The Rage (4 page)

“Is this enough?” Kara asked.

“I told you,” said the half-golem, “we’re not interested.” “Speak for yourself,” Will said.

“We’re hunters,” said Dorn, “not bodyguards.”

The halfling snorted and said, “We’ve done all kinds of work when times were tough.”

“They aren’t tough now. We have a job. The one the council of merchants hired us to do.”

“Accompanying the lass on her journey strikes me as pleasanter work than slogging around in a frozen swamp looking to get our heads bitten off.”

“I gave my word,” said Dorn, “that we’d help Ylraphon.”

Pavel handed him a goblet. The half-golem took a token sip then set the cup aside. He often pushed pleasure away, as if it might somehow weaken him.

“What about afterward?” Kara asked.

“We’re not bodyguards,” Dorn reiterated, “nor inclined to journey all the way to Impiltur under winter skies. We resolved to spend the season in Thentia.”

“Yet you left there to come here,” said the bard.

Dorn shrugged.

Had he so chosen, Pavel could have explained. They’d forsaken their winter quarters because the city fathers of Ylraphon wanted them to kill a dragon. And Dorn would have crawled ten thousand miles naked through incessant blizzards for that.

Raryn tossed back a mouthful of wine, then smacked his lips in appreciation and said, “It’s all right, maid, you don’t need us anyway. Even at this time of year, ships and caravans occasionally travel east. Find one with an honest reputation, book passage, and you’ll be fine.”

“I might do that,” Kara said, “but I’d still prefer to make the journey with protectors who’ve already proved their courage and integrity.”

“We’re sorry,” Pavel said, “we’re simply not at liberty to say yes.”

Will looked up at the faces of his comrades then sighed, shook his head, and grumbled, “You’re a trio of idiots, stupid as stones in a ditch.”

Pavel was certain he’d hear variations on the same theme

21 Hammer, the Year of Rogue Dragons

At some point, the cultists had discovered a system of ancient catacombs beneath Lyrabar and adapted them for their own use, equipping many of the vaults for the supplication of infernal powers and the practice of necromancy. The dank crypt Gorstag and Firvimdol currently occupied, however, they’d merely furnished to create a space where conspirators could palaver in relative comfort or relax when they had nothing else in particular to do.

Gorstag was trying to wheedle secrets out of his companion when he sensed a presence. He turned in his chair, beheld a stranger standing in the doorway, and felt a pang of terror, which made no sense.

Revealed by the greenish light of the ever-burning torches, the newcomer was just a man, albeit one the spy hadn’t seen before. Tall and pale, he wore a woolen robe and mantle, and he carried a blackwood staff. Unruly strands of dark hair flopped over his high forehead, and his narrow-shouldered frame was gaunt enough to make even a scarecrow like Gorstag feel momentarily well-fed. His face, with its sharp planes and blade of a nose, bespoke intelligence and fervor, and all in all, he appeared to be another of the cult’s wizards, little different than the half dozen such folk Gorstag had already met. A person to be reckoned with, certainly, but no immediate threat.

Yet something about him inspired dread. Or maybe it was just Gorstag’s jitters that were to blame. The gods knew, the dangers and necessities of his deception were taking a toll on him. He took a deep breath, and the fear ebbed.

“Hello,” said the stranger in a strangely accented baritone voice.

Evidently realizing the newcomer’s presence for the first time, Firvimdol spun toward the door. He scrambled to his feet, pressed his palms together, bowed deeply, and held the position, separating his hands just long enough to gesture frantically, presumably for Gorstag to rise and make the same obeisance.

The spy obeyed. Though his moment of irrational panic had passed, he was eager to ingratiate himself with anyone who commanded such deference from his normally arrogant comrade.

During his indoctrination, Gorstag had learned that Lyrabar’s traitorous fraternity was only one of many such cabals scattered across Faerűn. In general, the cells labored in ignorance of one another, so that even if their enemies destroyed or infiltrated one, its downfall posed little threat to the cult as a whole. But plainly, the conspiracy must possess at least a few commanders who possessed knowledge of the entire enterprise and thus could formulate an overall strategy to achieve its goals. He suspected that such a leader stood before him. If so, then the whoreson could supply the answers to Gorstag’s every question.

