Crypt of the Shadowking (11 page)

Caledan left Mista in the courtyard. The old man led him inside to an entrance hall, gestured that he should wait, and then shuffled away.

The entrance hall was a high, narrow room paneled in mahogany. Faded frescoes decorated the ceiling, and dappled light from an intricate stained glass window fell to the floor like so many scattered gems. The hall was silent.

Suddenly that silence was shattered.

“Caledan Caldorien!” a deep voice thundered, the sound of it rattling the stained glass. Caledan spun on a heel to see a man clad in a brown robe stride into the room. The man stood no taller than Caledan himself, but he took up considerably more space. His monumental shoulders looked ready to split the brown robe he wore, and the homespun cloth did little to conceal his thickly muscled arms and chest. The man’s skin was a dark, coppery color, and his eyes were as black as obsidian, encircled by a pair of gold wire spectacles. He grinned broadly as he crossed the room, enfolding Caledan in a bear hug.

“It’s good to see you, too, Tyveris,” Caledan gasped, wondering how many of his ribs were cracked.

“I thought old Ebrelias was seeing things again when he said someone had come asking for me,” the big man said merrily, releasing Caledan. “How long have you been back in these parts, old friend?”

“Not long,” Caledan said, rubbing his chest. “I’ve been staying at the Dreaming Dragon in the city, with Estah.”

Tyveris smiled broadly. “How is Estah? I haven’t seen her in years. I’m afraid I don’t really get to the city these days. Maybe you can tell me something more of the dark rumors I’ve heard about Iriaebor. Can you stay awhile? I can send to the cellar for a bottle of wine.” He winked slyly. “I still have some of that Sembian red. You know, from that time we raided the caravan of that Amnian merchant who was running slaves to Thay…”

Caledan laughed at the memory. “That was a good vintage, wasn’t it? As I recall, the grand finale to that evening was when you sang Chultan war songs on the roof of one of the caravan wagons, then slipped and fell on your head.”

Actually, Caledan,” Tyveris rumbled, “that was a duet. And it was your head that I fell on when we hit the ground, not mine.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Caledan said, wincing as the details came back to him. “But I don’t really have time for wine now, Tyveris.” Quickly, Caledan told Tyveris that the city’s new ruler was their old nemesis, and about the notice Ravendas had posted that morning. Tyveris listened carefully, his face grave. When Caledan finished, he sighed deeply.

“Of course I’ll help you free Ferret, Caledan,” the big man said. “The gods know we all owe our lives to that little scoundrel a dozen times over. But there’s one thing I think you don’t understand. Didn’t Estah tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Caledan asked.

“I gave up my sword more than five years ago,” Tyveris said slowly. ‘This is an abbey, dedicated to Oghma. Caledan, I’m a monk now, a loremaster of Oghma, not a warrior.”

Caledan stared at the big man in amazement.

“I think we’d better go have that wine after all,” Tyveris said, gripping Caledan’s shoulder and steering him out of the entrance hall. Caledan could only nod dully. Seven years ago Tyveris had been the most fearless and ferocious swordsman Caledan had ever known. Now he was a … monk?

They spent the next hour talking intently in Tyveris’s small, spare chamber, furnished only with a low bed, a chest, and a table with two chairs. A coarsely woven mat of rushes was the lone covering for the cold stone floor. The single window looked out over a garden, perfectly framing a small pear tree just coming into bloom. Tyveris had sent a young boy—an orphan and refugee from the city taken in by the abbey—for that bottle of wine, and it was every bit as delicious as Caledan remembered.

They spoke of old memories for a while, but finally, after a long silence, Tyveris explained what had led him to trade his sword for a loremaster’s robe. “You remember how I came to these lands,” he said, gazing out the window thoughtfully. ‘The ships traveled from Waterdeep across the Shining Sea to my homeland, to the jungles of Chult. They promised much gold and glory to those young Tabaxi men and women who would come with them, to train with the sword and become mercenaries. Despite our parents’ tears, both I and my sister went with the ships, leaving our homeland behind, never to return.”

Caledan nodded. He recalled the familiar tale. “You lost your sister on that voyage, didn’t you?” he asked gently.

