Murder in Tarsis (27 page)

The others redoubled their efforts; then all were sent flying as the tail lashed around and all twelve legs shot out sideways. The neck bent into a huge S and went rigid. The eyes stared at nothing, and all movement ceased for several long seconds. Then, slowly and gracefully, the behir collapsed. The neck rolled down on the floor, and

the head dropped, its long lower jaw crashing on the floor. The lidless eyes rolled upward until the slit pupils were invisible; then the yellow balls turned dull.

Slowly, unable to believe it and suspecting some sort of reptilian trick, the survivors approached the thing. “Look at that!” Shellring gasped. She pointed to a spot on the top of the behir’s head, six inches behind the eyes, from which a foot of bloody steel spike protruded.

Nistur shook his head with admiration. “It just doesn’t pay to swallow a hero.”

“It’s still alive!” Shellring cried as a muscular convulsion ran through the neck.

“Its muscles will retain a semblance of life for several hours, but it is dead.”

“It is still trying to swallow,” Nistur noted. A large lump was moving down the neck toward the body. It stopped, and a smaller bulge formed on the greater one. They gazed in wonder at this prodigy; then a rip appeared in the soft, lower side of the neck and a scale-armored arm emerged, the hand gripping a curved dagger.

“He’s still alive!” Shellring cried. She flailed at the tough neck until Myrsa took the sword gently from her hands.

“Let me have that.” The barbarian woman gripped the curved sword in both hands and raised it. Bracing one foot on the monster’s neck, she brought the keen blade down with great force and even greater precision, catching the edge of the cut Ironwood had made without touching his arm, opening a three-foot gash.

“Get him out of there!” Nistur cried. He and Badar grasped the protruding arm and tugged. Ironwood emerged from the opening, covered with blood and foul-smelling slime. Even as they watched, amazed, his dragon-scale armor was changing in appearance. The black scales turned dark blue, then a lighter blue, the color

fading until the scales were transparent. Their tips began to curl upward; then they fell away like winter leaves in a wind, revealing the mottled gray hide beneath. The hide itself began to fall away in shreds.

“He is rid of his cursed armor!” Stunbog cried. The healer stooped to pull away the ruined hide in handfuls. “The digestive acids of the behir must be powerful enough to dissolve dragon scale! It protected him just long enough to preserve his life.” Stunbog chuckled gleefully. “We may have added something new to the lore of this curious creature.”

“Interpret it thus if you will,” Nistur murmured, helping the healer clear away the wreckage of the once-magnificent armor. “I would rather call it the reward of heroism. But then, I am a poet.”

The mercenary dragged long, shuddering gulps of air into his lungs. “Am I alive?” he gasped when he had breath to spare.

Stunbog crouched beside him and made a quick examination. “Not only alive, but also not even badly injured.”

Nistur smiled and clapped Ironwood on a befouled shoulder. “And now, my friend,” he said, smiling, “can you doubt that it was really you who slew that black dragon?”

In the dwarves’ principal living area, the combatants rested and had their various injuries tended to while they planned their next moves. All except for Stunbog suffered from minor injuries. Ironwood had been the most roughly used, as well as being in breamtaking need of a bath. While this was accomplished the dwarves laid out a minor banquet for them. Hotforge was now mightily pleased with his human friends. Because of them, his name would shine forever among his people as one who had fought a behir at close quarters.

With his healing duties finished, Stunbog stayed for some time in deep conversation with Hotforge and other dwarf elders. He wrote down for them a detailed list of the values and uses of the various bodily parts of the behir. Disposing of the huge carcass was going to be something of a feat, but he assured them that there was substantial profit to be had from selling to wizards those parts with magical properties. When this was accomplished, Nistur regaled the healer with the strange tale of Ironwood’s unfortunate early adventures, adding poetic embellishments as his gift dictated. When he was done with the story, Stunbog pondered long on these events.

When Ironwood rejoined them, cleaned up and rubbed with liniment, they set about planning in earnest.

“Shellring tells us that you interpreted those sigils on

Shadespeaker’s hands,” Ironwood said to Stunbog.

“So I did. You recall that I said they were not of a protective nature, but of a deceptive one?”

“That you did,” the mercenary affirmed.

“In my book of sigils, just before we were carried off, I found one that was almost an exact match for the one you saw. It is a sigil of changing.”

