City of Torment (17 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Plague-wrought Land, Vilhon Wilds Blue, green, and gold streaked the ground beneath Raidon’s feet, as if some god had knocked over creation’s easel, spilling change over the world. The paint still ran, congealing and mixing to form ever stranger colors and textures. The air was a haze of wavering orange and sapphire, thick with the scent of jasmine and licorice. He could hardly make out his hand before his face. It was as though he walked through the base of a heatless, if pleasant-smelling, flame. Raidon wondered if the dancing color was the spellplague itself, or merely a telltale by-product of the infection that writhed below the earth. Thankfully, he showed no signs of illness or dissolution… unlike Hadyn. The avatar of Grandmother Ash guided him forward through the brilliant murk by song. Her voice was a wind whistling through a forest of pines, leading him. His feet found solid ground with each step. The woman-like being of bark, leaves, and root disdained walking. Instead, she grew into each new point on the landscape she desired to visit. Her latest incarnation came clear from the burning haze as he approached. With each new manifestation, her precise configuration of flowers, thorns, roots, and bark differed slightly. As her eyes found his, she ceased her guiding song. This time, her eyes appeared as two blooming irises. Raidon asked, “Do you send rootlets burrowing ahead each time you rise up?” The avatar craned her head to one side. She said, “Why send new shoots if my root system already lies beneath all in the Plague-wrought Land?” “Ah.” Raidon wondered if Grandmother Ash was being truthful about the extent of her growth. If so, her real size, including all the woody growth below the earth, was something he couldn’t quite imagine. The avatar continued to stare at him. She said, “That is strange.” “What?” Had he become infected and didn’t realize it? He quickly checked his hands, arms, and legs. “I sense two entities inhabiting your fleshy form, where before I detected only one. I am concerned.” “Well met,” came a voice. Cynosure’s voice. Raidon breathed easier. “Worry not, avatar,” explained Raidon. “You sense the presence of my friend, Cynosure. I mentioned him when we first met. Cynosure, where have you been?” The voice came again, “Recuperating from my last effort that saw you to Onnpetarr’s gates.” “Are you well?” “Yes, Raidon. For now. I used more strength than I expected, but I have a last bit to give. Which is lucky, because once you retrieve Angul, I can send you on to destroy the Dreamheart directly.” The leafy form of the avatar rustled as if to draw attention to itself. It said, “Cynosure… I’ve heard that name before. An extra-planar meeting ground for the gods.” “A coincidence of names, nothing more,” came the sentient golem’s voice, amusement clear in his tone. “But what are you? I detect you are far more extensive than the humanoid shape Raidon sees with his eyes.” “I am an avatar of Grandmother Ash,” explained the woman, as if that were sufficient. “Ah,” returned Cynosure. Raidon said into a growing silence, “She guides me to the Chalk Destrier, a creature Kiril and her dwarf companion sought when they entered this changeland. The avatar believes Kiril and Thormud were slain.” “Sad news,” mused Cynosure. Then, “Lead on. Now that I have renewed contact with Raidon, I’ll provide no further distraction until my services are next required.” Grandmother Ash’s form dissolved. A few moments later, her voice came from ahead, raised once again in a song of guidance. The monk continued his trek through the burning miasma, following the temporary, living guideposts the avatar provided. Some large fraction of a day passed in such manner. The sameness of the surrounding bluish fog made it difficult to estimate time. Finally, Raidon broke through the haze into a new region. He stood near the opening cut of a mighty canyon, steep-sided and long. The canyon sides revealed hundreds of varicolored bands in the stone, as if an account of some vast track of time. The sedimentary layers alternated between dozens of shades of brown, though a few layers seemed more crystalline than rocky. One exposed layer looked suspiciously like flesh. The canyon walls rose hundreds of feet on both sides. The avatar retained her position at the very edge of the haze, declining to fully step forth. She pointed down the canyon. “Continue down this ravine, bearing neither right nor left down lesser clefts, and you’ll find the Chalk Destrier at its end.” “You will go no farther?” asked Raidon. He was surprised to find himself wistful at the prospect of losing his one companion who was more than a mere voice. “I told you my roots extended below all the Plague-wrought Land. That is true, save for this mass in the Plague-wrought Land’s heart. I sense it is a misplaced fragment of another world, though its natures obviously affected just as thoroughly by the Spellplague as