The Nether Scroll (15 page)

Tiep wasn't terribly surprised when neither one of them had given a thought to him.
Galimer was Tiep's advocate when it came to both chores and privileges. Without Galimer,
he was a child again. Rozt'a didn't want him to grow up, and Dru didn't think he could. On the
whole, Tiep found it easier to deal with Dru's prejudices.

Tiep bedded down an arm's length from Rozt'a and dozed a little while Druhallen waited
for the midnight moment when he'd do whatever it was that magicians did to prepare
themselves for spellcasting. One of the first lessons Tiep had learned from his foster parents
was: Never disturb a wizard, especially Druhallen, when he was cramming spells. It was hard
to know when, exactly, midnight arrived but it was easy to spot when it had passed because
Dru cleared his throat several times and folded his magic box with a series of satisfied snaps.

Tiep pulled his damp boots over Rozt'a's bandages and intercepted his foster-father
before he awakened Rozt'a.

"Let me watch the rest of the night."

Dru scowled and said nothing, not an omen of agreement.

"My feet aren't hurting so much now. I can walk around, if I need to. I've been taking a
watch since I was ten years old."

There was no change in Druhallen's expression.

"I gave you my word, Dru. I know I was wrong. Aren't you going to let me do anything to
make it up? Can't you trust me even a little?"

"It's not for me to say, Tiep. I'd have to talk to Rozt'a first. She and I agreed we'd handle
the night-watch ourselves."

"She wouldn't mind."

"She would. It was her idea; she insisted on it."

That was a blow to Tiep's heart. He counted on Rozt'a's unquestioning support. Dru and
Galimer might fume, but Rozt'a called herself his mother and mothers didn't turn their backs
on their children. Even his own mother had died rather than abandon him; Tiep was sure of
that, despite the rumors he'd heard in Berdusk streets.

Tiep had a predictable reaction when his heart hurt: He got angry. He got nasty.

"You're both trusting a dog-face goblin to get you to Dekanter and back."

He knew he'd made a mistake before the words were cold on his tongue. Druhallen's face
became as hard as a plaster mask which reminded Tiep that Dru was one of those rare
wizards who could brawl with the best—or worst—of any city's scum. But Dru got his temper
under control.

"The bug lady didn't leave us any choice. What is it between you and Sheemzher, Tiep?
Did you two cross paths before he came to the room?"

"No."

Tiep could have kicked himself right afterward—Dru had all but handed him a script for getting
rid of Sheemzher and he'd wasted a perfect opportunity by blurting out the truth. Druhallen had that
effect on folk whose heads didn't come up to his shoulder. Tiep tried to repair the damage—

"We've been tricked, Dru, conned, gulled, set up, whatever. Look at us, sleeping on stone
mattresses, eaten alive, and wearing wet shoes. At the rate we're going, we'll be lucky if we
get to Dekanter before the snow flies. If anyone was following us—Damn, if they left that first
morning when we were in Weathercote and they stuck to the Dawn Pass Trail, they're going to get
there long before us on this lousy excuse for a shortcut. Doesn't that bother you? Make you ask
questions about our guide and his mistress? The way I figure it, the bug lady and the Black Network
have marked us for sheep, Druhallen, and they've got us following a goblin goat straight to slaughter."

Dru stared into the darkness, rubbing his dark-stubbled chin. "It looks that way, doesn't it,
when you lay everything on the table."

If Galimer or Rozt'a had said those words, Tiep would have rejoiced, but Dru was different.
When Dru conceded a point, it was time to watch your back.

"Of course, when you put everything on the table, you're taking coincidence and making it
deliberate. For example, you've got to assume that Sheemzher not only knew I was going to
take the back way after I left the charterhouse, but that he arranged for those brutes to beat
that goblin child. Not to mention the timing—a few moments one way or the other and either the
chicken coop would have been empty or I'd have found a corpse. Same thing in Weathercote
Wood with the reaver and, more important, with you, Tiep. If Rozt'a hadn't sent you
scrambling up that tree, would you have stolen that amber ... on your way into the forest?"

According to Galimer, who probably knew what he was talking about, Druhallen couldn't
cast charm-type spells because he didn't know any and, besides, Tiep was supposedly
immune to lesser magics, especially charms and enchantments. So, there wasn't anything
sorcerous about Dru's dark eyes when they nailed Tiep where he stood. His stare was just
the smug look of a man who knew how his foster-son's mind worked.

