Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 19

Even without his vestments, the man had a malignant air. Durm must have sensed this, for he chuckled nervously and said, "Yeah, sure. We was just havin' a bit of fun, weren't we boys." He nodded to the giant. "Let the man go, and let's be on our way."

The mighty grip relaxed, and Aidan made his way toward Morgrim, rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation. The three men looked at Morgrim once and then quickly left the bar.

"What took you so long?" Aidan asked.

Morgrim flashed him a grin. "I was busy doing some research," he replied. "Besides, you looked like you had everything under control. I especially liked the way you blocked the flying bottle with your head."

"Demons take you, man!" Aidan nearly shouted. "Do you think this is some G.o.ds-blasted prank?"

He was too angry and confused to deal with the priest's newfound levity.

Morgrim's smile vanished. "I see your meeting didn't go so well. Come, let's talk business if it's a dark mood you're having." The priest pulled Aidan into a corner and whispered. "I found out a couple of things that might interest you. First, Alaslyn Rowanmantle did commission a blade for you from Khulgar's weapon shop. You should lay a few inquiries up that tree and see if it yields fruit."

Aidan nodded. "What's the second thing?"

Morgrim looked about the room before continuing, "Apparently, there are rumors of some sort of transaction, purportedly over a dagger, that will take place tomorrow in the sewers. If we can witness that transaction it would be most beneficial.

At last, something constructive to do, Aidan thought.

It was early evening by the time Aidan found himself in front of Khulgar's shop. Briefly, he stared at the evening sky, splashed pink with the last rays of the setting sun, and paused at the door. The air was still, poised as if the slightest breeze would shatter the twilight scene. He breathed deeply, gathering the stillness into himself. His life had changed so much in the last tenday that it took something as unfailingly regular as the coming of night to remind him of who he was. With a sigh, he entered the shop.

Blades of various shapes and sizes, from short-hilted daggers to elaborately crafted two-handed weapons, hung promisingly on display, and a number of finer ones lay behind rune-inscribed gla.s.s. The heat from the back forge poured over him in waves. He shuddered once, trying to expel the cold that hadsettled into his bones. Winter was never kind in Tilverton, and every year his old body found it more difficult to fight the chill. He waited patiently for a clerk, gratefully soaking in the heat, until a lad finally came out to a.s.sist him.

He quietly handed the boy a few silvers and spoke Khulgar's name. The young apprentice dashed off, only to return a few minutes later with the dwarven smith in tow. Khulgar was short, like all of his people, but he possessed thickly corded muscles and a mighty barrel of a chest. His skin was ruddy and heat-baked; a thin sheen of sweat covered his naked torso. Aidan noted with interest the smith's tightly braided beard, now tucked neatly into his heavy pants. This, he thought, was a dwarf of whom Moradin himself would be proud.

"Here now," barked Khulgar, folding his callused arms across his chest. "What's this you been doing to my boy, that he drags me away from the forge so early?"

Despite the dwarf's gruffness, Aidan suppressed a smile. He doubted that Khulgar spent much time away from the forge. Not wis.h.i.+ng to waste any more of the smith's time than necessary, he got right to the point. "I'm wondering if you remember working on a dagger commissioned by Lady Rowanmantle herself."

If the invocation of the regent's name impressed Khulgar at all, the dwarf didn't show it. He stood there for a minute, a scowl sculpted upon his craggy face, before answering, "Hmmph . . . I receive a lot of commissions from the Lady."

"Yes, I quite understand," Aidan put in hastily, "but this would have been a gift intended for a retiring Purple Dragon officer."

Khulgar's stony face cracked into a smile. "Yes, 1 remember that one . . . carved the Purple Dragon's symbol into the hilt myself." The smith paused. "Unusual, that's for sure."

"Unusual in what way?" Aidan asked excitedly. Here, at last, was his first real lead!

"Well, I usually deliver the regent's commissions myself-I don't much trust anyone else to handle them-but when the commander came in and said that he wanted the dagger, I let him have it. Who am I to argue with-"

"Excuse me," Aidan interrupted, not sure if he heard the smith correctly, "did you say the 'commander'?"

