting just a few yards ahead, pushing through the breach behind them and bottling them in.
Their officers and sergeants realized it, and that the only possible way out of the trap was forward. They bellowed commands and their soldiers rushed the barricades.
Kemas dropped his bow and snatched out his sword just in time to parry the thrust of a spear. The Fire Drake on his left swung his mace and bashed in the spearman's skull.
Kemas returned the favor mere moments later, dispatching an axeman who was pressing his comrade hard. Up and down the line and on all three sides of the killing box, men roared and screamed, struck, defended, and fell.
A moment came when Kemas didn't have a foe within
reach. It was then that, panting and wiping stinging sweat from his eyes, he spied Bareris.
True to his word, the bard was fighting alone in the midst of the foe. His sword was bloody from point to hilt, and a sort of haze shrouded his body. The blur no doubt made him more difficult to target and was evidence that he wasn't entirely suicidal. But it surely couldn't protect him from the foes driving in from every side, and Kemas was certain he was about to die.
But then the opponents in front of Bareris faltered as though abruptly afraid to engage. That too must be the result of one of his songs. He ran at the men he'd cursed, and they recoiled. The unnatural terror evidently hadn't caught hold of the soldiers to the rear and on his flanks, and they struck at him but missed. He reached one of the barricades, and recognizing him for an ally, the Fire Drakes behind it helped him clamber to the other side.
At that point, Kemas glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye and remembered that his own safety was likewise at issue. He hastily faced straight ahead and beheld the zombies shambling toward him.
From the moment the wall burst open until then, he hadn't been scared, perhaps because he hadn't had time to think. But it was as if the brief respite he'd enjoyed had given dread fresh purchase on his spirit, or maybe it was simply the withered, decaying faces of the walking dead that stabbed fear into his heart and loosened his guts.
He reminded himself of what Bareris had told him. A living warrior could defeat a zombie. He just had to cut it to pieces.
Somewhere overhead, a priest chanted a prayer, and three zombies burst into flame before they could reach the barricades. Unfortunately, the creature stalking straight at Kemas wasn't one of them.
It moved slowly, though, and that enabled him to strike
first His sword bit deep into the zombie's neck. Had it been alive, the stroke would have killed it, but its black, slimy lips didn't even twitch, nor did it (alter. Reeking of corruption, it heaved its axe over its head, then swept it down in an awkward but powerful blow. Kemas twisted aside to keep it from splitting his head in two.
He pulled on his sword and it stuck, possibly caught between two vertebrae. Its head flopping on its shoulders, the corpse-thing lifted the axe for another try. Kemas gripped the hilt with both hands, heaved with all his might, and the blade jerked free.
He cut at one of the zombie's upraised hands. His sword lopped off fingers, and the axe fell out of the dead man's grasp. He took another swing at its neck and hacked deeper. The creature toppled forward and wound up draped over the barricade. Kemas was reluctant to touch the filthy thing, but it was in the way, and so he gripped its shoulder and shoved it off onto the ground. It was only then that he felt a surge of elation at having bested it.
He started to smile. Then, hunched forward, gut-tentacles writhing and lashing, the vilewight appeared among the autharch's troops. Despite the press, the legionnaires scrambled to clear a path for it.
The undead's sunken eyes burned brighter, and its ranged mouth sneered. It extended a gnarled, long-fingered hand, and a shaft of darkness leaped from the tips of the jagged talons. It blazed across a portion of the barricade, and the men it washed over collapsed, their bodies rotting.
Priests chanted. Fire leaped up around the vilewight but guttered out instantly, leaving it unburned. Archers loosed their shafts. Some pierced the dead thing's flesh, but the creature didn't even appear to notice.
It pointed its hand again. Another flare of shadow cut into the ranks of the defenders. Meanwhile, one of the warriors slain
by the previous attack lurched up onto his knees, threw his arms around the legs of a live man, and sank his teeth into his thigh. A second dead Fire Drake clambered up off the ground.