A flicker of pain passed briefly across the big man’s face. “The ship was crowded and filthy. Almost half of my people died of sickness before we reached the Sword Coast. Tali was one of them. That was when I vowed to become the greatest warrior I could, to make her spirit proud of me.” He lifted his cup of wine, draining it to the bottom. They both knew the rest of the story. Tyveris and the other Chultans spent many years as mercenary fighters in the service of a wizard from Calimshan whom they could not escape. It was the Harpers—and Caledan—who had freed them. That was when Tyveris joined the Fellowship.

“But I was living a lie, Caledan. I realized that, after you left and the Fellowship disbanded. For a long time I had made your purposes mine, and that was enough to sustain me. But for the first time since I had left the jungles of Chult, I was faced with my own purposes, not another’s. Killing held no true joy for me, and no glory. I realized that I could no longer honor Tali’s spirit by acting as a warrior. Killing only mocked her death.

“That was when I found this place, the Abbey of Everard. The loremasters here let me work for them and sleep in their stable. Abbess Melisende herself taught me to read, and soon I learned that there was a whole different power besides swinging a sword. Finally, I asked if I could join the order, and the other loremasters agreed. That was four years ago.” Tyveris paused, pushing his spectacles up higher on his nose. “It’s a good place, Caledan. The loremasters take care of the poor and sick as best they can, though these days far more come from the city than can fit within these walls. And there’s a library, filled with books.” His dark eyes gleamed as he smiled, and Caledan couldn’t help but return his expression. “I think Tali would be pleased with my choice.”

“I think she would be, too.” Caledan stood up. “But sword or no sword, I would still like to have you by my side, Tyveris.”

The big man stood and gripped Caledan’s hand tightly. Caledan winced, hoping that none of his bones would break. “Then you can count on me tomorrow,” Tyveris said firmly. “Ferret deserves our help. And Oghma knows, there is no love lost between myself and the Zhentarim.”

Tyveris promised to be at the Dreaming Dragon early the next morning, and Caledan bid his old friend farewell. The gloom of dusk was just beginning to gather as he rode back toward the waiting city.

It was full dark when the stranger caught scent of the trail, but the black-robed one did not need any illumination to follow the prey. The call of the shadow magic was strong. The other was still within the city’s walls, still beyond his reach. But not Caldorien. Caldorien was outside the city— in the stranger’s territory.

Heavy robes billowed out like dark, fantastic wings as the stranger sped across the shadowed land. An evening wind hissed through the grass. There was no moon, but the stranger did not know this, did not care. All that mattered was finding Caldorien, finding him and tearing the life from his body.

All with the shadow magic must die. All. The master had decreed it.

The scent grew stronger, the trail fresher. Caldorien was close now, very close. No more than a minute or two ahead. The stranger’s black-gloved hands opened and closed in anticipation of the flesh they would crush.

Suddenly the stranger faltered and slowed. Caldorien’s scent dwindled, faded, was lost in a roar of other odors, pungent and overwhelming—the city. Caldorien had reached its walls, eluding the stranger’s grasp once again. The figure reeled, turned, and slipped back toward the plains, letting out a high, blood-chilling shriek of fury.

Then the night was silent.

Caledan rose in the gray light before dawn. There were preparations to make. He found Mari and Estah already in the kitchen. “Can you shoot a bow, Harper?” he asked gruffly.

She set down her cup of tea and looked him straight in the eye. “Try me.”

Dawn was just breaking over the city’s towers as Caledan and Mari strung a pair of longbows in the garden behind the inn. Jolle had brought the two bows down from the attic, along with a longsword now belted at Caledan’s hip. There was quite a store of weapons, armor, and traveling gear up there, left over from the days of the Fellowship. Estah had thrown nothing out.

Caledan nocked an arrow and aimed at an apple dangling by a string from a tree branch across the garden, a good hundred feet away. His hand steady, he pulled the arrow back until the fletching brushed his cheek. Then he let it % The arrow hissed through the air. A heartbeat later, the apple spun on the string.

Caledan was smug. “Beat that, Harper.”

He watched as she carefully selected an arrow and nocked it, lifting the bow with a sure, easy grace. The morning mist clung to her green velvet jacket like translucent pearls, and the first rays of the sun seemed to set fire to her dark auburn hair. She looked almost beautiful in this light, Caledan suddenly thought. Almost. Not that he particularly cared.

Mari paused for a moment, then the arrow raced through the air. The apple dropped to the ground.

