That accomplished, the youth tiptoed to the arched entrance to the city, thought of all the shadows presumably lurking in the darkness, took a deep breath, and forced himself out into the rain.
To his surprise, he didn't blunder into any phantoms, and after a few minutes, he reached the foot of the Cormyr Stairs. Halfway up, he came upon Helm's shrine. Reflecting that some kindly power certainly seemed to have protected him thus far, he silently apologized to the deity for his earlier irreverence and laid a copper piece atop the Altar of Shields.
He crept on to the top of the steps, peered through the wall, and surveyed Old Town. If any beauty remained to its burnt and battered houses, he couldn't see it under these conditions, nor did he care. He reckoned he'd come as far as required to give Ajandor a nice anxiety-ridden chase, and now he needed a place to wait for him-somewhere indoors, where no passing shadow would spot him. At the far end of a little plaza stood a cottage, its eaves encrusted with carved roses and its door standing ajar. He scurried to it, ducked inside, found a stool, and sat down behind a window that looked out at the head of the Cormyr Stairs.
Soon, he assured himself, Ajandor would come bustling to the top. The knight would probably be furious when he realized Kevin had tricked him, but it wouldn't matter. The shock of his fosterling's disappearance would still restore him to himself.
Suddenly, a wail of anguish broke into Kevin's imaginings. Unlike all the others he'd heard, this one sounded close by.
Looking in all directions, the squire peered out the window. After a few moments, the source of the noise stumbled into view.
Roped together to form a coffle, a matron with gray curls, two men, and a little girl trudged across the plaza, passing only a few feet from Kevin's vantage point. Slinking around them, shoving and prodding them on, were several of the man-shaped shadows he and Ajandor had fought before. The youth couldn't tell precisely how many. In the darkness, he was lucky to glimpse the shadows at all.
He wondered if the prisoners had still been living somewhere inside the city, or if the shadows had captured them out in the countryside. Not that it mattered. The only thing that did was helping them. But how?
Charge out and attack? Ajandor might have managed it, but he'd been honing a genius for swordplay for forty years. Kevin had been training a modest talent for five.
He doubted he could handle so many of the shadows all at once.
What he could do was follow the shadows and hope that an opportunity to free their captives would present itself. Not that he wanted to. Not only would it be risky, it would mean he likely wouldn't be in position to greet Ajandor if-no, when, curse it-the latter climbed the Cormyr Stairs, but Kevin couldn't see any alternative.
As he waited for the shadows to lengthen their lead, he prayed to Helm for aid and wished he'd given the god the sole silver piece in his purse instead of a measly copper.
It was time to go. He crept out onto the porch, and a plank groaned beneath his foot. He cringed, but the shadows didn't seem to hear, so he slunk on.
The stalking proved to be a nerve-racking business. Kevin was no woodsman or housebreaker, schooled in the art of sneaking soundlessly, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't avoid making little noises, each of which threatened to reveal his presence. Nor could he shake the nagging fear that as he concentrated his attention on the shadows ahead, some other phantom would spot him and take him unawares.
But none did, and eventually the shadows and their coffle led him to a drum-shaped keep notorious throughout Cormyr. When Kevin perceived that it was indeed their destination, he nearly laughed in dismay, because it figured, didn't it?
The ruin-now no more ruinous than the rest of Old Town-had once been the residence of the enchantress Tilvara. According to rumor, it was now home to strange beasts and the restless dead, and hellishly dangerous. Few would-be explorers ever even got past the "Medusa's Garden," the field of statuary in front of the entrance. The figures animated and attacked them.
Though many of the statues lay shattered on the ground, a goodly number remained intact. Still, the shadows and their prisoners passed them unmolested. Maybe they knew the trick of it, or perhaps the tides of battle magic washing through the city had somehow rendered the effigies inert.
The procession vanished through an arched door, and Kevin wondered whether or not to keep following. He was sorely tempted to go look for Ajandor, but what if he couldn't find the knight, who by now might already be wandering the city, either to find his errant squire or simply in search of his own destruction? Or what if he did locate Ajandor, and the knight just didn't care? Or what if the shadows slew the captives while Kevin was off searching?
No, curse it, he had to go in.
Kevin headed for the statues. He realized he was breathing hard, tried to control it as Ajandor had taught him, and couldn't quite. He started down the path.
Stone warriors, rocs, manticores, wolves, and double-headed ettins surrounded him on every side. If they all came to life at once, he wouldn't stand a chance, but only one of them even tried. A lion shuddered as he passed but could do no more. Some power had indeed rendered them harmless.
Kevin tiptoed up to the doorway and peeked beyond the threshold into a murky hall. As far as he could tell, no sentries waited there, just as none patrolled the battlements high above. Kevin found the shadows' want of caution peculiar, but perhaps they didn't think like human beings. Maybe they considered themselves so secure in their possession of Tilverton that an assault was inconceivable.
Not that Kevin contemplated anything so grand. Could he simply spirit the captives away, he would be well satisfied.
Onward he skulked, groping his way through stygian chambers that would have been entirely lightless save for the gaps in the ancient walls. Legend peopled these spaces with watchghosts and round, floating, many-eyed beholders, but he didn't encounter any of those. He wondered if the shadows had destroyed even them.
He did soon come to the conclusion that the keep was larger inside than out, but the paradox didn't particularly unsettle him. He'd heard that powerful mages could create such effects. At least the doorways weren't sealing themselves behind him. He'd heard that could happen, too.
A vague form moving on four legs, or perhaps six or eight, prowled out of an arched opening not twelve feet ahead of him. His heart pounding, he flattened himself against the wall. The phantom turned in the opposite direction and disappeared into the blackness.
When his nerves ceased their jangling, Kevin crept on, peeked into the archway, and finally saw the prisoners, those he had been tracking and maybe fifteen others as well.
Tilvara had probably maintained a perfectly good dungeon beneath her residence, but for some reason, the shadows had opted to hold their captives in a spacious chamber where eight or ten looms stood at regular intervals about the floor. Some still supported unfinished bits of weaving, the weft and woof rotting away and tingeing the air with the smell. The humans were still bound, but not with ropes, which lay in careless tangles on the floor. Instead, the prisoners stood enmeshed in strands of darkness, which, anchored to the back wall, floor, ceiling, and looms, were nearly invisible in the gloom.
Kevin didn't know what the black cables were made of-perhaps the same shadow-stuff as the phantoms themselves-but he assumed he would be able to cut them once he disposed of the jailer. For as best he could tell in the darkness, only one shadow lingered in the weavers' workroom, and it had its back to the door.
Kevin crept over the threshold. Evidently sensing his presence, the shadow began to turn, and he cut at it. The sword sheared into its head, and it staggered and disappeared.
The prisoners started to babble, and he frantically tried to shush them, so intent on the need for quiet that it took him a moment to take in what they were saying.
"Look up! The spider! It's right above us!"
As soon as he did understand, he looked up instantly, galvanized by a jolt of terror. He didn't like spiders, and if such a creature had spun the strands holding the captives, it must be huge.
Yet he couldn't see it. The room was too dark, and the ceiling too high. His mouth dry as sand, he pivoted back and forth, trying to spot it.
"Does anybody see it?" he asked the others. "Do you? Do you?"
Evidently they didn't. They simply knew from bitter past experience that it was there.
It occurred to Kevin that he could back out of the room and leave them to their fate. He'd tried to help them, no one could say that he hadn't. It was possible that his sword couldn't even cut the spider.