Kemas realized that if spells and missiles weren't working, someone needed to get in close to the vilewight and tear it apart. Otherwise it would keep hurling sprays of shadow, killing Fire Drakes, and transforming their corpses into undead slaves until the survivors could no longer hold the barricades. Unfortunately, it looked as if even the temple's bravest protectors feared to approach the creature.
But Kemas had forgotten the man who seemingly cared nothing for his own well-being. Bareris vaulted back over the barricade and charged the vilewight.
Had they chosen, the autharch s living soldiers could have intercepted the bard, surrounded him, and cut him down. But perhaps they too feared to come too close to the vilewight, or maybe they were simply confident of its prowess, for they chose to orient on other foes.
The vilewight cast a blaze of darkness. Bareris sprang to one side, and the leaping shadow missed. He shouted, a boom loud and startling as a thunderclap, and his cry split the undead's leprous hide and knocked it staggering. The bard rushed in and cut at its torso.
At the same moment, someone among the enemy yelled a command, and the legionnaires renewed their assault on the barricades. It seemed to Kemas that they didn't attack as fiercely as before. Now that their lord had brought his most powerful weapon into play, they expected it to turn the tide of battle, and saw no reason to take extraordinary chances while it did its work.
Still, they fought hard enough that for a while, Kemas didn't dare look at anything but the space and the foes immediately in front of him. Finally the pressure eased. He peered back at Bareris and the vilewight, and gasped.
During the first moments of the duel, it had appeared that Bareris was a match for his foe, and maybe he had been, but if so, Lady Luck had turned her face from him. He was unsteady on his feet and had switched his sword to his offhand because his dominant arm dangled torn and useless at his side. It looked as if gut-tentacles had bitten him both above and below the elbow, and he'd ripped the wounds larger by pulling free.
He'd landed more than one slash in return, but it hadn't made any difference to the lithe, pouncing manner in which his adversary circled, feinted, and struck. The bloodless cuts didn't seem to trouble it any more than the arrows hanging from its flesh like a porcupine's quills.
It sprang in, clawed hands raking, lengths of intestine striking like adders. Bareris dropped low, beneath the attacks, and tried to slice its leg out from under it. He scored but failed to cut deeply enough to make the vilewight fall. At once it twisted and stooped to threaten him anew. It caught the sword in its fingers, allowing the edge to bite in order to immobilize it, and reached for the griffon rider with its gut-tentacles. The rings of lamprey fangs gaped wide.
For an instant, Bareris strained to pull his weapon free, but his left arm wasn't strong enough. He relinquished his grip and flung himself backward to avoid the gut-serpents. As he scrambled to his feet, he snatched a dagger from his boot.
The vilewight regarded the smaller blade, and its jagged leer stretched wider. It knew Bareris no longer had any hope of defeating it. Not alone, and if any of the Fire Drakes was brave enough to go to his aid, that dauntless warrior was busy with other foes.
Obviously, no one would expect Kemas to do it. He was just an apprentice. A boy. He'd already done as much as any fair-minded person could ask.
Yet if he faltered just then, allowed fear to paralyze him once more, then everything he'd accomplished—killing the
picket, holding his hand over the flame, and all the rest of it—had been for nothing. The autharch s men would slaughter the Fire Drakes and priests just as if Kemas had never found the courage to return at all, and somehow, the thought of that was insupportable.
He left his place at the barricade and scurried along behind the backs of the men who were still fighting there. He needed to put himself directly in front of Bareris and the vilewight, so he wouldn't have any other enemies in his way when he advanced.
As he climbed over the barrier, the moment felt dreamlike and unreal. Maybe that was his mind's way of trying to dampen terror.
He ran at the vilewight. It glanced in his direction, then lunged at Bareris. Apparently it hoped to finish off its wounded opponent before a new one Could close the distance.
