by Troy Denning
There is an anger down in the Thrasson's stomach, sour and boiling hot and black as pitch. He would have us believe he rages at Karfhud, or even at himself, but who is fooled by that? His wrath is a lie – a foul perjury, a stain upon his name so shameful he will not concede it even to himself – and I know the truth. The Lady always knows.
He is no man of renown, this Thrasson; he is too selfish, too jealous by far. Rather than begrudge Jayk her freedom, he should rejoice in her going; he should celebrate the unraveling of her labyrinth and be light of heart – and so should you. There is no reason to lament, no cause for outrage. I have not betrayed my pledge. It is true that the tiefling has suffered torment unimaginable and endured anguish enough to crush a giant and borne grief that would shatter a god, all as I promised she would, but has she not also run her maze and found her prize? If the One Death is not the triumph for which you hoped, I am not to blame. I said she was a Dustman, and it is no concern of mine if you harbor a secret taste for the dead.
Down a haze-crashed canal they turn, the Thrasson and the fiend, still following that floating string of black blood and that arrow of spreading ripples, still breathing the monster's stink and still searching the pearl-white fog for her gray shape. The looming bog-trees have given way to walls of ash-drab granite, hardly discernible from the hanging still mist, and the channel's silty bottom has grown hard and rugged beneath the palm of the Amnesian Hero's gruesome foot. A low rampart has appeared at the end of the passage, visible in the fog only because of the dark cracks between its great limestone blocks and the small archway at its center.
Without a moment's pause, Karfhud sloshed up the channel to the gate.
"A sinking palace." He ducked under the lintel and pushed forward. The silver waters drained from his battered wings as he ascended a submerged stairway. "How I wish we had time to map."
"There will be time later-after we slay Sheba." Silently, Theseus added, if you don't make me kill you, too.
"You are very confident of yourself." The tanar'ri reached the top of the stairway, where the water was only ankle deep, and stopped. "That is good-especially if we are to defeat her trap."
Karfhud flattened himself against the wall and motioned Theseus up beside him. Pressing tighter to the fiend's maze-blighted chest than he would have liked, the Thrasson squeezed into the opening and found himself staring down a narrow passage. The water was flowing away from him ever so gently, swirling over a layer of stone shards broken loose from the palace's ancient walls. The fog was thinner here. He could see a dozen paces down the corridor, to where a long pivoting gate stood edge-on in the center of a four-way junction. The Thrasson had stormed enough fortresses to recognize the ironclad gate as a manstile, designed to funnel attackers into a confusing labyrinth of side passages and deadly cross fire.
To one side of the manstile lay Silverwind, bloodied and motionless, save for his heaving ribs. Against the other side leaned the amphora. Sheba was lurking at the stile's far end, her matted bulk spilling past both sides of the thick gate. She was squirming restlessly, and she had a black-oozing circle where the Thrasson's blade had cleaved off her arm.
"She's trying to separate us."
Karfhud shook his head. "No doubt that would make her happy enough, but that is not what is in her mind. She is offering you a choice: the bariaur or the amphora." The fiend lowered his gaze and curled his muzzle up in a yellow-fanged sneer. "Now you must decide whether you are a hero. Will you choose your friend's life, or your lost memories?"
"Any man can choose; a hero takes both." Theseus scraped a handful of dark blood from one of the many scratches on Karfhud's body, then smeared it over his sword btede. "I'll rescue Silverwind. You retrieve the amphora."
A red gleam shot from Karfhud's beady eyes. "If you think to give me orders-"
Theseus squeezed past the fiend, at the same time striking a sharp blow to one of the golden husks dangling from the tanar'ri's blighted flank. The pod burst, spilling a stream of yellow ichor over the fiend's immense hip. Karfhud dropped to one knee, a long sizzle of pain hissing from between his lips.
"I don't want to waste time arguing." The Thrasson laid his hand on another of the yellow husks. "We are going-"
"Pain me all you wish," Karfhud growled. "If we separate, it will be as nothing to your suffering. Even lacking an arm, Sheba would flay you alive – and, were I to escape, I would do the same to your friends."
