Torm coughed. "Ahem," he began, artlessly. "By all the good watching gods, lords and ladies gentle, be of good cheer! Tis a mighty day, to be sure. Rathan the Mighty rides again, and I with him. Full five score times ago did I first sally forth, blade in hand (leaden rapier though it's oft proved to be), to inflict this priest upon thee. Thou hast stood up to his sermons both manfully and woman-fully, as thy styles most rich and various bid. Certes, this heartens me, wherefore I bid ye: once more into the hungry, grim-a-visaged fray, b'yr deity whatsoever- once more!"
"Belay that knightly speech," Rathan replied crisply. "I'm the clever-tongued orator here!"
"Not with a flagon that small, you aren't," Torm replied slyly, from just out of reach.
[diabolic snort] Droll, very droll. Is there more of these two?
[silence, image spinning to the fore]
"Furies and gargoyles be damned, man/ Torm said in mock fury. "I ordered the bridal bed, and paid you well! You said nothing at all about my having to provide my own bride! Why, in Waterdeep, six gold buys you the warm company of a lass betrothed to you for the night!"
Rathan sent a discreet cough over the shoulder of the glowering innkeeper, and to it added the murmured words, "Bold blade of my heart, ye forget something: We are in Waterdeep. Thy claim rings a mite false."
The innkeeper rounded on him, still furious, and growled, "Unless you pay for a bed, sir, you'd best be his bride and share!"
Rathan raised his eyebrows and shot Torm a querying look that widened into astonishment. "Nay!" He exclaimed. "Not that!"
The innkeeper wheeled around again to see what had caused this reaction. Rathan coolly raised the hilt of his mace to his shoulder-and brought it deftly down across the back of the innkeeper's skull. The man crashed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rathan standing innocently over the wreckage.
"If we carry him out to the stables," he told Torm. "I can have your bed-and you can have his and get a bride after all!"
"Oh, no," Torm said warningly. "No chance! I've seen his wife-she should be in the stables!" He frowned at his friend's sudden frantic gesticulations and asked irritably, "What?"
The skillet that felled him made Rathan wince. In the few seconds before the stout priest of Tymora whirled and broke into puffing flight, he reflected on how anger can make even four-hundred-pound, wart-studded women attractive. Being about a dozen pounds lighter, he managed to stay just ahead of the innkeeper's wife all the way out to the horse-trough-where, unfortunately, he slipped in something.
Hah! Hah! These two idiots are a delight to watch! Have you more?
Elsewhere, Lord Nergal-over among my memories of Shadowdale.Just- oh, no.
No. Amusements can wait. I'm not letting you lead me about through every back alley of your mind. You almost tricked me, human-but only almost. Be still and silent. I'll go rummaging again.
[A cloud of whirling images bursts into shimmering fells and fades-and out of it, one image is seized upon and rises brightly.]
The King of Cormyr stood on die battlefield and shook his head ever so slightly, his lips pursed and his face grim. "My path lies clear before me," he said to the man at his shoulder. "That straight and narrow road to the waiting grave."
The Royal Magician of Cormyr coughed discreetly and observed, "My king, the path you see is every man's path. Kings simply have a way of not noticing their route for longer than most can ignore it. Something to do with the distractions of more engaging scenery."
"Ah," Azoun said, hefting his sword, "I see. Invading armies, dragons tearing the roofs off fortresses, death spells dropping out of the skies with sharp talons-that sort of 'engaging scenery?"
Vangerdahast nodded. "That, and the paintings on many a boudoir ceiling," he told the backs of his fingernails innocently.
If the look Azoun gave him had been just a little sharper, the Royal Magician's life might have ended right then.
But then, the wizard reflected, as their eyes met, Elminster would have considered that he'd taken the coward's way out.
You tutored him, didn't you? I wonder who-aside from your pet goddess, of course-taught you magic? Care to shame any of those memories?
If ye insist, why of course-
No! No, wizard! Just sit quiet, and I'll find my own way. It'll save my temper and save you much pain. Hear me?
As ye desire, devil.
[diabolic satisfaction, images flashing up in disarray, then spinning past]
"Life," as the archwizard said, "is like a squirming maggot-isn't it?"
[bewilderment] Is that all there is of that? Who was that? Elminster?
Nay, Nergal, it was another arrogant old mage, not me.
I know that, you fool! I was bidding you answer me!
Ah. Well, I was just sitting quiet, letting ye find thy own way.
[raging growl] I'll break you, puny human!
Ye did that already, and don't seem pleased with the result. With such wavering resolve, Nergal, how are ye ever going to rise to rule Hell?
Don't mock me, elminster-unless you want to spend an eternity in torment.
In many ways, devil, I already have. Think on that, and bluster less.
[snarl, mind lash, bursting mind bolts, raw screams of agony, diabolic satisfaction, images whirling past like bright embers flung from a roaring fire]
"Holy... dancing... hobgoblins," Asper said slowly, her voice unsteady.
And who or what was that? El.-oh, never mind. I will make you pay for this, human. I swear by the- oho! It begins!
***
Horns as tall as men thrust into the blood-red sky. Their cruel tips, curved slightly toward each other, were adorned with rows of charred spinagon skulls. The head beneath those horns might have belonged to a giant goat, and its large, sharp glistening black eyes bespoke fell, alert intelligence. It was a pity Harboring's face was also permanently lined with the pain given him by the Curse of Asmodeus.
It was not a rare distinction in Hell to have earned the displeasure of the Lord Most Deep, but few wore the sign of it as a constant, active torment. The Horned One was the only one of those victims free to move about and pretend to even the tiniest shred of freedom. It was freedom laced with pain, the constant reminder Asmodeus desired it to be.
Worms Harboring could not slay-for they were made of his own living guts-gnawed at him endlessly, burrowing in and out of his bulging belly. Streams of blood and foul fluids dripped ceaselessly from the wounds they made. Harboring's own talons and spells passed like smoke through the curseworms.
Only commanded devils and captured beasts could strike the worms and slow the gnawing that daily weakened Harboring. As it was, only prodigious feeding and frantic seizing of magic by the goat-devil kept him alive. He knew Asmodeus watched him and gloated-wherefore his mood was seldom less than savage.
Harboring was enjoying one of those "seldom" moments right now. He squatted atop a pinnacle slick with his own gore, tearing hungrily at the ribs of a dragon he'd spell-fooled into flying at full speed into the mountainside above. Thrice he'd had to fight off pit fiends seeking to claim its heart or brain-and he'd given up chasing away spinagons and abishai from spattered gobbets of dragon flesh and errant scales.
This was the first large feast he'd had in days, and the Horned One was anticipating a serious interruption soon. The immobility of the dragon's huge carcass kept him in one spot to dine on it... and that meant foes could find him easily. Harhoring had prepared a few magics and was watching warily as he ate. In Hell, mistakes are luxuries one rarely survives.
There! Something coming fast, rushing up without any attempt at stealth or subtlety, hurtling across Avernus like a dark, silent bolt of devil-flesh...
Harhoring had keen eyes, and he used them now. This was an unfamiliar foe, or an old one wearing a guise he'd never seen before. Like a pit fiend, it seemed, but flew with its wings folded and drawn in behind it, as if it was an arrow shot from a bow. There was something strange about its body, too, as if it had many tiny legs, all constantly a-whirl around it___