Khulgar nodded. "Aye," he said. "Commander Haldan. I wouldn't have just given it to him, but he said that Lady Rowanmantle charged him with its safety. He was supposed to deliver it to its intended recipient personally," the dwarf replied. "Look. . . why do you want to know this, anyhow?"

Aidan didn't hear the question. Sweat broke out on his face and his knees trembled. The heat from the forge seemed to treble in intensity, as the interior of the shop, so comforting just moments ago, closed in upon him like the jaws of an ancient red dragon.

Ignoring the smith's startled exclamations-for Aidan's skin must have looked as sallow and gray as the roaming dead-he threw open the door of the shop and ran out into the night. He stumbled hurriedly through the streets and alleyways of Tilverton for hours, not knowing, not caring about his destination.

His thoughts, if one could call them such, were a chaotic jumble.

Impossible!

Let them pry the dagger from my heart! He was the best of us!

Moradin would be proud!

Morgrim, my friend?

How could he?

Finally, Aidan tripped and fell on the uneven stones of a darkened alleyway. He struggled to rise, but couldn't, his mad strength spent. Defeated, he panted hard into the night air. Winter wind whipped through his sweat-soaked body, sending a chill down his spine. The sensation hurt, but the pain cleared his mind; it was like awakening from some ensorceled dream.

Aidan lay in the alleyway for a few more minutes, marshaling his strength. When he finally arose, his steps were unhurried and steady. Although the night grew ever colder, he didn't feel it. He was numb, empty, like the husk of a soldier after his spirit has fled-except that he wasn't dead.

He trudged on and reached the door of his simple house. Once inside, Aidan slumped on his bedand waited in vain for sleep's blessed relief. When it didn't arrive, he sat in the darkness of his room, searching for some other way to resolve the situation-but nothing came. Haldan had used him, broken every oath of friends.h.i.+p and honor known to a warrior. For that, he had to pay. As the hours pa.s.sed and dawn threatened the night sky, Aidan's resolve hardened. Emptiness gave way to a hungering need for vengeance. When Morgrim appeared at his door in the pre-dawn light, adorned in a thick purple robe and bearing a skull tipped obsidian staff, Aidan didn't even acknowledge the young priest's greeting.

Instead, he threw an old black cloak over his own leather armor, buckled on a sword. and uttered a silent prayer to Cyric as they marched out into the fog-shrouded morning.

He was off to kill his oldest friend.

Aidan walked through the old sewer tunnel and grimaced at the ankle-deep sludge through which he and Morgrim were trudging. The priest's staff spat feeble illumination into the darkened tunnel, revealing slime-coated stone walls and horridly wilted roots. The air was dank and warm, heady with the stink of decay, and everywhere Aidan could hear the echoing squeal of sewer rats.

He and Morgrim had spent much of the early morning wandering through this endless array of crumbling sewer tunnels in a frustrating search for the correct series of pa.s.sages. At first, his memories of this place had threatened to overwhelm him. He had lost a lot of men within these tunnels during the final battle against the Fire Knives, and their dying screams seemed to carry throughout the sewers. But these memories had also spurred his thoughts toward Haldan-with whom he shared command that awful night-and he used the surge of anger brought on by the thoughts of his former commander to tame his tortured remembrances. Now, every step brought him closer to the truth-a truth he knew would be difficult to face.

At last, the two neared the center of the Fire Knives' old headquarters. Aidan stopped and turned to Morgrim, pointing down a tunnel that angled to the east.

"This is it," he whispered. "Straight down this tunnel lies an old storage room used when the sewers were still active. That's where we'll find the Lirithane."

Aidan's hands were shaking now. He placed both of them on his sword hilt while Morgrim stepped off to the side.

The priest nodded and said, "We'll need to be careful; there are bound to be sentries." With that, he held his staff aloft and spoke a single word. The light from the staff went out, plunging the tunnel into darkness.

"I have something that will help us deal with our enemies," Morgrim said softly. "Hold on to me and don't let go."

