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.