But he knew he couldn't really abandon them. It wouldn't be chivalrous. Ajandor-the old Ajandor, anyway-would never have countenanced such a selfish, craven act.
Kevin glimpsed motion from the comer of his eye. Impelled by pure reflex, he jumped to one side, and the leaping spider pounced on the spot where he'd just been standing. Some of the prisoners wailed.
Made of the same shifting murk as the other horrors infesting Tilverton, the spider was perhaps the size of a child, its fused bulbs of head and body hanging between arched, segmented legs. Hoping he could land a blow before it reoriented on him, Kevin hacked at its abdomen.
Quick as a cat, the shadow wheeled to face him. His blade slashed through one of its legs, but without encountering any resistance, and without severing the limb.
The spider scuttled toward him and he retreated, cutting and thrusting as he went. It was still like sweeping his sword through empty air. In the dimness, he could just make out a hint of the shadow's ring of bulging eyes, the jagged mandibles opening and closing around its maw.
He backed into one of looms, which banged, rattled, and shed choking, eye-stinging dust into the air. As he started to flounder around that obstacle, he collided with strands of the shadow webbing. The stuff was as sticky as he would have expected, and it had hold of his sword arm, not that his sword had done him any good.
He struggled to pull free. The glue began to give but not quickly enough. The spider scuttled forward to plunge its no-doubt poisonous fangs into his flesh.
Just as the shadow's mandibles were about to close on his knee, he heaved his legs up, evading the bite. The weakened adhesion couldn't support his weight, and he fell free of the webbing and onto the shadow.
He plunged right through the creature just as his sword had done. For an instant, as they were joined, his mind blazed with inhuman sensations. He slammed down on the floor beneath the spider's underbelly.
The shadow started to scuttle off him. Gripping his sword by the blade for use in such close quarters, he jammed the point into the crack between the spider's abdomen and cephalothorax.
For some reason, this time, the steel bit into solid matter, and the phantom jerked and thrashed. Kevin used his sword to roll the spider onto its back, then he kept pressure on the weapon until the ghastly thing stopped moving.
The squire needed to rest but knew he didn't have time. Panting and trembling, he cut the captives free.
Most of them, anyway. On closer investigation, he found that a couple were but dry, shriveled husks.
But the majority were alive. Some were even strong enough to help the weak ones along. Kevin reckoned that with luck, he could get them all out.
He nearly did.
Scouting ahead for shadows, he led the prisoners back the way he'd come. Once, as the procession passed beneath a tattered gonfalon, a toddler started to cry, and everyone froze in terror, certain the noise would bring shadows down on their heads. The child's mother quickly put her hand over his mouth, and no shadow came to investigate the sound. Later on, the fugitives came upon a bellpull, and a scrawny, gap-toothed fellow, who seemed a bit mad from his ordeal, stared at the velvet strap in fearful fascination, as if he didn't want to ring it but felt a compulsion to do so. The matron with the gray ringlets took him by the arm and led him on by.
At last Kevin spied the marble bust of a sharp-nosed, crafty-looking fellow siting on its pedestal. He'd noticed it coming in, and it meant that the exit into the Medusa's Garden was just ahead. He smiled, and a psychic shriek stabbed into his head.
Some of the prisoners cried out. Others clutched their heads and sobbed. Though equally pained by the silent caterwauling, Kevin yelled at them and shoved them. He had to keep them moving, had to get them out the door before their pursuers arrived.
He chivvied them down the long rectangular entrance hall and almost to the arched exit before instinct impelled him to look back. He couldn't see shapes, not yet, but the darkness boiled with movement. Shadows were pouring out of the doorways along the walls.
Kevin reckoned he needed to delay the phantoms for at least a few seconds. Otherwise, few if any of the captives would make it outside. He turned and tried to bellow a war cry, but it came out as more of a weary, frightened squeak. He strode toward the far end of the chamber, and a wave of shadow hurtled out of the gloom to meet him.
He drove his sword into a shadow's chest but never knew whether he'd slain it, for the next instant, the rest of them swept over him, and after that, he was no longer able to keep track of specific adversaries. There was only a pack, a many-limbed mass, striking and snatching at him from every side, as he lurched and whirled and slashed at it.
Once, for a split second, a narrow gap appeared in the mass, and Kevin glimpsed other devils loping toward the door. He wished he could intercept them as well, but knew there was no chance of it. Cold hands seized hold of his arms and shoulders, and the strength began to flow out of him.
Even as he struggled to pull free, other shadows clutched at him, and it was hopeless. He resolved not to scream, but did it anyway, sure the phantoms were sucking out the final traces of his life.
In time, he woke to cold rain spattering his face and hard, wet floor beneath his supine body. He pried open his gummy eyelids. Gray clouds floated directly overhead, but walls rose at the corners of his vision, as if he was in a pit. He tried to lift himself for a better look around but failed. He was horribly weak, and cold deep inside in a way that even his soaked attire couldn't explain.
"Young man!" someone whispered. "Don't move!"
He rolled his head to the side and saw the goodwife with the curly gray hair, who was also lying on the floor.
"Why not?" he whispered back.
"You'll provoke it!"
Somehow Kevin knew without asking what "if was. King Shadow. The lesser phantoms had borne him and his fellow human into the titan's lair. The fancy he'd scrawled inside the Cormyr Gate had more or less come true.
"Did the shadows recapture all of you?" he asked.
"No," the woman said. "Most of us made it out the door."
Kevin surprised himself by smiling. "Helm gave me good value for my penny then. Better than I had any right to expect."
The matron frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"It doesn't matter. Tell me where we are and what's going on."
"We're in a large chamber at the top of the keep. The roof is gone, and this huge… thing apparently makes its lair here."
"Go on."
The lesser shadows dumped us here for the monster to eat when it's ready, the same way you'd put down food for a dog. It already gobbled up Quinn and Evaine while you were unconscious."
"It's not gobbling us at the moment, and if it's not paying attention, perhaps we can slip away."
"It is paying attention. Evaine tried to sneak out, and that's when it snatched her up."
"Oh. All right, I understand. Now try to rest while I figure a way out of this."
"That's mad. If you were facing the way I am, if you could see the creature-".
"Ajandor, the knight I serve, taught me that if a man his head, he can think his way out of almost any peril, and I might as well try. Why not? What do we have to lose?"
The matron smiled. "When you put it that way, lad, not a thing. Think away."
Kevin lay and pondered, wondering what Ajandor would have done in his place, and if the knight had actually come looking for him. Probably not, for by the cold light of this joyless morning, he recognized that the trick he had attempted to play was a puerile one, born out of desperation rather than sense. No doubt the shrewd old man had seen through it at once and simply bade good riddance to the impudent ass who had hoped to gull him.
No, Kevin could only pray that Ajandor would come to his senses by himself, before his one-man campaign against the shadows destroyed him. His squire had another problem to address.
He waited until a little strength seeped back into his muscles, enough, he hoped, to stand, run around, and yell.
"I'm going to distract King Shadow," he said. "You get out of here. I'm hoping the other prisoners will follow your lead."
Her blue eyes widened. "But the shadow will kill you!"
"It's going to do that anyway."
She hesitated. "We'll still have all the smaller shadows, the ones shaped like men and cats and wolves, barring the way out of the fortress."
"Run. Hide. Throw rocks at them. Whatever it takes to get away."
She swallowed. "All right, and may Helm take you into his keeping. The knight you serve must be very proud of you."
Kevin smiled at a pang that had nothing to do with the mauling the shadows had given him. "Well, he used to be. Get ready."
He gave her a moment to gather her strength, then, wishing the shadows had left him his sword, he scrambled to his feet, and spun around.