Aidan reached out toward the direction of Morgrim's voice, grasping for the priest's hand. When he found it, the captain almost shouted. The young man's hands were as cold as ice.

Morgrim chanted softly in the darkness of the tunnel, a harsh grating sound that cut through the air like a knife. Aidan winced at the sound and tried to cover one ear with his free hand. The sound swelled for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly.

Silence. Aidan began to panic until he felt Morgrim squeeze his hand. The panic receded, and he continued down the tunnel, guiding both himself and the priest by holding on to the wall. They followed the angling tunnel for a few hundred feet until Aidan saw a dim light in the distance. The two figures kept close to the walls and crept toward the light. As they approached, Aidan saw two cloaked figures guarding an old stone door. He squeezed Morgrim's hand and pointed at the sentries.

The priest's answering smile chilled Aidan to the bone. Morgrim released Aidan's hand, pulled out two daggers, and flung them at the sentries. The weapons kissed both thieves in the throat, and they fell to the floor.

Aidan and Morgrim moved quickly, dragging the now still bodies into the shadows. When they were done, Morgrim threw a small coin back down the tunnel. The silence seemed to follow it, and soon Aidan could make out voices from the room beyond the door. He pressed his ear closer."... the note of credit, Paidraig, and my a.s.sociates will present the knife."

Aidan's heart lurched. It was the voice of Haldan Rimmersbane! He had hoped, even at the last, that the evidence was wrong. Now, with the knowledge that Haldan truly was involved in the theft of the dagger, the final fabric that held his former life together tore. The pain of that tearing was worse than any sword wound, and Aidan nearly toppled to the floor with the strength of it. Instead, he banked the smoldering fire of his anger and drew his sword in a white-knuckled grip. With a shout of fury, he pushed open the door and ran into the room, not caring whether Morgrim followed.

Haldan and a familiar white-robed figure turned at the sound.

"Traitor!" Aidan shouted.

He did not have a chance to hear Haldan's response as four figures detached themselves from the shadows and attacked. This time, Aidan was prepared. He swung his sword in a wide arc, denying the thieves an opening. Although he was once again outnumbered, Aidan fought with a mind unsullied by ale.

This battle would cost his attackers dearly.

The room flickered in a shower of sparks and blazing lights as Aidan ducked under a hasty attack.

Dimly, he was aware of Morgrim locked in a deadly mystical duel with the white-robed man. Again and again the two opponents called upon magical forces beyond his ken, and the room nearly trembled with their power. With a shake of his head, Aidan blocked out the thundering display of pyrotechnics and turned his attention back to his opponents.

Fortunately, the arcane battle seemed to unnerve the cloaked figures, and he quickly took advantage of their distraction, dispatching two of them with a well-timed reverse stroke. The two remaining thieves were noticeably less enthusiastic and soon fell beneath the furious onslaught of his attack. He stood above the two corpses for a moment and carefully wiped the blood from his blade. It was then that he realized the room lay silent.

Desperately he cast about the chamber for any sign of Morgrim. He found the priest in the corner, struggling to rise to his feet. The body of his opponent lay scorched in the center of the room. Aidan shot off a prayer of thanks and started toward his companion. As he neared the corner, he saw Haldan step out of the shadows and raise a sword above Mongrim's head. The priest tried feebly to defend himself, but it was obvious to Aidan that he was too hurt to do any good.

"No!" shouted Aidan, running toward the two. "You've lost, Haldan. Let him be."

Haldan spun. Even in the dim light of the storage chamber, Aidan could see the runes engraved upon his former friend's sword.

"Lost?" Haldan said. "I haven't lost. I'm still alive."

Aidan shook his head and tried to speak. He wanted to give voice to the anger and hurt that festered inside him, to condemn this man for destroying his faith in the world, but the words were stuck in his throat as surely as if he were bespelled. All he could do was blurt out a single word.

"Why?"