“Damn, you’ll have to try again, Harper,” Caledan growled, walking toward the target “The string broke.”

“It didn’t break, scoundrel,” Mari said, a hint of mirth in her rich voice.

Caledan frowned in puzzlement. What was she talking about? He bent down and picked up the apple. Then he saw. The end of the string had been sliced cleanly through. He looked at her, a smile spreading across his angular face.

“It looks like you’ve got the job, Harper.”

“Good,” was all she said.

Tyveris arrived at the Dreaming Dragon a short while later. Caledan had feared that the guards at the city gates might give him trouble, but they had let the monk pass. The Zhentarim had taken one look at the massive Tabaxi Chultan and had thought better of bothering him.

At the first sight of Tyveris, Pog and Nog squealed in terror, running upstairs to hide. However, despite his booming voice, which seemed to rattle the very timbers of the inn, there was a gentleness about Tyveris that eventually drew Pog and Nog from their hiding places. Before long they each sat upon one of Tyveris’s broad shoulders.

“Come on, Tyveris,” Caledan said finally, helping the huge loremaster disentangle himself from the tiny halfling children. “There’s someone we need to pay a visit to, someone in need of holy guidance, I think.”

“Really?” Tyveris rumbled, his dark eyes gleaming behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Well, don’t let it be said I’m one to turn my back on a soul in peril.”

The two slipped out the garden gate behind the inn and down the dank, narrow alley that led deeper into the Old City Tyveris had to turn sideways to make it through the cramped passage. When they reached the alley’s end they had to wait for a city guard on patrol to pass by. Then they made their way through the city’s grim streets.

Caledan had paid a visit to the Prince and Pauper the night before to get some information and to make a few arrangements for today. Cormik had been happy to oblige.

“Anything to put a little vinegar in Lord Cutter’s wine,” he had said with a raucous laugh. He gave Caledan the name and residence of the priest who was to speak the final rites over the prisoners before the execution. The priest was a disciple of Cyric, a god devoted to murder and lies as surely as Oghma was the deity of knowledge and illumination. Cormik had learned that many of the Zhentarim in the city worshiped Cyric in secret, abominable ceremonies of blood and fire. Ravendas herself was rumored to be a follower of the dark god, though Caledan doubted that. Ravendas was not the kind of woman who would kneel before anyone, even a god.

The priest’s tower stood on the east side of the Tor. Caledan rapped on the door, and a scar-faced guard answered. Scant moments later Tyveris was muttering a prayer over the guard’s body while Caledan quietly shut the door. He bent down and pulled his dagger from the man’s chest, cleaning it on the guard’s uniform.

They found the priest of Cyric sleeping in a lavishly decorated bedroom high in the tower. They had encountered a few servants on the way up, but these had hurriedly scurried away after one look at Caledan and Tyveris. Apparently there was little bravery among followers of the evil god.

The priest was in for a rude awakening.

“What in the Abyss!” he cried, throwing off his bedclothes and trying to scramble to his feet. “In the name of Cyric, I command you to—”

“To what?” Tyveris asked a moment later, standing over the priest’s limp body. The big Tabaxi’s fist hadn’t left much of the man’s now-bloodied nose intact.

Caledan regarded Tyveris curiously. “I thought you said you had given up fighting.”

“The gods didn’t give us swords, Caledan, so I won’t use one,” Tyveris said solemnly. “But the gods did give us fists,” he added slyly.

They bound and gagged the groaning priest of Cyric, then rummaged through a cherrywood wardrobe until they found his dark purple ceremonial robes. Luckily the priest had led a soft life, and his garments were rather roomy. Tyveris tried on the garb. The fit wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

“Let’s get out of here,” Caledan said, stuffing the priest’s robes into a sack.

The sun stood high overhead in the azure sky. It was time for the execution.

Caledan lay low against the stones of a weathered, lichen-covered bridge that spanned from tower to tower high above an open plaza. Thirty feet directly below him stood the gallows, a tall platform reached by a set of narrow wooden steps. A half-dozen nooses dangled from the stout crossbeam. It was to be a multiple hanging. Ferret was just one of the unlucky ones.

Seven years ago the plaza had been called the Fountain Square, but it had been unofficially renamed under Cutter’s rule. Now it was called the Scarlet Square, for all too often the gutters ran, not with water, but with blood.