The fiend glared at the Thrasson's hand, but made no attempt to remove it. Theseus scowled. Could Sheba truly be so terrible that, even one-armed, she struck fear into the heart of a tanar'ri lord?
"Tanar'ri hearts do not fear." Karfhud slowly drew himself to his full height, then glanced down the passage. "If you have no care about your friend, then let us make use of him. If we do not retrieve the amphora before he dies, Sheba will change her mind about letting us take it."
"I will have both."
Theseus used his makeshift foot to feel under the water for a throwing stone, then shifted his sword to his left hand and took the rock in his right. Not so long ago, he would have wasted valuable time debating the honor of what he was about to do. He would have agonized over his obligation to Poseidon, asking himself if it had been discharged when the Lady of Pain chased his friends away from the amphora. He would have spent precious minutes wondering if she had meant to abandon the jar, and, if so, whether that gave him a right to its contents.
Now, the Thrasson simply assumed all those things.
"My friend, you are beginning to think like a tanar'ri," said Karfhud. If the fiend fostered any ill will over the pain Theseus had caused him earlier, his voice did not betray it. "I like that."
"Then I am certainly in danger of losing my honor."
Theseus turned and splashed down the corridor, Karfhud following close behind. They ran straight down the center of the passage, giving no hint as to which side of the stile they would choose.
As they drew near the gate, a bank of white fog began to rise about Sheba's ankles. She continued to squirm, but made no move to turn and watch them approach. Her restraint troubled the Thrasson; she was too cunning to think herself well hidden.
By the time Theseus closed to within a pace of the gate, the fog bank had risen as high as the monster's knees and was spilling into the rest of the passage. The Thrasson feigned a lunge for Silverwind, then abruptly danced back to the other side of the corridor. Karfhud, reading his mind as always, squeezed past to rush the bariaur's side of the stile. Sheba remained at the end of the gate.
The Thrasson whipped his throwing arm forward. The stone struck the amphora with a loud, hollow clunk, then disappeared through a jagged hole. A spray of tattered black ribbons and silky golden threads sprouted from the break, writhing and fluttering like a tangle of young snakes struggling from their brood den. Across the intersection, Sheba's matted flank still showed around the edge of the gate.
"By all the darkness!" Karfhud's curse was followed by a loud ripping sound, then a fiendish roar of pain. "She-"
The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a loud gurgling roar. Theseus gawked at the monster ahead, then saw that she still had not moved and began to realize what was happening. He started to round the gate to help Karfhud, then thought better of it and rushed forward into the intersection.
A tremendous knell reverberated through the gate as a heavy body slammed into it. Theseus reached the amphora, the bottom quarter now hidden in the rising fog. Tempted as he was to retrieve it and flee, he could not betray Karfhud. So far, the fiend had done exactly as he had pledged, and the Thrasson still had enough pride of honor that he would not lower himself beneath a tanar'ri. He settled for kicking the jar as he passed.
Instead of shattering, the sturdy vessel merely tipped over. A scrap of coarse black cloth rose from the new hole that Theseus's foot had opened and caught hold of his ankle. The Thrasson tried to shake the thing off, but the ribbon only tightened its hold and began to circle up his leg.
; On the other side of the gate, the clamor of battle – the roaring and the hissing and the pounding-continued unabated. Theseus splashed out of the intersection, giving wide berth to the hulking gray shape writhing at the end of the stile. As he passed by, he saw that the figure was indeed Sheba – or rather, Sheba's snarled pelt. The hide was hanging from the gate, held in place by its own sticky fur, looking rather empty but still squirming. The eyes and mouth were empty voids, and the hole left by the loss of her arm had been carefully pinched shut.
Though the Thrasson knew what he would find inside, he did not pause to slice the thing open. Already, the air reeked with the brimstone stench of tanar'ri blood, and Karfhud's bellows sounded less angry than desperate. The last thing Theseus wanted was to battle the monster by himself.