Haldan looked at him and chuckled. "Why?" he taunted. "For the money, of course. With the gold from this sale, I'll buy a seat on the Council, and from there my a.s.sociates and I will slowly pry Tilverton out from under the thumb of Cormyrean rule." Haldan raised his voice and began to shout. "The regent has done nothing but drain the life from this city. She is unfit to lead us. It's time for a new rule, a new ruler, in Tilverton!"

A light shone in the commander's eyes as be spoke. At first, Aidan thought it madness, but soon realized it was something far worse. . . fanaticism.

"I suppose that you will lead Tilverton in this new era?" he asked, hoping to divert Haldan for a few more moments. He knew that there was no hope of convincing his former friend to surrender.

"Of course," the commander replied. "Who else is more suited to handle the responsibility? And I will start right now by ridding Tilverton of this sc.u.m!" Without warning, his sword whistled down to Morgrim's bleeding form... and rebounded as it met Aidan's own blade.

The look of betrayal that pa.s.sed across Haldan's face only angered Aidan more. Ignoring the numbness in his wrist, he slid his blade out from under the commander's and aimed a high strike at Haldan's head. Engaged in battle, Haldan's sword began to glow with bright blue intensity. Faster thanany weapon had a right to move, it deflected Aidan's blade.

Haldan grinned fiercely and sent his own sword snaking after Aidan's blood. "It seems that you have made a choice, Ala.s.salynn Aidan," he hissed through clenched teeth. "So be it. Even if you kill me, there are others who won't rest until Ala.s.salynn and her Cormyrean lapdogs are nothing but a memory?"

Aidan said nothing, conserving his strength for the battle ahead. Although he was still quicker than the commander, Haldan possessed greater strength and a magical blade. Even now, he could feel his muscles weakening; every parry brought the rune-encrusted sword closer to his flesh. He crouched low, hoping to find an opening in Haldan's guard. The commander attacked high and to the right. There was his chance! Springing forward, he thrust his sword at Haldan's exposed midsection. Too late, Aidan realized his mistake. The commander completed his feint and angled his blade at the captain's neck.

Desperately, Aidan raised his sword, hoping to deflect at least part of the blow.

With a sickening twist, his sword flew from his hands.

He watched helplessly as Haldan moved closer. The commander could end this at any time, and they both knew it. He braced himself for the final blow, but Haldan just stood there with a surprised look upon his face. When he pitched forward, blood frothing from his mouth, Aidan automatically moved forward to help. Forcefully, he stopped himself. Behind the fallen commander stood Morgrim, holding two bloodied knives. The priest panted heavily in the silence of the chambers and smiled at Aidan before collapsing to the ground.

Slowly, Aidan retrieved his sword and knelt beside Haldan's body. The commander was dead, his face frozen in a permanent rictus of surprise. Gently, and with more care than he thought possible, Aidan closed the corpse's eyes.

"Rest well, my friend," he whispered. Whatever had pa.s.sed between them, he would always honor the man he knew as a young Dragon.

He sighed and moved to Morgrim's crumpled form. The priest lived-barely. Aidan watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest and marveled at the priest's vulnerability. Morgnim's life was an ember smoldering beneath Aidan's boot; a simple step would grind it into ash.

And yet, he knew that he would not take that step.

Though the priest served the whims of a dark G.o.d, he had more than proven himself worthy of respect. Aidan didn't believe he possessed a heart of gold-that kind of naivety shattered in a dark alley late one night-but Morgrim's actions spoke of friends.h.i.+p more eloquently than words.

Aidan watched the wounded priest for a few more moments, then turned away to search for the Lirithane. He didn't want to stay in the sewers any longer. A few minutes later, he found the familiar blade clutched in the cold hands of Morgrim's spell-wielding opponent. Prying it loose, he discovered a disc shaped symbol-the sign of Lathander-attached to a chain around the corpse's neck. With a curse, he tore the symbol from the chain and tossed it back down the sewer tunnel. Haldan had spoken the truth; his allies would never rest until they fulfilled their plan.