Weakly, Tiep tried to get back to where he'd started. "I can take the watch. There's no
need to wake Rozt'a. If she gets mad, I'll say it's my fault."

Druhallen shook his head. "Lies are lies, Tiep, even the ones you tell to protect someone.
If I let you take the watch, it's my responsibility ... and my fault, if you do something we all
regret."

"I won't," Tiep insisted.

"See to it," Dru said as he stood up.

Tiep waited until Druhallen was stretched out an arm's length from Rozt'a's blankets and
breathing easily. He walked between them, wishing he had a lamp. Neither of them twitched
out of turn and Tiep felt safe heading toward the horse lines and the place where Sheemzher
slept beside his spear. Maybe the goblin had made plans with Amarandaris; there was only
one way to find out for certain.

Striking fast, Tiep grabbed the sleeping goblin from behind. He clapped one hand over
Sheemzher's mouth to keep him quiet and pressed his other forearm hard against the
goblin's windpipe. Sheemzher struggled—the dog-face had a certain wild-animal bravado—but
settled down fast when Tiep squeezed hard and cut off his air.

"I've got questions. You're going to answer them yes or no. You say yes by nodding your
head, no by shaking it sideways. Got it?"

The goblin's chin bobbed beneath Tiep's. It was the correct response, but Tiep hadn't
expected Sheemzher to catch on so quickly and jerked the goblin from his blankets with more
force than he needed. He didn't let Sheemzher plant his feet firmly on the ground, but
dragged him on his heels past the horse line. And past the blood line, too, which probably
accounted for Sheemzher's renewed struggles. Tiep applied a little more pressure on the
goblin's throat and calm was restored.

"Who do you work for?"

Sheemzher made unintelligible noises in his throat. Tiep felt foolish—his first serious
question couldn't be answered with a yes or no.

"Do you work for the Zhentarim?"

Because Tiep held the goblin from behind, he couldn't see anything of Sheemzher's face,
but the goblin flinched when he said "Zhentarim." The chin tap that followed the flinch wasn't
convincing. Tiep shoved Sheemzher against the rock behind the ledge and spun him around.

"Liar!" Tiep hissed. He laid a short, vicious punch into Sheemzher's mid-section then
relaxed the pressure on the goblin's throat. "What did they give you to betray us?"

The little, close-set eyes widened and showed pale, faintly glowing rings around the
pupils. "Bad men. All bad men. Sheemzher not work for bad men. Sheemzher not work for
Zhentarim." He turned the last word into an eerie song.

Tiep unleashed another punch precisely where he'd landed the first, a painful persuasive
technique he'd learned the hard way. Sheemzher's gut had to be burning. The goblin's knees
buckled and he'd have gone down if Tiep hadn't kept him pinned against the stone.

"Who's waiting for us at Dekanter?"

"Ghistpok there? Beast Lord there?" Fear turned the goblin's words into questions.

Tiep raised his arm quickly, smacking the back of Sheemzher's skull against the rock.
"The Black Network! Is Amarandaris on the Dawn Pass Trail right now, planning to get there
ahead of us?"

Sheemzher stiffened. "Ask self, not Sheemzher. Sheemzher not talk black-lord
Amarandaris."

"I've got no business with him. You stick to the truth and leave me out of this," Tiep
snapped and delivered his hardest punch yet.

The goblin sagged. For a heartbeat Tiep thought he'd seriously damaged the dog-face.
The stench was bad and sudden, like a man dying from the waist down. Tiep wrinkled his
nose dramatically.

"What's the point of wearing clothes, Sheemzher, when all you can do is soil them?"

"Not Sheemzher!" the goblin insisted, and emphasized his point by kicking Tiep's kneecap.
It was the first move he'd made in his own defense since Tiep had grabbed him. "Ask self!"

In point of fact, the stench wasn't radiating from the goblin. And it certainly wasn't coming
from Tiep. Gritting his teeth, Tiep took a deeper breath and determined that the odor rose in
the darkness beyond the ledge, out in the bog forest. It was getting stronger, too. Tiep
gagged and nearly lost his hold on Sheemzher.

"What died?" he asked no one in particular.

The goblin didn't answer but the darkness did. Something soft and warm brushed against
Tiep's leg. An instant later he was in the air, held by the ankle and thrashed against the
stone. He emptied his lungs in a scream then lost his voice when he had to fill them with the
foulest air imaginable. It was the youth's worst nightmare come to life, he was being held
prisoner by a man-high mound of predatory manure.