The Thrasson rounded the stile at a sprint, then stumbled over a leathery mantle floating upon the water. He put a hand down to catch himself and saw that the thing was one of Karfhud's great wings. Save that it no longer hung upon the fiend's back, the appendage was remarkably intact.
A tremendous crash reverberated through the passage. Theseus looked up to see the huge tanar'ri lord being slammed into the gate by a slimy red… there was no way to describe the beast except as a thing. The creature had only one arm, was about the right size to be Sheba, and looked more or less bipedal-but any semblance to what they had been battling so far ended there. The thing was all raw tendon and muscle, with a web of black veins lacing its body and a skin of clear mucous membrane. Its entire figure pulsed with a rapid, strong-soft beat that seemed to set the air itself throbbing.
Theseus gathered himself up and charged across the floating wing, praying that Karfhud would survive long enough to hold their foe's attention until he attacked. The tanar'ri, as usual, knew exactly what the Thrasson was thinking. As Sheba slammed him into the gate yet again – the muffled crack of a breaking rib echoed down the passage – the fiend found the strength to bring his hands up and bury his talons into the monster's gristly head. She whipped her neck around. The motion tore long strips of red sinew from the sides of her face, but freed her head. She leaned forward and sank her maw into the tanar'ri's throat.
It was all the distraction Theseus needed. Had he been tall enough, he would have lopped the monster's head off her shoulders and been done with it. As it was, he had no choice except to go for a heart kill. He flipped his blade around for an overhand strike, then plunged it into the middle of Sheba's back, driving it clear to the hilt. A geyser of hot, gummy sap bubbled from the wound to coat his face. He barely managed to turn his head aside in time to keep from being blinded.
At a minimum, Sheba should have given a startled gurgle and fallen to her knees. Karfhud should have slipped free of her grasp and staggered away coughing and choking, one hand clutched to his bruised throat. The monster should have pitched forward and lain facedown in the shallow water, her spinal cord severed and her heart burst by the Thrasson's star-forged blade.
Instead, Theseus glimpsed her elbow swinging around toward his head. He had just enough time to wrap his second hand around his sword hilt and duck behind his shoulder pauldron. He felt the armor strap break, then his body exploded in pain, and he sensed that he was flying away from Sheba.
His arms were nearly jerked from their sockets, but he did not release his sword. He felt the star-forged blade pivoting on the edge of the wound, slashing through Sheba's chest, and he wondered how she could still be standing. By now, he had surely cut through half the breadth of her torso.
The Thrasson's sword slipped free of the monster. He slammed into the ironclad gate; the breath left his chest in a sharp cry. He crumpled into the water, groaning, too stunned to ache; then saw a tornado of flailing black talons driving Sheba away from the stile. The monster, oozing cascades of dark sap from the long gash Theseus had opened across her back, was hard pressed to defend herself. It was all her single arm could do to keep swinging back and forth between Karfhud's slashing claws and prevent her head from being swiped off her shoulders.
Sensing that any attack would overwhelm her defenses, Theseus rolled onto his knees – and that was when he noticed the black cloth from the amphora rounding his chest. He could not say how many times the ribbon had circled him already, but he did know that any distraction at the moment might well prove fatal. Still aching from the monster's first blow, he leapt to his feet – or rather, to his foot and his hand – and rushed into battle.
Sheba saw him coming and launched a lightning kick at Karfhud's midsection. When the fiend lowered his arms to block, she pulled her foot back and stepped toward the far end of the stile, keeping the tanar'ri neatly between herself and the Thrasson. She began to retreat out of the intersection.
The black ribbon circled Theseus a second time. He ignored it and, realizing what Sheba was trying to do, sprinted forward. On his mind was one thought: Dive for her legs!
It took Karfhudjust an instant to realize the thought was directed at him, but by the time he threw himself at Sheba's legs, Theseus was already upon him. Before flinging himself into the air, the Thrasson had to hesitate a single heartbeat, and that was too much.