Carefully, Aidan bent down and lifted Morgrim up from the dank floor. As he retraced their furtive pa.s.sage through the tunnels, he thought about the events of the past tenday and smiled. He would speak to Lady Rowanmantle this very afternoon and pledge his help in rooting out the conspiracy.

Perhaps there was a place for an old, tired soldier after all.

Whence the Song of Steel

J. Robert King

In my line of work a fellow gets used to lots of things- ear-splitting screams, daggers in the shadows, leering masks, wicked smiles, wailing widows, back alleys, bodies, and blood . . . lots of blood. I'd just never had to endure all of them in one night.

Opera's what the Sembites called it. The word means "works." Still, out of a cast of thousands, I was the only one working. Everybody else primped and bickered, pranced in patti-colored silks and grease paint, and gestured to a couple fat men who bellowed. Meanwhile, I stood there in the dark lee ofa stage curtain and watched and listened.

That was work. Real, hard work. It's tough for a man of action to stand around and watch something happen that isn't even happening. Still, something real was about to happen. Death was in the air that night-real death and real blood-I could smell it. Murder was only moments away. I edged closer to the stage. The two fat men there were my responsibility. Usually a person doesn't become my responsibility until he's lying facedown in an alley puddle. But these two stuffed sausages were still very much alive, and it was my job to keep them that way.

I'm Bolton Quaid, watch captain-for-hire and, lately, bodyguard. I'd landed this particular job back in Waterdeep-my stomping grounds-when the opera had toured there. No sooner had it opened than death threats had started rolling in. Understandable. If I'd paid a handful of gold to hear this, I'd've been in a mood for murder, too. Still, the head of the company hadn't wanted to take chances. He'd sought out the best bodyguard in the city and ended up with me. Five cities and ten months later, I was still along for the ride . . . and the death threats still rolled in.

From the beginning I knew most of the threats were sent by one tenor to the other. Singers are like that, I'm told. But a few came from somebody else, somebody who could've been sitting in the audience even now. I looked out past the bobbing heads of the chorus, toward the dour, jewel-decked crowd.

They sat in the Grand House as still as statues. The best of the best. Everything about them shone-diamond necklaces, gold earrings, silver hair, bald pates, and gla.s.sy eyes. Mostly their eyes.

Boredom, resignation, sleepiness. Not the usual motives for murder. Most of the crowd couldn't even muster up interest, let alone malice.

Still, death was in the air. I could smell it. Somebody was planning murder.

It could have been one of the singers. While the crowd had no pa.s.sion, the singers had too much-roaring, stomping, wailing, collapsing, trembling, swaggering, staggering, leaping, sobbing, fighting, swooning, and, of course, bellowing, bellowing, bellowing. . . . They were mad with pa.s.sion, lunatics capering and drooling and howling at the moon.

Tonias, the younger tenor, led the bedlam. He was a stout lad with golden hair and beard standing straight out in a ring around his head. The sheen of his hair was accentuated by the crown he wore, which designated him King Orpheus, conquering lord of Distalia. He wore a fat white ruff, a tunic of bright yellow silk, a stiff brown waistcoat, an ermine-lined cloak, and a yellow stocking that showed every line of his legs. On high notes, Tonias would loft his gleaming sword, giving everyone in the front row an intimate view of the effect of his tremolo. He seemed more a puff pastry than a killer.

The older tenor, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of murder. In this opera he played the villain Garragius, one-time king of Distalia. Displaced and outlawed, Garragius posed as a leprous beggar in order to sneak up to Orpheus and kill him. The animosity was not all acting, though. It was jealousy, pure and simple. While Tonias got to strut center stage, V'Torres had to lurk near stage front. The old tenor wore no finery, only black rags charred from encounters with the foot candles. His lines were full of growls, barks, and guttural threats. On low notes, he sounded like a rutting bull, on high notes like a cat in heat.

That hadn't always been the case. He'd once been a young tenor sensation, the toast of Sembia.

Then, he'd had the voice of a hero-high, pure, and crystalline. Bold but tender. Powerful but tragic.

Especially tragic. His career had ended at its height, turning on itself like a snake swallowing its own tail.