As the matron had advised him, the room was big and essentially circular, with a ragged hole where the ceiling once had been. Scraps of it were lying about the floor, and painted pentacles adorned the plaster walls. In the middle of the space, taking up a goodly part of it, hulked King Shadow.
Kevin was prepared for the hugeness of the shadow and for the strangeness of its tangled limbs, like fat, flexible feathers writhing in all directions. However, he had had no inkling of the true nature of King Shadow's flesh. He hadn't been able to make it out when the titan drifted past high above his head.
Within the shadow's murky substance flowed human faces distorted and jammed together. Despite the stretching, twisting, and squashing, it was somehow possible to discern their grimaces of agony, madness, and rage. Ilmater's tears, was this what became of the people King Shadow destroyed? Did their souls wind up trapped inside the shadow's body?
Kevin stood frozen with horror as King Shadow reached for him, one amorphous arm dipping down above his head and another curving in on each side. At the last possible moment, the youth snapped out of his paralysis and flung himself backward. The three tentacles closed on empty air, and all the faces inside the titan's body began to rave and howl in a silent cacophony.
Bearing the psychic din as best he could, Kevin made his own noise, shouting and shifting back and forth. King Shadow stretched out more of its members to seize him, and the gray-haired woman jumped up and ran for a doorway. Several other prisoners did the same, and the rippling hillock of a shadow ignored them all.
Kevin grinned. It was satisfying to have played a trick that worked, even if it was going to cost him his life.
King Shadow clubbed at him with blows that flattened its boneless arms and shook the floor. The squire dodged and dodged again, knowing it was only a matter of time before one of the tentacles connected. Once his evasions carried him near a doorway, and he dashed for it. The shadow extruded a great slab of itself between its prey and the exit, cutting him off as effectively as a wall.
Something shattered, flashed, and roared on top of King Shadow, and all the faces inside the devil shrieked in agony, for the immense phantom wore a crown of crackling blue and yellow flame. Kevin looked up at the hole in the ceiling, where Ajandor was preparing to throw another keg of oil. Unlike the first, this one didn't need a fuse. When it broke, the contents would feed the fire that was already burning.
Ajandor heaved the barrel, and the conflagration boomed and flared higher. A man drenched in burning oil would likely thrash about and expire, but the titan floated up toward its tormentor. The falling raindrops shone yellow in the firelight.
Kevin picked up chunks of debris and hurled them at the shadow. Several of the smaller phantoms appeared along the edge of the hole. Apparently trusting them to dispose of Ajandor, King Shadow dropped back onto the floor to confront the squire, who wished he hadn't just wasted his only chance to bolt.
Its ragged tendrils squirming, King Shadow spread itself to either side of Kevin, pinning him against the wall. The titan looked like a pair of hands poised to catch a ball, albeit with fire dancing on the upper surfaces and spatters of burning oil dripping off the sides.
Kevin saw no possibility of escape, so he spat at King Shadow. It was a feeble gesture, but better than nothing.
The twin masses of shadow-stuff began to close on him like the covers of a book, then Gray Dancer fell at his feet, hitting the floor with a clank.
Kevin stooped and grabbed the mithral sword by its leather-wrapped hilt. He was sure that Ajandor had dropped Gray Dancer intentionally, to give his fosterling some semblance of a fighting chance, even though the knight needed the weapon himself to battle his own opponents.
The squire came on guard, and a wave of vitality washed the soreness and weakness out of his muscles. Gray Dancer was bolstering his strength. Ajandor had occasionally permitted him to handle the blade, but it had never done anything like this. Apparently it took a foe to wake its magic.
The adversary in question had faltered momentarily when the sword fell between them, but now the twin arms of its V-shape began to converge once more. The squire ran to the member on the right and swung Gray Dancer in a vertical cut.
The weapon's razor edge split the churning shadow-stuff and scrambled the writhing, flowing faces inside it. King Shadow screamed, and its limb twitched backward, creating a gap between itself and the wall. Kevin dived through.
Once out of the trap, he immediately turned and renewed the attack, cutting and cutting for all he was worth. Drops of burning oil spattered and blistered him, but he scarcely felt the pain. Then a column of shadow-stuff exploded out of the mass before him, slammed into his chest, and hurled him across the room.
If not for his hauberk, the impact likely would have shattered his ribs. As it was, as he dropped on his rump, he started to black out, then felt Gray Dancer's magic grip his mind like a powerful hand and heave it back to wakefulness.
When Kevin looked up, King Shadow had pulled itself up into a gray-black fiery sheet curling over at the top like a huge, tempest-driven wave. The youth saw that he wouldn't have time to roll out from underneath, so as the shadow began to fall, he raised Gray Dancer's point to meet it.
King Shadow impaled itself on the sword, and no more balked than surging water would have been, crashed down on Kevin, swatting him like a fly. He lay in a pool of seething, gibbering, burning ghost-faces. He was dazed, vaguely surprised to still be alive, and Gray Dancer hauled him back to full consciousness again, with more difficulty this time.
Though the blade had no real voice, not even a silent one like the shadows, he somehow sensed what it wanted to tell him: Look, look, look at King Shadow now, look, you only have a moment!
Kevin did look. The shadow-stuff splashed across the floor was still 'humping and slithering, but not with its former nimbleness. Evidently the fire, Gray Dancer, or both had finally done the titan some significant harm. Moreover, the soft, murky substance was converging from all directions toward a sort of bulb, as if to rebuild the creature's body around it. Unlike the seepage, the node contained no tortured human faces. It was pure black.
The squire reckoned he knew what to do, but then hot pain washed over his ribs and leg. He looked down and discovered that his clothing was on fire. He could attempt to extinguish it, or he could ignore it and strike while King Shadow was vulnerable.
He tried to rise, and other pains balked him. His left arm and ankle throbbed, sprained or broken, he supposed. He tried again and this time made it to his feet.
He limped forward. The shadow-stuff was flowing faster now, and had nearly succeeded in coating the titanic creature's heart with itself. He drove Gray Dancer's point into the one sliver of absolute blackness still showing.
All the faces screamed, and King Shadow vanished. Kevin threw himself on the floor and rolled until he was free of the fire.
Then he just sat, too sore and spent for anything else, the strength Gray Dancer had lent him expended, until a shout reminded him that his had not been the only battle. He peered up through the smoky air. The rain felt good on his singed, sweaty face.
Ajandor peered back down at him through the hole. "Are you all right?" asked the knight.
"I could be a lot worse. Thank Helm for wet clothing! We have to move. The other shadows-"
"Seem to have disappeared along with their king," said Ajandor, "dead or fled, who knows? Or cares? I'm coming down."
He stepped away from the hole and came through one of the doors in the room a minute later.
"You're sure they're gone?" the squire asked.
"Well, the ones I was fighting just melted away, and I don't see any of them bursting in on us, do you?"
"Now that you mention it, no. How did you find me?"
"It wasn't difficult. I discovered your note and smelled a trick, but I still didn't want you wandering around alone in a city of shadows. I came after you and ran into one of the captives you freed. He told me where to look for you, and I sneaked into the witch's keep. Eventually, I figured out where you were, but I couldn't reach you. Too many horrors blocked the path. However, I did find a way to get above you and the great flying pudding, and I hoped that if I hurt the thing, you might be able to escape in the resulting confusion. I located some oil old Tilvara had laid in, carried it up to the roof, and the plan fell apart." He grinned. "You jumped up prematurely, and some shadows picked up my trail and followed me up to my perch."