The monster jumped back, well out of Karfhud's reach. Then, when Theseus and his star-forged sword came flying over the fiend's back, she snapped a slimy red foot up from the shallow water. The blow caught the Thrasson square in the chest. He saw the black ribbon flash past one more time, and then he saw nothing at all. Woegate
The growl of the surf is gentle in his ears, the touch of sea air cool upon his skin, the stars sweet upon his eyes; a woman – the woman, a tall beauty with olive skin and emerald eyes – lies youthful and naked in the crook of his arm. The world is as it should be for young heroes and their maidens: battles won, wine drunk, slumber taken – but they have erred, and grievously. They have lain naked beneath the craving eyes of the gods, and what the gods see, the gods will have.
Gentle as a kiss, a rivulet of wine tickles the Thrasson's lips, trickles sweet onto his tongue, runs warm and welcome as ambrosia down his throat; he dreams, and he does not dream: above him stands a handsome youth, pouring the sweet nectar upon his lips from a silver ewer. The young man's face is no mere flesh stretched over bone; it is chiseled from marble, with features balanced more perfectly than those of any mortal and skin that shines like pearls. The god's eyes are purple as grapes; upon his head he wears a laurel of growing vines, upon his lips a broad grin of flashing mischief.
"Great Theseus, know you who honors you with this libation?"
The Thrasson nods. "Dionysus." The god of vines, the embodiment of joy, mirth, camaraderie-also madness, delirium, and hallucination. "I do you praise."
The god's purple eyes sparkle. "As the gods will you, Theseus – if you do as I charge."
The Thrasson says nothing, for he knows the danger to those who follow the ways of Dionysus-as he also knows the folly of those who refuse the gods.
"Well have you done to rescue the daughters of King Minos." Dionysus glances into the distance, where a small ship sits beached upon the sand, its single black sail furled upon the spar. "Their father was a tyrant even to his children, and all we gods have longed to see them free."
"May I always please the gods."
"Then must you yield your prize, great Theseus." A crooked smile creeps across Dionysus's lips. He shifts his gaze to the beauty who sleeps secure in the crook of the Thrasson's arm. "Leave her on these shores, and I will watch over her. It is the younger princess, Phaedra, that we mean for you."
"Never! I will not abandon-"
"Take Phaedra, and my blessing with her." The god grabbed a handful of shore sand and held it before him. "Though you plant your vines on the salty beach, ever will they droop with the best fruit in the land. In wealth, your wine will buy you more palaces than you can number and fill them all with your treasures; in war, your treasures will buy you the finest weapons in the land and you will never know defeat; in fame, your name will be spoken upon the tongues of men as long a
s men have tongues to speak."
"And if I refuse?"
Dionysus let the sand trickle from his hand. "Then your vines will wither though you plant them on the hills of Olympus itself; your people will know thirst and starvation; your enemies will slay your hungry warriors; your name will be a curse upon the tongues of your people, to be gladly forgotten after they have dumped your naked corpse into the sea."
It is the last threat, I am sure, that makes the Thrasson abandon his princess. He loves nothing so much as fame – and for that, must we all suffer:
Have I not seen the broken amphora, the ribbons of black sail and the strands of my golden hair fluttering from the jagged hole? What choice now but to call them real?
Too much is explained, too many bricks stacked and mortared for me to deny the wall. Poseidon sends the memories, but Dionysus sends the woman, and those – two would no sooner share a victory than a bed. There is a weight in the sky, a low rumbling beneath the streets like the growl of the leviathan. The air has the feel of an epoch grinding to an end, and I am all that stands before the crashing wheel.
Dionysus tips his silver ewer, and the wine falls again upon the Thrasson's lips. This time the taste is foul and moldy, but Theseus drinks; he knows better than to offend a deity, and he has a thirst as great as a lake. The god's purple eyes change to burning maroon; his brow grows wrinkled and heavy, his face dark as a shadow and brutal as a beast's. A pair of long curving horns sprouts from his head, and his mouth pushes out to form an apelike muzzle.