“Rise,” the stranger said. “It’s nice to see you, Firvimdol. Been practicing those spells I taught you?”

“Yes, sir,” Firvimdol replied. “Have you met with the Wearer of Purple?”

The stranger shook his head. “I just arrived.”

“I know where she lives,” Firvimdol said. “I can fetch her.”

“Later. I have an errand to rim, and an itch to get it done before I sit down for a lengthy conference with your chief. I just need a couple trustworthy fellows to watch my back. Are you game?”

“Of course!” Firvimdol beamed as if he was a small child, and the gaunt man the father who had just invited him on some fascinating outing. “But… I don’t know how much use be. What can I do for you that your magic couldn’t do better?”

“Perhaps you can do it more discreetly. When a person wishes to pass unnoticed, it’s often counterproductive to fling thunderbolts about.”

“Well, I’ll do my best for you.”

“No doubt.” The mage’s dark eyes shifted to Gorstag. For an instant, the spy felt a renewed surge of fear, or maybe simply recalled the panic of before. Either way, it only lasted an instant, and he managed to bear the stranger’s gaze without cringing. “I don’t know you. A recent convert?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Gorstag Helder.”

“Are you a full initiate?”

“He’s proved himself,” Firvimdol said.

“Then you can tag along, too.”

Gorstag knew a thrill of exhilaration. For the first time since he’d stolen the emerald, he felt he was making some actual progress toward the completion of his assignment.

“Yes, sir. I’m honored.” He hesitated. “May I know your name?”

The wizard smiled and said, “That’s a more difficult question than it seems. I’ve used many. It would be reasonable enough to call me Scorned, Forsaken, or Betrayed. But perhaps Seer would be best. Or Speaker.”

Gorstag blinked. Like every initiate, he knew who the First Speaker had been: the founder of the cult and the author of the deranged prophecies it sought to fulfill. But that “Speaker” had perished long ago, and if by some evil miracle he yet survived, he wouldn’t much resemble a common human being.

Then again, if the tales were true, the prophet had returned from the dead before and had almost certainly commanded magic that would have allowed him to look like whatever he wanted.

But no. Gorstag refused to entertain the notion. He was tense enough already without allowing such an unlikely fancy to rattle his nerves.

“Speaker it is, then.”

“Get ready,” the wizard said, “and we’ll go. For once, you gallants might consider flouting fashion and wearing your capes closed. It’s quite chilly tonight. Or perhaps it only seems that way to me. This morning, I was in Tethyr, a thousand miles to the south.”

Gorstag and Firvimdol strapped on their rapiers, donned their cloaks, then accompanied Speaker out of the tunnels and the derelict tannery above. As the mage had warned, the temperature had plummeted. The membranes inside Gorstag’s nose crackled when he drew a breath. Yet Speaker himself bore the chill without the slightest sign of discomfort.

They walked quietly for a time, on a hike that took them from one of the city’s poorest precincts to one of its wealthiest, where grand and ostentatious structures stood tall against the starry sky. A good many were imposing cathedrals, one adorned with gonfalons bearing the bound-hands sign of Ilmater, another marked by the eyes-and-stars emblem of Selűne rendered in stained glass above the entrance. For that was the other face of Lyrabar. It was a pious city, its devotion paradoxically existing cheek-by-jowl with the burghers’ frantic pursuit of gold and the countless luxuries and entertainment the coin bought.

Speaker looked at the temples and made a spitting sound,

as if the gods were poor and contemptible things for men to worship.

A little farther on, he peered down the wide, straight avenue ahead and exclaimed, “Aha! Behold our objective, and about time, too. You lads need to get in out of the cold before you catch your deaths.”

When Gorstag realized where Speaker was looking, he felt a stab of dismay. The boulevard led up to a castle on a hill, a bewildering tangle of keeps and spires rising above massive walls. It was, in fact, Queen Sambryl’s residence within the city.

Firvimdol swallowed and started, “I…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Speaker chuckled, “we’re not going to try to invade the royal bedchamber and strangle Her Majesty. She’s just a figurehead anyway. The Council of Lords makes all the decisions. We’re going to call on someone more interesting, if less well guarded.”

Feigning a confidence he was far from feeling, Gorstag said, “Sir, if you say you can sneak us in, that’s good enough for me.”