Toril. I am not able to send my roots farther than its edges.” Raidon wondered if he should remind the avatar of her promise to distract the destrier long enough for him to find the sword. He decided against it. If she was having second thoughts, well, his words wouldn’t sway her. “Thank you for guiding me as far as you have, Grandmother Ash.” The woman gave a fair imitation of a bow. “As I said, you are my first hero. Perhaps, if the Chalk Destrier does not slay you, you will return and tell me of your exploits and what drives you with such determination.” “I look forward to it,” responded Raidon, returning the gesture. With a rustle of shifting earth, the avatar’s many branches, vines, and stems blurred out of a female shape, and then pulled into the earth. “Cynosure?” “I am here, Raidon.” The monk frowned, nodded, and strode into the ravine. The walls leaped up on both sides, but the way widened so that he walked along a flat expanse a hundred yards from either wall. A track meandered back and forth along the floor of the canyon. Murky liquid sluggishly flowed through the track. It might have been muddy water, though Raidon half expected it to burst into blue burning fire at any moment. The canyon seemed far too mundane to lie at the heart of the Plague-wrought Land. The farther he walked, the higher the cliff walls grew on each side. Soon he was walking in deep shadow, and he had to carefully watch his footing amid the muddy track. He wondered how high the walls must be. They towered into the gloom, each cliff like a mighty sea wall built by giants. Now and then, dry tributaries split from the main canyon, but Raidon followed the avatar’s advice and continued straight along the way. At one such juncture, a trio of great beasts grazed, as large as dragons but slightly less fierce in demeanor. They went on four feet and sported long, serpentine necks, but their eyes were dull like cattle, and they had no wings. Raidon slipped past the great creatures without drawing attention. The monk privately thanked providence that Cynosure hadn’t taken it upon itself to make some observation, although perhaps he was being unfair to the sentient effigy. The canyon found its conclusion ahead. A great white cliff filled the vast cleft from wall to wall. Was it snow? It didn’t shine and twinkle in the setting sun like snow or ice would. Limestone? No, of course not. It was probably chalk. Raidon continued forward. He walked another couple of miles toward the white wall, during which time full darkness grew. Stars came out above, brighter and more colorful than Raidon had ever noticed. He wasn’t a sage of the skies, however, and didn’t know enough to hazard a guess on whether they were familiar constellations, here in the heart of the Plague-wrought Land. He didn’t ask Cynosure. One other light source offered itself besides the stars. As twilight deepened, the great white cliff ahead glimmered, taking on a glow not unlike moonlight. As its glow brightened, indeed it seemed that the far cliff face was a full phase of Selune herself, brought to earth and captured between the two canyon walls. Or perhaps not captured, but merely resting, waiting to spring up once more into the heavens. Finally, Raidon asked the air, “Is that the Chalk Destrier? A moon fallen to earth?” “If a moon, not one native to Toril.” “How close should I approach?” “My senses are blunted here. I can barely retain my connection with you. Something interferes.” The monk nodded. He was on his own, despite the constructs voice and predilection to instruct Raidon. He found he was happy to find the constructs limits. On the whole, he’d had enough of all-knowing entities who surpassed his own knowledge. Then again, it could well be he was about to face something more potent than Cynosure at his most powerful. Raidon walked until he stood some hundred or so paces from the pocked cliff face that glowed with its own celestial light. He put his hands to each side of his mouth and yelled, “Hail! I am seeking the Chalk Destrier! Let us parley and find mutual benefit in so doing!” The stars above seemed to darken as the great white cliff face slowly waxed, becoming brighter, then brighter still, until Raidon was forced to squint into the glare. A sound as of a massive river rushing over stones resounded down the canyon, so loud the earth shook. Within that overwhelming noise, Raidon detected patterns. Words. He missed the first few, but finally understood,”… come to ask a question, I demand a gift. What gift do you offer, pilgrim?” Raidon cocked his head, unsure. He asked, “Are you the Chalk Destrier?” “What else?” came the breathtaking voice. “If you have come to ask a question, you must first provide your gift. Do you offer your life or the life of another in payment? A relic? A secret?” He wasn’t here to tap whatever oracular power the entity implied it possessed, but he did have a question about Kiril, and her sword. He said, “I do not seek hidden knowledge, sage advice, or visions of the