"How did you hold them off without Gray Dancer?"
"With my dagger and a torch. Not the more formidable of weapons, but sufficient to give the creatures pause."
"Evidently." Kevin hesitated. "Sir, are you angry at me for trying to fool you?"
"I was, but… I know why you did it, and maybe it did shake something loose inside me. Maybe it was meeting the fellow you rescued. That shamed me, by reminding me what a knight is supposed to be. Perhaps seeing King Shadow die has made me feel a little better. At any rate, I still sorrow, but I guess I'm no longer in such a hurry to join Pelethen on the other side. I’ll see him when I see him."
"I'm glad." Kevin's gaze fell on Gray Dancer, lying ingloriously in a pool of rainwater. He picked it up and proffered it.
Ajandor made no move to take it.
"Keep it, lad, it fits your hand quite well. I was puzzled what to do with it, but now I see that I have an heir after all."
The Shifting Sands
Peter Archer
13Kythorn, the Year of Wild Magic
The camel's hooves kicked up clouds of dust that added to the swirling mist surrounding the travelers. A hot wind howled around them, tearing at their robes, driving the dirt into every crevice of their clothing, probing them with harsh fingers, seeking to hurl them across the rolling plains into oblivion.
Both men clung to the swaying saddle, their heads bent against the storm. The camel soldiered onward, its head bowed stoically before the blast. Its footsteps were almost immediately buried behind it by sheets of fine gray that blew across the desert steppes, making it appear that the travelers had never been there.
One of the men, the taller of the two, turned in the saddle and shouted something to his companion, who bent his head to hear. The smaller man shook his hood and gestured forward. The other gave a shrug and again bent against the wind.
A flash and thunderous report echoed across the dunes of Anauroch, almost knocking the men and their faithful beast over.
The tall man turned and shouted to his companion, "Lighting! In the middle of the godsbedamned desert! We must stop."
"No!" The other was equally vehement. "We keep on."
He reached behind him and slapped the camel's rump. The beast started forward again, and another report knocked it to its knees, tumbling the travelers to the sand. The camel panicked and darted forward.
The tall man recovered first and lunged after the beast. He had not gone five steps before a third thunder blast, much louder than the previous two, electrified the air around them and hurled them facedown in the sand. Their robes whistled and snapped with the impact.
The shorter was the first on his feet this time. Through the whirling sands of the storm, he could see a black mass a few yards from where he lay. Smoke rose from it and was whipped back by the wind, which also carried to his nostrils the sickening smell of burnt camel meat. The saddle and other accoutrements that had been on the creature had been hurled aside by the lightning strike.
As if the storm had expended its last ammunition with this disaster, the wind dropped and the sand settled around them in a fine rain then ceased. The howls and shrieks of the sandstorm wandered to the west, passed over the next dune, and faded from their ears.
Both men walked forward on unsteady feet to view the remains of their mount. The taller glared at the shorter.
"I told you we should have stopped."
The other shrugged. "If we had, we'd be lying there, cooked to a turn. You don't suppose that lighting was hurled by chance?"
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, the merchant was probing amid the supplies that had been scattered around the carcass. The taller man-whose face the desert sun now revealed as scarred and pitted, worn by weather, age, and drink- glared at him and repeated the question.
"What do you mean by that, Avarilous?"
"I mean, my dear Garmansder, that we're dealing with people who would think no more of killing you than of stepping on a spider. You'd do extremely well to keep that in mind. You'll probably live longer if you do."
Avarilous's eyes flickered from side to side, and his fingers, laced across his fat belly, wore a complicated gesture.
Garmansder's eyes widened, then he glared at the merchant and raised his voice. "I know precisely what I'm dealing with: a twisted little serpent who can't tell the truth without his forked tongue falling out of his mouth. I should never have agreed to travel with you, even for the gold you're paying. You'll regret it."
From the sash around his waist, he had drawn a scimitar and brought back his arm for a blow. There was a sudden crack of a whip, and the blade flew from his hand to land sticking in the desert sand twenty feet from where he stood. Garmansder cursed volubly and spun around.
Behind him, in a dark line, stood a band of Bedine. Their black robes flapped in the wind, but apart from that they were motionless as statues. One, clad in a robe of red, was clearly the leader, standing a bit forward of the others. In his upraised hand was the whip with which he had disarmed Garmansder.
Avarilous cautiously raised one hand, palm outward.
"Peace be upon your* tents, my friends. I stand in your service. My friend and I have lost our camel and had despaired of finding our way when you…"
His voice trailed off as the Bedine moved around them, surrounding them and efficiently disarming them. From Garmansder's robe, the tribesmen pulled a pair of ugly looking daggers. From the merchant, they took three throwing stars and a slender blade that had been strapped to one of his stout legs. All this was done in unnerving silence. The travelers' hands were bound tightly behind them, and they were linked together by a short rope. One of the Bedine took the end of the rope and gave it a sharp jerk.
At a gesture from the red-robed leader, the party started forward in the direction Avarilous and Garmansder had been travelling. They mounted the next dune and saw a herd of camels, standing quietly, chewing their cud. Two or three Bedine stood near them, guarding the pack. Without a word, they mounted and rode on.
Like most Bedine settlements, the travelers did not really see this one until they were upon it. The dun-colored tents blended with the endless sands and revealed their presence only by a soft flapping in the wind. A few faces peered from the tents to look upon the strangers and then* silent captors as the tribesmen led the caravan to the largest of the tents. Avarilous and Garmansder were jerked roughly from their perches and dragged inside.
A small fire burned in a brazier at the center of the tent. Some of the smoke escaped through a hole in the roof, while the majority swirled and eddied on air currents. The strong smell reminded Avarilous that the Bedine, in common with most desert dwellers, used camel pads for fuel. Garmansder coughed and retched then coughed again. His face was scarlet and shiny.
Around the edge of the tent were seated a row of robed figures, who stared coldly at the two strangers. Avarilous sat quietly on the floor as his captor muttered in the ear of one of these observers. Garmansder, having recovered from his coughing fit, gazed wildly around the scene.
"What are we doing here? What do they want?" he snarled to the merchant.
"Be silent." Avarilous's voice was cold and decisive, unlike his usual whining tone.
Garmansder sat in silence for a moment then made a desperate lunge for the tent entrance. Haifa dozen hands snatched him back in an instant, and a curved dagger appeared at his throat. Avarilous did not move a muscle.
One of the robed figures-he to whom then- captor had spoken-flicked back his hood, revealing a head of graying hair and dark, smoky eyes.
"Why do you come here?"
The words were dropped like rocks into a silent well. Their ripples spread outward through the tent across the ring of seated figures.
Avarilous waited a moment before replying then said calmly, "I am the merchant Avarilous of Calimport, and I am delivering goods from Loudwater to Whitehorn. This man is my companion, one Garmansder. Our route led across Anauroch, since we did not wish to detour far to the south, and-"
"Stop!"
The Bedine held up a hand.
"It is true that you are Avarilous, but we know too well the sort of goods you deliver. You are a dealer in information and stolen goods. You may have come from Loud-water, but your home is not in Calimport. Reports of your intrigues range from the passes of Icewind Dale to the jungles of Chult, from the Utter East to the Sword Coast." "Nonsense!" Garmansder snorted. "I've traveled with this man for months, and he's no more a spy than I am!"
Avarilous said nothing.
The tall man looked at him in amazement then in fury. "Bastard!"
He lunged at the merchant and was brought up short by a trio of hands that clamped him in place. He glared angrily at Avarilous and snapped, "Next time 111 know better than to take up with a fat man with a shifty eye."