It might well have succeeded, too, because Bareris stumbled. But one of the temple priests, still alive somewhere and hoarding a measure of unexpended power, chose that moment to bring another burst of flame leaping up around the vilewight's feet. As before, the flare died without burning it, but the attack slowed the creature for an instant. Time enough for Kemas to circle around behind it.
Hoping to sever its spine, he cut at its back. He gashed its leathery hide, but that didn't keep it from starting to pivot in his direction.
He could keep trying to cut it as Bareris had already slashed and stabbed it repeatedly, but suddenly a different tactic occurred to him. He tossed his sword in the bard's direction—even wounded and with his good arm crippled, Bareris could wield it as well or better than he could—and sprang onto the vilewight's back. Up close, the carrion stench of the undead filled his nose and mouth with foulness.
He hooked his ringers into the creature's eye sockets and clawed the cold jelly away.
The vilewight stiffened, staggered, and lifted its hand. Darkness seethed around the talons. Kemas grabbed its clammy wrist to keep it from discharging a flare of shadow into his face.
But he couldn't defend against all its attacks. He didn't have enough hands. Gut-snakes twisted around to reach for him, their rings of fangs gnashing.
Bareris rushed forward with Kemas's broadsword in hand. He struck savagely, repeatedly, and the sightless vilewight couldn't block or dodge. The strokes landed to better effect than before.
Bareris cut into one of its knees. It fell forward, and Kemas scrambled clear of it. The bard hacked its skull to pieces, and it stopped moving.
Kemas felt empty and could think of nothing to do but stand, wheeze, and look at the fallen creature. Bareris, however, wheeled at once, searching for other threats.
But he needn't have bothered. While they'd fought the vilewight, their comrades had held the barricades against the rest of the autharch's servants, and it looked as though the demise of their ghastly champion had destroyed the attackers' morale. They shrank back from the ranks of Fire Drakes, and someone shouted, "Retreat!" They turned and scrambled for the breach.
The defenders didn't try to stop them. Kemas wondered if it was because everyone was too exhausted to strike a single unnecessary blow. The Great Flame knew, he was.
He was even wearier at the shank end of the night, when the priests had tended the wounded and lit the funeral pyres of the dead, the Fire Drakes had made the complex as secure as it could be with a hole in the wall, everyone had eaten a hot meal, and Rathoth-De sent for him. He was glad of his
fatigue, for perhaps it was the numbing effect of it that kept him from feeling anything much as he entered his masters' hall. His arm in a sling, Bareris stood conferring with the officers of the temple.
"We won," said the high priest, an unaccustomed hint of petulance in his voice. "It doesn't seem fair that we should have to leave."
"But you must," Bareris said. "You repelled the autharch's household troops. You won't withstand a real army when Invarri Metron gets around to sending one against you."
"He's right," said Rathoth-De. "We need to pack up the relics, treasury, and sacred texts and clear out as soon as possible." He smiled. "Don't take it hard, Master. It sounds as if the Firelord has work for us in the south."
Kemas decided he'd come close enough to bow. "Sir, I'm here to face your judgment."
Bareris frowned. "Surely the boy has proved useful enough that it would be folly to punish him."
"Thank you for speaking up for me," Kemas said, "but please, no more. This is a matter for the Fire Drakes, and for my commander to decide."
Rathoth-De smiled. "So it is, and our rule says a deserter must die. But it appears to me that he already has. The god's fire burned away what was unworthy in you and purified what remained, and that's good enough for me."
Kemas sighed and felt his muscles go limp with relief. He hadn't been conscious of feeling particularly afraid, yet it was suddenly clear to him just how much he'd wanted to live.
Scouting for threats on griffon-back, Bareris, along with his ghostly comrade Mirror, accompanied the servants of Kossuth on their journey south. Kemas tried repeatedly to make a true friend of the bard but always found him taciturn and aloof. He could only pray that, just as Bareris
had helped him find his way to fidelity, so too would the blond man one day discover a remedy for the spiritual sickness afflicting him.