“Sigil of changing?” Nistur said. “Might you elucidate?”

“Certainly. A sigil of changing is a part of a spell that in some way alters the appearance of a person or a thing. It is a superficial spell, mind you. It alters only the appearance, never the substance.”

“There are many such?” Nistur asked.

“Oh, a great many. I pored through pages of them before I found the one you saw.”

“What sort of change does it bring about?” Ironwood asked.

“It alters the color of the eyes.” They stared at him. “Are you sure?” Nistur said. Stunbog shrugged. “Unless you remembered the sigil incorrectly.”

“But how could that protect him from the truth-fiend?” Shellring asked.

“An excellent question, and one to which I have no immediate answer,” Stunbog told her.

“Does this mean that Shadespeaker is a wizard in truth?” Nistur asked.

“Not necessarily. As I have said, this is a very superficial spell. One who is well versed in the Arts can prepare such a spell, of which the sigil is only a part, the rest being a simple incantation, and sell it to a buyer, who may then use it at will. However, this user cannot then transfer it to another. It will work only for that one, and in time it will lose effectiveness. Then he must have it renewed by one who has the true power.”

Ironwood was brooding deeply. “Eye color,” he said, as if to himself.

“The man’s eyes were a deep brown, as I recall,” Nistur mused. “Not that it was easy to judge in the dimness of the tent, behind all those strings of amulets and with the surrounding skin smeared with green paint. Why would he change the color of his eyes? Surely such a rogue is beyond common vanity.”

A young dwarf rushed in and spoke in a low voice with Hotforge. The dwarf leader addressed the little company. “I sent some spies up to sound out the city. We have places where we can overhear without being detected. The nomads are massed for an assault. Within two hours they are to attack. A truce has been called for a conference. The lord and his Inner Council go out to speak with Kyaga and deliver the murderer of the chieftains. Failing that, they have safe conduct back to the city, and the attack commences the moment the gates shut.”

“Access to cellars is a handy thing,” Nistur noted.

“It might be a trap,” Ironwood said. “Once they are all in his camp, Kyaga may not let them go. It is a foolish move.”

“Kyaga swore an oath by the ancestors of all the nomads that his promise of safe conduct is genuine,” Hotforge said.

“If he swore by ancestors,” Badar said, “he must be true to his oath. If he break it, no chief or warrior follow him.”

“Since we found no better suspect,” Nistur said, “the lord is going to surrender Councilor Melkar to Kyaga. That will be enough. The man is the only competent soldier in the council. The others count for nothing.”

“So what are we to do?” Stunbog said.

“I confess I am stymied,” Nistur admitted. “It chafes me sorely that we have not found the slayer. Councilor

Melkar’s fate is unjust, but none of these people seems destined for a good end. They are inveterate schemers and treacherous scoundrels by birthright.”

“We undertook to uncover the guilty,” Ironwood said with finality, “and that we shall do!”

They looked at him in wonder. “Hotforge,” the mercenary said, “you’ve told us that you dwarves have tunnels leading under the walls and far out into the countryside. Have you access to the nomads’ camp?”

“Surely. If you want to go there, I can place you inside Kyaga’s tent, should you wish it.”

“Excellent!”

“My friend—” Nistur began, but a swift gesture of Ironwood’s hand cut him off.

“Give me leave for a moment. Now I must plan like an officer. We are going to confront the lot of them and I must plan each move carefully.”

“You know who the killer is, then?” Stunbog said hopefully.

“No, but I can feel him within my grasp.” He held up a broad hand and closed the fingers inward as if crushing something. “It is all here, in what we have learned.”

“That is a slender reed upon which to lean our hopes,” Nistur said. “Suppose, at the last instant, the solution still eludes you?”

“You need not come,” Ironwood said. “I’ll go alone if need be.”

Nistur clapped a hand over his heart. “You wound me deeply, sir! Of course I go where you go.”

“I’d not miss this,” Stunbog said.

“And I go with Stunbog,” Myrsa insisted.

“No,” Ironwood said to her. “I want you and your brother to go into the city and get us some horses. What money have we?” They pooled their coins on the table. “This may be enough for some decent nags. No need for

fiery steeds. If you can get only five, Shellring can ride double.”