future. I seek only to know the whereabouts of one of your previous visitors, a swordswoman named Kiril and her dwarf companion.” “What gift do you pledge to secure my aid?” replied the earthshaking voice. The monk stopped short of indicating he had no gift. Instead, he began to run through his store of lore, trying to think of something interesting that might satisfy the inanimate cliffs desire. Cynosure suddenly said, “I know several secrets. Here is one: The elf realm of Sildeyuir, hidden behind the forest of Yuirwood, is not destroyed, as most assume. Many parts of it were pulled into Faerie, called the Feywild. Many star elves are now reunited with their kin, the eladrin.” The monk started, recalling his earlier conversation with the construct about Sildeyuir. Cynosure had then implied the starry realm was “fallen,” not partially transferred to a fey dimension. If it was true that some of that realm yet lived, why had the construct allowed the monk to think otherwise? He shook his head, realizing now wasn’t the time to quiz the construct. Instead, he waited for the Chalk Destrier’s response. The cliffs brightness dimmed over many heartbeats, then waxed once more. The voice came, “You have given me a gift of knowledge previously unknown. I respond in kind: When the swordswoman Kiril, the geomancer Thormud, and the dragonet Xet came before me, a passage to the new lands fused to the world that lie across the western seas was requested of me. I provided that portal. They left this continent years ago for Returned Abeir.” The monk’s stomach lurched. He had no idea what or where Returned Abeir was, whether a land across the sea or another plane entirely. Regardless, it seemed clear the quarry he’d thought he was on the brink of discovering was gone. Kiril and her blade could be anywhere by now. A black feeling of defeat and anger threatened to shred his calm focus. Cynosure said, “A mighty gift must have been given for you to open such a far-reaching portal.” “Indeed. A soul shard, naked in a shaft of sharp steel.” Raidon exclaimed, “Angul? They left the sword with you?” “Yes. A grand gift I treasure still.” “May we see it?” requested Cynosure, interrupting Raidon before he could demand the blade. “We’ve heard much of this storied sword and would look upon your great treasure.” “Treasures such as Angul should be displayed to admiring eyes,” agreed the Chalk Destrier. A grating vibration tried to knock the monk from his feet as the cliff face simply rotated upward. White dust plumed. The screech of stone on stone was like daggers in Raidon’s ears. When the face stopped its movement, a hollow was revealed. The gap opened onto a passage leading back into the cliff face. The white walls of the tunnel glimmered with the same moonlike radiance as the exterior. Raidon darted into the opening and down the smooth corridor beyond to get away from the dust. The air within was thankfully clear. The passage was slightly curved, so that even after only twenty paces, the entrance was obscured behind him. The passage deposited the monk into a great arched hall decorated like a mad king’s treasure vault. Giant shields, glowing swords, gem-crusted staves, sculptures of all shapes and materials, and panoplies of magical garb were displayed on both walls and suspended from the ceiling. A clear space ran down the center of the hall, some thirty feet wide. Raidon started down it. As he walked, he noted many of the shapes he had first thought to be sculptures were actually trophies of the hunt, stuffed or otherwise bodily preserved. He saw a tiger, an ettin, an amulet-wearing mummy, and other vanquished threats. He also saw a man in wizard’s robes, a woman garbed in form fitting leather wielding a glowing punch dagger, and other humanoids similarly preserved. The monk came to a wider space, circular, and fronted by several alabaster pillars. A creature claimed the opening’s center. It glowed with the familiar radiance of the cliff face. The creature’s shape was like a centaur, but sleeker. He had expected its skin to be stone, not flesh… though its surface was eerily milk white and fluid. Perhaps it was chalk of some enchanted variety after all. “Welcome to my fortress,” said the centaur-thing. “Would you look upon the soul shard?” “Yes,” replied Raidon, “but are you the Chalk Destrier? I at first thought the cliff we addressed answered to that name.” The centaur said, “What an impressive girth I could claim were that true, but no. I am as you see me.” It leaned in and confided, “I tell you that without expectation of a gift.” “You are most kind,” spoke the monk, though he wondered what kind of creature this Chalk