“Good man,” Speaker said, eliciting a momentary scowl of jealousy from Firvimdol.

The mage led his minions on into the pocket of shadow between two buildings. The frigid snow was almost knee-high there; no one had bothered to shovel or sweep it away.

“Now, keep watch,” said the mage. “If someone happen by and notices what I’m doing, kill him with as little commotion as possible.”

Gorstag prayed it wouldn’t come to that, for he’d have no choice out to disobey Speaker if it did. For his part, Firvimdol looked nervous but excited too, as if he’d welcome the chance to spill some blood and prove that he too was a “good man.”

Speaker extracted a roll of parchment from a pocket in the lining of his cloak.

“Ordinarily this can take hours, even for me,” he said, “but when you have the spell on a scroll, you can cast it quickly.”

Seemingly unhindered by the gloom, he read a short trigger phrase. The air shimmered, and Gorstag felt a prickling on his face.

Speaker stood and stared at the palace for a time. Finally he swayed and grabbed Gorstag’s shoulder for support. The spy thought the wizard’s fingers felt… wrong somehow. Too hard, perhaps, But Gorstag’s layers of clothing made it difficult to be sure.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Speaker said, releasing him. “It’s just that that particular bit of magic takes a toll on a fellow’s stamina, even if it comes off a sheet of vellum.”

“What did it do?”

“It showed me all the wards intended to keep intruders like us out. Having noted them, I should be able to suppress them.’

Gazing at the castle, he muttered an incantation and swirled his hands in a complex pattern. The air around him made a grinding sound.

“That’s got it. Now…”

Lashing his hands back and forth, he rattled off another spell, and on the final percussive word, grabbed hold of both his comrades. Firvimdol let out a yelp, and they were falling.

Or hurtling in some direction, anyway, flashing through a void of writhing shadows. An instant later, that dark emptiness spat them out in a courtyard paved with hexagonal flagstones. Walls and towers loomed on every side, proof they were inside the fortress.

“Now I understand” Gorstag whispered, shaking, “how you could start the day in the South and end in the North.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” Speaker said, sounding, if anything, amused by their discomfiture, “but I had to get us in quickly, before the wards reasserted themselves.”

“What now?” Firvimdol asked.

“Now,” said Speaker, “we skulk on cat’s feet. Our destination isn’t far, and most of Sambryl’s servants are surely indoors, huddled up to their fires, so with luck, no one will spot us. When we get where we’re going, I’ll palaver, and you’ll stand guard as you did before.”

They crept onward, down the passages that ran between the keeps and along the shadowy edges of the baileys that lay between them. At first, they encountered no one, and Gorstag dared to hope their errand whatever in Mask’s name it was, would come off without a hitch. He thought the sentries on the battlements posed little threat. Their job was to look outward, not in, and even if they did happen to notice three men prowling in the murk below, they might well mistake them for more of the queen’s retainers.

But just as he was starting to relax, an adolescent girl, bundled up in a fleece-lined cloak with an upturned collar, stepped through a door with an embroidery basket in her hand. From her disgruntled frown, it seemed likely she was some lady’s maid, sent forth into the freezing night to fetch the needles and thread her mistress used to pass the time. She peered at the trespassers and frowned.

Gorstag said, “Good evening.”

As he commenced, he didn’t yet know what lie he was going to tell, but plainly, someone needed to say something quickly to set the maid’s mind at ease.

Snarling words that surely had their origin in some demonic language, Speaker swept his hand up from his hip as if pretending to draw a sword. A shaft of utter darkness as long as a rapier blade seethed into existence in the air before him. The girl opened her mouth to scream but never had the chance. The manifestation leaped across the intervening space and plunged into her breast. Her knees crumpled, her form grew cloudy and vague, and she vanished.

Gorstag stared in horror. He’d seen people slain before, sometimes for the basest and stupidest of reasons, but that was the most cold-blooded slaughter of his experience. And somehow, the fact that even the lass’s body was gone, scoured from existence like a sand painting in a gale, made it even worse. He shivered with the desire to draw his rapier and drive it into Speaker’s heart.

But it was an impulse he had to resist. The poor girl was gone; he couldn’t help her anymore. If he lashed out, it would only preclude any possibility of his ever completing his mission. Besides, he was reasonably certain Speaker could annihilate him as easily as he had the maid.