The Bedine who had spoken turned to Garmansder and said, without change of tone, "You know little of your companion, it seems. He travels the lands, meddling in the affairs of people whom he does not know. He has performed commissions for the fallen Azoun of Cormyr, for the rulers of far Ulgarth, for the Red Wizards of Thay. He is a horse waiting for hire, on sale to the highest bidder. Some say Avarilous is not his real name, but none know precisely who he is."
Avarilous ignored the outburst of his companion and stroked his chin before conceding the point. "Very well. Let us suppose there is some truth to your statement. What has this to do with you?"
The Bedine shrugged. "It is of little concern to us," he said. "Your reputation is that of a man who dabbles in political intrigue for money. We have little or no interest in the affairs of the rest of the world, except when they affect the tribes."
Avarilous nodded thoughtfully. "I see. From the fact that we are here, I suppose you have something in mind. Something that affects your tribe, at least." He stretched, and Garmansder was suddenly reminded of a cat unsheathing her claws.
The Bedine leader made no response, but Avarilous nodded, as if he had received confirmation of his statement. "Perhaps you might tell me, first, with whom I have the pleasure of dealing."
The Bedine leader bent forward and said, "I am Sheik Omar Lhassa Bin-Daar, ruler of the Bin-Daar Bedine, counting two hundred and seventy-five camels, six hundred and twelve goats, one hundred and fifty-four sheep-"
Avarilous raised a hand. "Quite. That's sufficient. Proceed."
It was startling to note how the fat man had taken control of the discussion. To Garmansder's eyes, though, Bin-Daar showed little resentment. He leaned back against a cushion and drew on a hookah that lay near to hand before resuming his speech.
"As you doubtless are aware, the Zhentarim, they of the black robes, have long maintained a route through Anauroch. We Bedine have tolerated its existence out of consideration for the people it supplies, though we could have destroyed it long ago-"
"So you say," interrupted Avarilous. "In fact, allowing it to exist provides you with a steady supply of caravans for raiding."
Bin-Daar ignored the comment and continued, "At various oases along the route, bands of Zhentarim have created their own settlements, extracting tolls from travelers along the road. For the most part, we ignore them, though we have sometimes raided them, thus serving the interests of the righteous of Faerun."
Avarilous's cynical smile informed Garmansder in what spirit the fat man received this statement.
Bin-Daar coughed gently, as one approaching the heart of the matter. "Of late," he said, "we have seen much activity at one of these oases, one near our lands. The dark-robed ones are becoming increasingly bold, striking out against our tribesmen. Where before they were content to leave us in peace, now they seem determined to destroy us. It would almost seem as if there is something they have found of which they do not want us to learn."
Avarilous's body was relaxed, his pudgy body stretched out along the ground, resting on one elbow. His eyes were sleepy, half hooded, but the observant might have noticed a glitter within their depths.
"Rumors have come to us of a great excavation by the Zhentarim in this place." Bin-Daar snapped his fingers, and one of his councilors thrust a roll of goatskin into his outstretched hand. "They are digging… here."
His finger jabbed a spot on the crude map that adorned the goatskin. Avarilous looked at it.
"Humph. Near Hlondath. One of the Buried Realms."
Bin-Daar nodded. "Precisely."
Garmansder broke into the conversation. "What's Hlondath? And what does this have to do with kidnapping us?"
Avarilous spoke without looking at his companion. His voice was far away.
"Hlondath was a mighty state that existed centuries ago, after the fall of Netheril. It faded away, buried by the desert sands, but some say that there was buried with it some of the mighty magic of lost Netheril. Many have come searching for those items, but few have been found, and most of the explorers have vanished into the sands." He looked carefully at Bin-Daar. "I take it you think the Zhents have found something."
Bin-Daar shook his head. "I do not know if they have found anything, but I suspect they are looking for something. Something they do not wish others to find. Something that might make them a more powerful force in Anauroch."
"Why should they have any more success than in the past?"
"Because-" Bin-Daar dropped his voice-"because of the coming of the City of Shade. Its return may herald a new rise of Netherese magic, one the Zhentarim hope to take advantage of. If they found an artifact of ancient Netheril, they could use it to forge an alliance with the Shadovar. That would be disastrous for my people. They must be stopped."
"What does that have to do with us?" growled Garmansder, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Bin-Daar's eyes never left the fat merchant's face.
"I have a proposition for you, Avarilous."
The merchant stretched his pudgy legs, which had grown cramped from kneeling. "I'm aware of that."
For the first time, Bin-Daar's face showed surprise. "You are aware? How-" He stopped and nodded slowly, as if satisfying himself on some point. "So," he continued, "we did not find you. You found us."
Avarilous shrugged. "I had heard you were looking for me. I simply put myself in a place where we were likely to meet."
"Why?"
"Your situation interests me. I've heard of this excavation, and I suspected you or one of the other Bedine tribes would try to stop it. An outright attack on the site would be disastrous for you, so you had to resort to other means. As I say, I heard you were looking for me."
"You might have told me," growled Garmansder. "If I'd known who and what you were, I'd have run from you as fast as I could. As it is, I want nothing to do with any of this."
Bin-Daar chuckled softly. "You will aid Avarilous in his mission," he told the mercenary. "Your reward will be far more than whatever he has promised you."
Greed flickered in the tall man's eyes, but he held his ground. "It's all very well to talk, but where there's Zhents, I don't want to be watching my back all the time, and I don't trust him."
Bin-Daar's mouth curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I do not trust him either, but he is a powerful weapon. A warrior in battle does not ask where a sharp sword came from, only that it cut true."
Garmansder snorted. Avarilous sighed, and his stomach rumbled.
"Can't we do this over food?" he asked plaintively. "I'm starving."
The Zhent guards had had a sleepy afternoon, basking in the shade of their tent, shielded against the blazing sun. They passed the time throwing dice and drinking raki, a powerful liquor distilled from the stunted bushes that covered the hills around the oasis. By midafternoon they were dozing, half drunk, and not in a mood to be disturbed.
One nudged the other then roused him with a kick. The two men rose and stood, swaying slightly, watching the travelers approach.
They were mounted on a camel, but the one riding in front, the stouter of the two, had his hands bound tightly together, while the other held the end of the rope. As the pair drew nearer, the Zhentarim could see that the fat man had a streak of blood down one cheek and an ugly bruise over his left eye.
The camel halted before the guard's tent, and the thinner man jumped down easily, leaving his bound companion seated on the beast.
"Hail!" he said, in a voice scraped raw by the desert winds. "I want to see your commander."
The more sober of the two guards spat in the sand. "Hah! What for?"
"I have something for him." The traveler jerked the cord he was holding, pulling his prisoner off the camel. The captive crashed to the ground with a loud grunt of pain.
One of the guards sauntered over, trying not to appear unsteady on his feet. "Wasss this?" He stirred the fallen man with his foot.
"I'll tell your commander. Trust me, hell want to see this one right away."
The Zhents exchanged glances, then turned away. One turned back, while the other disappeared into the tent.
"Well get Lieutenant Thass."
"I want to see the commander, not some lieutenant."
"You'll see Thass. Hell 'tide who you see next. He'll be here in m'nit." He slumped back down on the cask he'd been sitting on.