Manure with a grip of iron. Tiep lashed out with his free leg. He might as well have kicked
a rock. The reek-heap that had captured him was all strength within its oozy, soft flesh. Its
arms were jointless, like the third arm of that demon who'd helped butcher Cardinal, but with
a serpent's whiplash strength. Twice more the beast battered Tiep against the rock face
behind the ledge. He managed to protect his head both times, but that wouldn't last.

Then the dung beast whirled him up high and, bad as it was, it got worse. At the top of one
arc, Tiep caught a glimpse of three bulbous eyes growing near the tip of another serpentine
arm.

Hunger... hunger... hunger! Soft. Warm-soft. Hunger.

Tiep's mind filled with visions of gore, viscera, and fist-sized chunks of raw meat. He
realized the manure wasn't merely alive and moving and hungry, it was sentient—it had
thoughts and it was projecting those thoughts into his head.

Tiep crashed into a rock. The blow across the shoulders left him stunned and defenseless
when the dung beast smashed him to the ground a moment later. He was going to die. The
dung beast was going to pound him to a broken-bone pulp, then pull him apart and eat him
piece by dripping piece. Tiep could see it all unfolding inside his own skull. He was whipping
through the air, headed for another bashing against stone, when the world lit up.

Druhallen! Druhallen had come to his rescue with magical fire.

The dung beast bellowed in Tiep's ears and inside his head, too. The twin sensations were
agonizing, but it was the creature's breath that snuffed out Tiep's consciousness. He didn't
remember getting free, only that suddenly he was free—flat on his back, aching everywhere,
nauseated, and gasping, but free.

Dru had lobbed more fire while Tiep's mind was dark. The second spell plastered the dung
beast with flames. It made enough light that Tiep could see Rozt'a dance forward with her
sword angled for an ax-cut. She struck quick at one of the serpentine arms and was out of
harm's way before it flopped to the stone. The beast shrieked, a sound that had physical
force inside Tiep's head. He writhed on the ground, sharing the dung beast's agony until Dru
hit it with more fire and it lost the ability to invade a man's mind.

Tiep pulled himself onto his knees and got a good look at Sheemzher using his spear to
distract the beast while Rozt'a closed in for another sword cut. Tiep would have joined the
fight, if he hadn't lost his knives during the thrashing.
Rozt'a got her second trophy—the eye-stalk—and after that it was only a matter of time before
they drove it from the ledge to the bog. Dru hollered, "Clear!" and kindled one of his big fireballs. The
beast became a bonfire in the bog, but it wasn't close to dying when, suddenly, it was gone, dragged
down by some other beast with absolutely no sense of taste or smell. They weren't tempted to
investigate. Tiep tested his ankle and found that, though sore, it worked just fine, thanks to the second-
skin cloths still wrapped around his feet.

"What in blazes was that?" Dru asked while they were all getting used to quiet again.

"Demon," said Sheemzher, predictably.

"Not a chance," Dru replied, stomping out last flaming bits of the beast and kicking them
off the ledge. "Ansoain had a thing about demons and she made sure we knew what she
knew. Demons smell, but they don't smell like that. We all know what that smelled like ... I
never knew it could move."

Rozt'a spun on her heels awkwardly. She wouldn't sheathe her sword until she'd cleaned
it, and she wouldn't clean it on her breeches the way she often did. "The pig wallows at home
didn't smell that bad—but they came close. I know you can raise the dead, Dru, but can you raise
manure?"

"You're talking to the wrong magician," he replied with a laugh. "I have trouble raising
myself each morning." He handed her a scrap of cloth. Magicians carried bits of everything
with them. "But I recall Ansoain rattling on about a cave and catacomb dweller that collected
dung and fed off it. She never said what it looked like. I imagined a rat of some sort and never
thought about the smell. Who knows, maybe we just killed an otyugh. Can't figure, though,
what a critter like that would be doing out in the open."

"War," Sheemzher said. "Dark war. Beast-Lord war ... war under Dekanter."

"Under Dekanter," Rozt'a muttered, adding a few choice oaths. "Right. Look at what the
rain's done to these mountains—there must be caves everywhere." She finally sheathed her sword
and turned to Tiep. "No offense, but you reek of that thing. Strip out of those clothes, wash yourself
off, and stay downwind until you do!"