Destrier was to expect payment for every exchange of words. “Now then, look upon the Blade Cerulean, Angul, which shelters a splinter of a human soul. Afterward, I shall claim my last gift from you,” “What do you mean?” asked Raidon. He glanced at the stuffed trophies. The Chalk Destrier did not answer�it gestured with one milky palm. Light blazed like the rising sun, washing away Raidon’s visual perception of the chamber. Raidon blinked against the brilliance. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away and saw a boulder, nearly five feet in diameter, now lying on the floor in the space between the monk and the pearly hued centaur. A long sword was plunged tip first into the boulder. The weapon was unblemished, the lines utilitarian, but the hilt was set with a cerulean-hued stone. The faintest of glimmers sparkled in the stone’s depths. “Is the soul extinguished?” asked Raidon. The last time he’d seen the blade, in its owner’s hands some twenty years earlier, it had blazed with cerulean light and pulsed with righteous potency. “It sleeps, that is all,” replied the Chalk Destrier. It continued, “You have looked upon my treasure. Now I can claim my gift in return.” Even as the centaur spoke, the floor trembled. A sound identical to that which had accompanied the opening of the tunnel into the outer cliff face echoed in the chamber. “You are sealing the entrance?” Raidon asked. He doubted it was opening wider. “You are the gift,” the Chalk Destrier announced, moving forward. “I wouldn’t want you to scamper off.” The creature raised one of its hands. The digits melted and flowed, becoming a long, thin blade, a skinning blade. “Please stand still; I do not like to reconstruct my trophies.” The monk loosed his concerns, reached for his focus that allowed his body and mind to become one. He hurdled the boulder pinning Angul, spinning so he only touched the stone with his palms. His time perception slowed. As he topped the rock, he pushed off with all his strength and training, feet toward his foe. He hammered the Chalk Destrier high on its humanlike chest with his feet. The crack of contact jolted through Raidon’s soles, calves, and knees. A network of fine cracks bloomed at the point of impact. He kicked himself away from his foe in a spray of rock chips, somersaulting back through the air. He landed, out of reach of the oversized creature’s long arms, even the one that had become a blade. The creature’s milky pallor warmed until the Chalk Destrier was the color of freshly spilled blood. It leaped. Raidon dived, avoiding the flashing ruby hooves and at the same time ducking beneath the centaur’s slashing blade. As he dodged, he unleashed a punch of his own, striking the creature along its right flank. The impact punished his knuckles, and worse, seared him. The creature’s red color was not mere show�it was red hot! “Raidon, take the sword,” Cynosure’s voice urged. “Angul can’t help me against the Chalk Destrier,” Raidon breathed as he avoided another charge. “As odd and amoral as this creature seems, I detect no aberrant hint. My own Sign remains quiescent.” “You must take the sword soon, or I’ll not be able to extract you. The edifice in which you fight is receding, whether in space or time I can’t discern. My connection with you is stretching. In another few heartbeats, it will snap. You’ll be sealed in with the Chalk Destrier, perhaps forever, as one of its trophies.” The centaur reared, and then fell forward, its front legs kicking. The monk sidestepped, but the handblade sliced across Raidon’s forearm. The creature was impossibly fast, hard as stone, and as hot as a forge fire. The monk flipped backward as if to flee, but it was a feint; while still standing on his hands, he heel-kicked, catching the creature in one flaring red eye as it leaned forward and down. A crunch like breaking crystal was music to Raidon’s ears. But the creature didn’t react like a living thing would. It bore down with one hand and one blade, and very nearly skewered the monk. He reversed the back flip he’d initiated to draw the creature in, and flashed past the creature, trying to get behind it. Back on his feet and another five feet behind Destrier� The centaur mule-kicked him. Years of rote training alone saved him then, so instead of staving in his head, the blow merely knocked stars into his vision and banging cymbals into his ears. He dropped to the ground, just avoiding a second rear-leg kick from the centaur. The floor was cold and gritty beneath his fingers. “The sword!” Cynosure urged again, his voice noticeably weaker, as if he were shouting from a great distance. Raidon didn’t waste breath explaining he’d been trying to follow the constructs advice all along. “Now or never,” came the construct’s warning, half as loud. Raidon threw himself sideways, rolling toward the boulder, knowing he was opening himself up to an attack. The Chalk Destrier did not disappoint. It stomped him once before he stood, pulling himself up the side of the rock. As the cold pommel of Angul fell into Raidon’s grip, the centaur reared up again, kicking him in the shoulder and stomach with its front hooves. He curled and rolled backward. The weight of his falling body wrenched Angul from the stone. “Got you!” he heard Cynosure exclaim. A parabola of blue light spun out of nothing, engulfing him.