The tall man looked beyond the guard tent at the rest of the oasis. It was bustling with activity. A long line of Bedine tribesmen were passing buckets filled with sand from hand to hand, supervised by purple-robed Zhents, many of whom bore whips or clubs. The sand was being drawn from a central excavation, perhaps fifty feet wide. Even from a distance, the visitor could see a network of ladders and ropes descending into it. A heavy wooden framework had been erected over it with a wheel to haul up the buckets of sand from the shovels of unseen diggers. The air was full of the groan of the wheel, the creaking of the wooden supports, the moaning of the tribesmen, and the shouts and curses of the Zhents.
A Black Robe with an air of authority strode toward the guard tent, his clothing snapping with impatience. He glanced at the sentries then dealt one of them a slap that spun the man around and knocked him bleeding to the ground.
"Fool! Drunk on duty!"
He lifted a hand and inscribed a gesture in the air. The guard screamed, and his hand came up to one cheek. A thin stream of smoke spurted between his fingers as he shrieked with pain. When he brought his hand down, the visitor could see the raw, red mark of the brand that had been magically inscribed on the guard's skin.
The lieutenant turned his attention to the two men before him, while the other guard splashed liquor on his companion's wound and led him back into their tent.
"Who are you, and why are you traveling this way? It's prohibited to come near this place, on pain of death. By rights, I should flay the flesh from your bones here and now, but I'm in an exceptionally good mood today, so I'll listen to your story before I kill you both."
The tall man did not back down.
"I think you'll be happy to have custody of this one." He kicked the recumbent figure before him. This is Avarilous, a so-called merchant. In fact, he's a spy. He was paid by the Bedine to come here and find out what you're up to."
The lieutenant looked at him in astonishment then burst into a bray of laughter.
"A spy! A nice job he seems to have made of it. What did the Bedine scum offer to pay him with? Camel dung? Goat meat?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at Garmansder. "Who are you, and why are you telling me this?"
"I am Garmansder of Luskan. I'm a mercenary, hired by this fool to be his guard. When I found out what he was up to, I thought I'd get a better price from the Zhentarim for his head than anything the Bedine-or he-might pay me." He shrugged. "So here he is for you to play with."
Lieutenant Thass crouched by Avarilous's head and stared thoughtfully into the merchant's eyes, which were reddened from the blowing sand of the desert.
"So the little Bedine fools are getting worried about what we're doing here," he said, as if to himself. "Good. Good. Fear will feed on itself. Especially when I send their spy back to them in a basket, or several baskets." He chuckled. "Perhaps they'll pass on their concerns to the Shadovar, who will be more willing to deal with us.
"What's that?" He bent his ear near Avarilous's cracked, bleeding lips.
"Shadovar… would never… deal with Zhentarim… crush you first." The words dropped like tears in the dust.
The lieutenant chuckled and rose to his feet. "Well see, fool."
He twisted his hand, and Avarilous's body was jerked to its feet. The rope binding the merchant flew from Garmansder's hand to that of the lieutenant.
"Drashka! Get your lazy carcass out here this instant, unless you want to wear your entrails for a necklace!"
From a shelter farther within the encampment, another guard emerged cautiously and saluted. "Yes, sir?"
"I'll take this scum to Commander Hesach's tent. The commander will want to talk to him in a few minutes, so you'd better have someone bring the instruments. I'll keep an eye on him until Hesach's ready-he's slippery as an eel. And Drashka…" He tossed the end of the rope to the lieutenant. "I've got my eye on you. You watched those two idiot guards drink on duty and did nothing to stop them. Let me catch that sort of thing again and you'll be scorpion bait!"
Garmansder cleared his throat loudly. The lieutenant glanced at him.
"Ah, yes. Your reward."
Thass fumbled inside his robe for a minute and produced a pouch, tossing it to the tall man. Garmansder looked inside it and opened his mouth to argue when he caught the lieutenant's icy eye and thought better of it.
He swept the pouch out of sight and said, "I'd like a bed for the night."
Lieutenant Thass grunted and turned to the guard. "Drashka, take this fellow and find him a place to sleep, but be sure he's on his way tomorrow at first light." He looked at Garmansder with narrowed eyes. "After all, a traitor might find the habit of betrayal hard to break. Perhaps it might be simpler to return two traitors to the Bedine."
Garmansder shook his head vigorously. "Trust me, my lord. I'm heading west and south for friendlier lands, where an honest mercenary can make a living. I've no desire to get mixed up in the affairs of wizards-whether Zhentarim or Shadovar."
The lieutenant's shout of laughter was tossed over his shoulder as he stalked toward his tent.
Left alone, Garmansder and the guard eyed one another with the cautious looks of two dogs circling before a fight. The mercenary dug into the recesses of his robe and produced a stoneware bottle that sloshed pleasantly with liquid.
"Raki, lifted from the Bedine. Know somewhere we can share it in peace?"
Avarilous, bound to a crude chair, sat facing Commander Hesach across a rough wooden table. The Zhentarim commander was stocky, running toward fat. His black robes stretched tight across his ample belly, and his face was pitted and scarred, creased with lines that the harsh candlelight of the tent emphasized. He paced about a table, in the center of which were a variety of implements. Their purpose the merchant needed no one to explain. Despite their disconcerting presence, however, his face was composed, and he spoke calmly.
"I have no objection to telling you what I was sent here to do. After all, the Bedine have no claim to my allegiance beyond what price they offered to pay."
"What price was that?" Hesach snorted.
"A thousand pieces of gold," the merchant said.
The commander snorted in disbelief. "I wouldn't have thought they had anything like that."
Avarilous shrugged. "Raiding against caravans seems to have been successful this season. In any case, I haven't seen a copper from them yet. Perhaps the Zhentarim might find more use for my services. It would hardly be the first time I've dealt with those of the Black Network."
"Perhaps. Tell me precisely what you were sent to find, and I may consider it. Then again, I may simply agree to give you a quick death and let it go at that."
Avarilous stretched against his ropes and glanced casually around the interior of the tent. It was richly furnished with rugs and tapestries. Hesach lounged near one wall on a richly carved sedan covered in the skins of desert lions.
"The Bedine seem to feel you are looking for an artifact from the Buried Realms. They seem to think you may have found it."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
The commander gave a negligent gesture, and Avarilous’s head jerked back as if he'd been slapped. He shuddered.
"They believe you're trying to build a power base here. Are you?"
"Kindly remember that I'm asking the questions. It will go better for you if you do."
Hesach bit into a pomegranate and let the juice dribble down his chin in a pink stream.
Grinning at his prisoner, he said, The desert rats are more right than they know." He rose and plunged his hand into a silver-bound chest. "What do you think of that?"
In his palm rested a tiny amulet. It seemed, to Avarilous’s weary eyes, to twinkle and glitter, almost as if a star had been imprisoned within it.
He said cautiously, "It's obviously magical. What of it?"
"What of it? What of it?" The commander laughed. "You fat idiot, do you know what this is?"
"A magical amulet." Avarilous sounded bored.
"Ha! This amulet would allow me to control the very sands of the desert, to raise them in a storm, to level them in a sheet of sand that could sweep my enemies before it. It would make me master of the desert."
"It would" observed Avarilous, "but it won't. It's chipped and cracked. In that condition, I doubt you'd get more than a handful of copper pieces at any market in Calimport.
"True, fool, but where there's one, there must be more!" Commander Hesach tossed the amulet into the chest and sank back onto his couch. "For years, we Zhentarim have searched beneath these sands for the treasures of Netheril. Now, at last, I've found them!"
"You haven't found anything more than a cracked amulet yet," said Avarilous.
His body was relaxed against the ropes, but his eyes flickered back and forth across the tent as if seeking a means of escape.