Hotforge tossed a bulging leather sack onto the table. “Here. If you are going to buy horses, get good ones. It sounds as if you may soon be on the run. If so, your only hope is sound horseflesh. We have plenty of coin, and not a great deal of use for it.”

“I thank you,” Ironwood said simply. Then, to the barbarians he said, “Don’t haggle, just overpay if you have to. Every second counts now.”

Hotforge addressed Stunbog. “I have one more favor to ask of you.”

“If it is in my power to grant, it is yours.” The two conferred in low voices for a few moments.

“The gates are closed up tight,” Shellring said. “How do you plan to get away?”

“I can get you out,” Hotforge said. “We’ll guide you from the horse market. There is a broad underground passage, large enough for horses. It leads to a little rise just south of the city.”

“Excellent. The rest of us will meet you there, providing we live.”

Myrsa looked doubtfully to Stunbog, but he nodded. Slowly, she nodded as well. “Be off with you now, my dear,” he said. “We will meet with you soon.” She gestured to Badar, and the two left with Delver and some others leading them. Shellring gazed wistfully after the younger barbarian.

“No sense wasting time,” Ironwood said, standing. “Let us be off. I want to be there when the two parties meet.”

Nistur stood as well. “Why not? It will be a deed worthy of a poem. By the way, suppose we fail to satisfy the lord or Kyaga or both?”

“Then we run for it,” Ironwood answered.

Nistur laughed. “That should be a short but exdting chase.”

As the dwarves led them through the vast, gloomy, and seemingly endless tunnels, Stunbog, curious as ever about magical things, queried Ironwood about the black dragon he had slain as a youth. The mercenary gave curt answers, his mind clearly on other things.

They came to a warren of small tunnels that had once been a part of a dwarven village. Younger dwarves who had been spying from local vantage points reported to Hotforge, and the dwarf leader addressed the little band.

“We are below a stone outcropping just before the tent of Kyaga. The Lord of Tarsis and his councilors approach.”

“Then it is time we spoke with these people,” Ironwood said.

“Yes,” Stunbog agreed. “I want a close look at this conqueror and his shaman.” “By all means,” Nistur said.

Shellring looked wistfully at her seal. “I guess it’s the last time I’ll get to use this.”

Hotforge led them up a ramp to a strangely shaped room with irregular walls and ceiling. Dwarves tugged open an equally irregular door to reveal a cleft in a large boulder. The “room” was nothing more than hollowed-out rock.

“Good fortune, my friends,” said Hotforge. “We will keep this door open for you. When the time comes to flee, do not hesitate.”

They strode toward the mouth of the cleft, which at this early hour was still in deep shade. Shellring gasped in surprise when they saw that they were in the midst of a great horde of nomads. But nobody was looking their way. Instead, all attention was on the cleared spot before the great tent of Kyaga.

In that place, Kyaga, backed by his honor guard, awaited the approadiing Tarsians. He was mounted on a beautifully caparisoned horse. Beside him, Shadespeaker was mounted on a more somber steed, and behind them was the bronze-masked standard-bearer.

The approaching cavalcade was all pomp and magnificence. A line of young nobles in gilded armor rode bearing pennoned lances. Ahundred paces before the tent, the line divided and wheeled to each side, to reveal the Lord of Tarsis, clad in his parade armor and backed by his Inner Councilors. Rukh, in his ornate half-armor, was backed by his personal guard. Alban was accompanied by his wizardry entourage. Only Councilor Melkar was without escort. He was splendidly mounted, but his hands were bound with chains. In deference to his rank, the chains were golden. To the west, the ramparts of Tarsis were crowded with citizenry gazing on this unprecedented spectacle.

At a sedate walk, the lord approached to within twenty paces of Kyaga Strongbow. There he paused, and all was still.

“Kyaga Strongbow,” intoned the lord, “in accordance with my pledge, I have brought you the one guilty of murdering your envoy and your subchief. Let this be a settlement of the breach between our peoples. Let us now pledge friendship and resume the negotiations that were so tragically interrupted.”

For long seconds Kyaga stared at the Tarsian party, his green eyes above the veil centering on the bound but proud Melkar. “There have been two murders,” he cried. “Yet I see only one man in chains. I accept him as the murderer of my chieftain Guklak, for Guklak was found hanging from the gate of his mansion. I am far from satisfied that he slew Yalmuk Bloodarrow.” Behind him the other chieftains raised cries of assent, demanding justice.