"Not yet, but soon. Soon our diggers will break through into the hoard that rests below this place. I will control it. I will rise in power. Even Fzoul Chembryl himself will speak with me, will treat with me as an equal. In time, perhaps even I shall take his place at the head of our order."
His voice had risen in volume, and he was now shouting, flecks of spittle spraying from his juice-stained lips. In full cry, he caught himself and smiled nastily at his captive.
"But you. What shall I do with you?"
Raki is a liquor not for the faint of heart or stomach. Its taste is foul, even to those used to it, and in some parts of Faerun it is used as rat poison. But it does have the virtue of getting one drunk extremely quickly.
Garmansder and Drashka staggered out of the shadow of the tent against which they had been sitting and came into the afternoon sunshine, casting long shadows across the desert. The air was still warm, but a chill wind was beginning to blow, portending the bleak night to come.
Drashka flung an arm around Garmansder's shoulders.
"So. Wha'sh a fine fellow like you doing working for a… a shpy? Coo'nt you tell something was wrong with him? I mean…" He stopped, turned, and vomited copiously before resuming his speech as if nothing had happened. "I mean wha's he doing wandering around in the middle of the desert? Din't you ever ask?"
Garmansder swayed slightly. "He was paying good gold. A mercenary never asks. Not if he wants to keep being a mershenary." He laughed inanely. "I mean, if it comes to that, what're you doing working for the Zhents out here in the middle o' nowhere?"
Drashka looked around carefully and put a finger against his lips. "Shhh. It's… a… secret!" He nodded impressively. "Wanna know what it is?"
Garmansder shook his head. "Nah. Better not tell, if it's a secret and everything."
"Right. Right. All right, I'll won' tell you." He grabbed Garmansder's arm. "I'll show you."
The two men made their way across the camp to where the scaffolding loomed over the excavation. Activity around the site had ceased, and as the evening grew darker, a few torches flickered around the site, making the gloom seem even blacker. Here and there, campfires glowed. The Bedine had been herded by their Zhentarim overseers back to some unseen camp, but in the distance the two men could hear the unearthly wails of their singing. The sound floated over the desert and hung like crystal in the dark air.
Drashka made his way unsteadily to the edge of the excavation. A flimsy rail ran between the wooden uprights that held the scaffolding in place, and a few torches on long poles thrust into the sand illuminated the scene. The lieutenant staggered, and Garmansder grabbed his arm.
"Careful. You wanna fall?"
Drashka considered the question for a moment then shook his head. "You fall in there, you'd have a long time to think before you bit the bottom. Lissen!"
He groped for a loose stone and dropped it into the pit. Both men held their breaths until at last, far away, magnified by the walls of the shaft, they heard the distant thunk! of stone on stone.
Garmansder nodded, impressed. "So wassit all "bout?" He leaned against an upright and took another draught of raki.
Drashka gestured toward the pit. "We're lookin' for magic. Magic stuff from Netheril. You know. Stuff they lost when the cities fell down and th' empire crashed."
"So?" The mercenary held out the bottle to his companion. "Everbody knows that stuff was lost a long time ago. Why d'you think you can find it now?"
" 'Cause we already found part of it." Drashka swigged from the bottle and snickered. "We already found stuff, and we're gonna bring up more stuff. Magical stuff."
Garmansder snorted. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"Maybe you'd like to see it." Drashka straightened up and hurled the raki bottle into the pit. It smashed against the far side, and the fragments fell into the gulf.
"Hey!" cried the mercenary. "There was more in there!"
"That's all right." The guard's voice was strong, without a trace of slurred, drunken speech. "You can go after it."
He lunged forward with the speed of a striking snake. One hand thrust against the mercenary's shoulder, shoving him back into the blackness beyond the upright. Garmansder shouted, as one hand darted up to clutch at a dangling rope. He swung out and over the pit, then back, landing farther around the rim, some ten feet from where he'd started. A sword was already glittering in his hand when he landed.
Drashka stared then laughed. "I see I wasn't the only one pretending to drink that rot gut." He drew his own blade and stepped forward.
Garmansder retreated cautiously around the pit, his eyes on his opponent's sword. Drashka came on, slashing, his blade whistling through the night air. The guard thrust savagely, and the mercenary, barely avoiding being spitted, stumbled and struck against the rail. The wood shattered, and Garmansder, with a cry, fell sideways into the pit.
With a yell of triumph, Drashka rushed to see the body of his foe hurtling downward. Then he staggered back, blood spurting from a long cut along his cheek. The mercenary was clinging with one hand to the support timbers that lined the side of the pit. In the other hand he still held his sword.
His muscles bulged and he gave a groan of effort as he pulled himself one-handed from the darkness. He heaved his torso onto solid ground and rolled sideways as Drashka struck at him. The soldier's blade left a trail of red in the sand as it slashed across Garmansder's ribs.
The mercenary rolled to his feet. With his free hand he grasped a torch and threw it.
The flames touched and ignited the guard's flowing robe. He tried to beat out the fire with one hand, but it engulfed him. Shrieking, he dropped his sword, whirling, staggering. The sands gave way under his feet and he fell into the darkness. Garmansder could see the sides of the pit lit by the flames as Drashka, still screaming, fell and fell, until there was a faint crash, then silence.
The mercenary tore a rag from the hem of his robe and bound up his wound, cautiously glancing around to make sure the battle had roused no one. Apparently the Zhentarim guards kept a loose watch-or they were drunk on raki-for no one came to investigate the disturbance. Garmansder sheathed his sword and disappeared into the night.
Taking another bite of his pomegranate, the commander stared at the bound merchant, who did his best to preserve an air of detachment. At last, the commander gestured, and a small, glittering knife rose from the table and moved slowly forward in the air, hovering in front of the helpless merchant's face.
"What would the Bedine like back first from their spy?" he mused, nibbling on his pomegranate. "His ear? His nose? His upper lip?"
The knife swayed and dived through the air, humming. It whirled around the merchant's head, snipping a lock of hair from his brow.
"I know," chortled the commander. "An eye. That's it. To be followed by more… interesting parts."
The knife drew back and prepared to plunge into Avarilous’s left eye. The merchant, watching beyond the knife to the commander's face, saw the stream of pink juice dribbling from his lips turn suddenly red. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter as the commander, a bite of fruit still caught between his teeth, fell stiffly forward, facedown on the floor.
Through a narrow slit in the tent stepped Garmansder, holding a stiletto. He kicked the body of the commander aside and sauntered over to Avarilous, who glared at him.
"Well, you took your sweet time. Were you going to let me lose an eye? Or did you just find it funny to wait that long before doing anything?"
" 'Thank you, Garmansder. Thank you for saving my life.' That's how you say it, Avi. It's quite simple, really."
Garmansder's blade made short work of the ropes, and Avarilous rose, massaging his wrists.
"We haven't time for nonsense. Someone will be missing him soon. We'd best be about our business."
The tall man stirred the body of the late commander with his foot. "Did he tell you anything?"
"A good deal. Here's a piece of practical advice for you, Garmansder, if you ever decide to become an agent of evil. When you have your enemy in your power, just kill him and get on with it. I don't know why it is that servants of evil simply can't resist the temptation to gloat. It's a very bad habit, one they should get out of
Garmansder nodded. "It's basic human nature, I suppose. He wanted to tell someone how clever he was, and it didn't matter if that person was a friend or an enemy. I was hoping my guard might tell me after I was kind enough to deliver the Zhents a Bedine spy, but he was pretty vague. I must not be as persuasive as you."
Avarilous had been searching the tent swiftly, his fingers flying everywhere, turning out boxes and bags. His eyes, glittering with a hard light, were drawn back into his head, and the shadows played over his stout form. A rivulet of sweat coursed down his forehead. Garmansder too was looking about, lifting tapestries and cushions with swift, decisive movements.
"How did you get away from the guard-Draka, or whatever his name was," Avarilous asked.
"Not too difficult. We shared some raki, and he began showing me the excavation site." He shrugged. "Last I saw of him, he was trying to learn to fly." He gestured toward the body. "Can we make this look like a murder? There doesn't seem to have been any love lost between any of the guards and their officers."
Avarilous ignored the question and countered with one of his own. "How much did you see of the excavation?"
"Some. After Drashka went for his flight, I wandered around. It's deep and very impressive. They're using smokepowder to open up some of the more difficult bits. The whole thing's a bit on the shaky side though."
"Meaning."
"It would be a great pity," observed Garmansder absently, "if anything happened to the scaffolding. Probably bring the whole thing down around their heads. I know I wouldn't care to be in there when it happens."
Avarilous cursed softly. "Where in the Nine Hells could he have hidden it?"
"Ah. I don't know. By the way, what exactly are we looking for? More of those amulets?"
The merchant shook his head. "The amulet's not important. Even if it weren't damaged, our late friend there couldn't have done much with it-not as much as he thought, anyhow. Controlling sandstorms in the desert isn't much of a feat compared to the kind of magic the Shadovar are throwing around these days. No, there has to have been something else. Something he might not even have been aware of…"
Garmansder gave his companion an odd look as his voice trailed off. "What d'you mean? Surely he knew what he was looking for or if he'd found it. You make it sound as if he wasn't the one in control."
Avarilous stopped. "I'm not at all sure he was. In fact, Fm sure he wasn't. He was too stupid, for one thing."
"Oh, come on! If stupid people couldn't control matters, half the cities of Faerun would be leaderless."
"No, my point is that even if he'd found a powerful magical artifact from Netheril, I didn't get any sense from him that he'd really know what it was or how to use it. Someone had to be pointing him in that direction. I wonder who."
A shadow fell across the entrance to the tent, and Lieutenant Thass entered. His hand rested on his scimitar, while his eyes calmly took in the details of the scene before him.
Garmansder was the first to break the tableau. He dived to the left in a swift roll that brought him standing to Thass's right, a knife in his hand. The lieutenant pivoted and swept a foot around in a savage kick that struck Garmansder's wrist with a crack of snapping bones. The tall man gasped in pain as the knife flew and stuck in a wooden chest, quivering. At the same moment, Avarilous twisted to his right and hurled a dagger. It barely missed Thass's shoulder, slicing through his dark jerkin and clattering to the ground.
Without a pause, the lieutenant cartwheeled behind Garmansder, drawing his scimitar in a single fluid movement. One arm came up clutching the tall man's broken wrist. The other held the scimitar's point just behind Garmansder's ear.
Avarilous caught up the knife that earlier had almost taken one of his eyes. His hand flashed back to throw it then halted abruptly as he saw his friend held hostage.
There was silence, broken only by another soft groan from Garmansder.
Thass spoke first.
"Very good. I didn't think you'd figure things out. Your reputation is well justified, Avarilous."
"Thank you. Now suppose you release my friend, and we sit down and talk things over."
Thass laughed. "I think not. This arrangement suits me very well. But by all means, let us talk. I gather you have been wondering what it was we found here."
Avarilous pursed his Ups. His forehead wrinkled in concentration. "I don't think it's an object. If it had been, you wouldn't still be here. You'd have taken it, killed your friend the commander, and brought it to whomever you're working for. Who is that, by the way?" Thass shook his head, smiling. "Go on." "If it's not a thing, it's more likely to be a place." Avarilous’s eyes narrowed. "You've found… a way down. A way down into one of the Buried Realms!"
"Excellent!" Thass shifted his stance slightly to match a careful movement of Avarilous's to the left. "A road leading to a hoard of magical power left from Netheril. We've just uncovered a bit of it thus far, but once it's open, there's no telling what we might find."
Avarilous nodded. "I see. That gives me a clear idea of who's behind you. You're working for-"
A series of yells and screams from outside interrupted him. The earth shook beneath their feet, jarring them. Garmansder used his good hand to take advantage of the interruption, driving an elbow into Thass's gut, doubling him over. He ducked himself as Avarilous's knife whizzed past, burying itself in the lieutenant's neck.
Blood spurted, as the tent swayed in a sudden wind. Both men fought to keep their feet. The rumbling intensified.
"Earthquake!" gasped Avarilous. Garmansder shook his head as he fell to his knees. "Not exactly," he shouted over the tumult. "I set a couple of smokepower charges near the scaffolding with a long fuse. It looks like nobody found them."
Avarilous glared at him. "You idiot! Are you trying to get us killed?"
"No," his friend snapped, "I'm trying to get us out of here! Suppose we go. Now."
He looked at Thass, lying half-conscious on the floor of the tent in a pool of blood. "Shall we finish him?"
The decision was made for him. A wisp of darkness spread beneath the lieutenant. It grew in size until it was a pool of blackness. His body became shadowy and indistinct then disappeared altogether. Slowly the blackness faded.
Avarilous turned toward the entrance. "Come on!"
The two men raced across the oasis, Garmansder doing his best to cradle his broken wrist. Their camel was tugging frantically at his tether and had succeeded in pulling its stake half out of the sand. Other beasts milled about, their grunting adding to the commotion that filled the air as black-robed Zhents shouted and slashed angrily with their whips at Bedine workers. From what Avarilous could see, the Bedine had taken the opportunity to rebel against their masters, and dozens of small battles had broken out across the settlement.
From where the excavation had been rose a thick column of black smoke, partly masked by clouds of dust thrown up by the cave-in. Avarilous had little time to marvel at the results of his companion's sabotage. Already he could hear frantic shouts from the direction of the commander's tent that told him their escape had been discovered. He boosted Garmansder atop the camel, cut the tether with a slash of his knife, and leaped up himself.
A Zhent rushed at them, blade swinging. Avarilous pulled back on the camel's reins, and the beast reared, striking out with its heavy hooves. The Zhent fell with a crushed skull, and the pair of escapees galloped forward. Slowly the shouts and confusion faded behind them.
They rode for several miles before Avarilous insisted upon stopping to bandage Garmansder's wrist, tying it up with a stick to keep the bones rigid. The tall man endured the operation without complaint, though his eyes dilated with pain as the merchant manipulated the bones into place.
When they were remounted and trotting on their way, Garmansder said, "So Thass was working for the Shadovar."
Avarilous nodded. "Yes. They seem to be looking for access to the magic of the Buried Realms, though I don't know for what purpose. In any case, we should probably be glad we stopped them."
"We?" growled Garmansder. "I think I deserve the credit here." They rode in silence for a mile, and he said, "What are you going to tell Bin-Daar?"
"Nothing." Avarilous half turned in the saddle. "As far as he's concerned, we eliminated his problem. That should be worth the price he offered."
"So we keep this information to ourselves."
"Not at all." Avarilous was looking dreamily at the horizon, where the sun was setting, a flaming ball of orange and yellow that turned the desert sands to gold. "Information, my dear Garmansder, as I have never ceased to explain to you, is the most valuable commodity in this world. One merely has to know what to do with it."
"Uh huh. What are we going to do with this bit?"
Avarilous shrugged. "One thing. Possibly another. I hear Waterdeep is lovely this time of year, and I've always been curious to meet Khelben Arunsun."