by Paul S. Kemp
All of them wore the hard looks of experienced fighters. Each bore a longbow and stuffed field pack over his shoulders. A short-haired, dark-eyed priest in plate armor led them, trailed by a boy who steered a mule loaded with field gear. The priest bore a black staff capped with an opal. The opal radiated a soft, red light that allowed the humans to see, but would not itself be easy to see from a distance. The red light highlighted the priest’s breastplate to reveal an enameled image: a white, jawless skull, the symbol of Cyric the Mad. The gate guards bowed their heads as the priest stalked down the drawbridge and passed them. Waving his staff, the priest offered them Cyric’s blessing.
A raiding party, Vhostym guessed.
He knew the Cyricists often raided the merchant caravans that braved the mountain paths between Amn and Tethyr. Sometimes they raided for food and supplies, other times they raided only to murder or take captives for later sacrifice.
The double doors closed behind the raiding party and the drawbridge clicked its way back up.
The ringing of the raiders’ mail and the stomp of their boots sounded loudly in the night as they picked their way through the trees. The priest gazed about alertly as he walked but his eyes passed over Vhostym without hesitation. The party walked along the path near Vhostym and marched on toward the pass. Within moments, the night swallowed them and their red light.
Vhostym stared after them, pondering the capriciousness of the multiverse. Had the patrol been scheduled to move out only a quarter hour later, it never would have left at all. Vhostym was reminded again of the utter randomness, the absolute meaninglessness of the multiverse. He might have wished that existence had a greater purpose but he knew better and refused to deceive himself. It simply was. Of course, an existence without external purpose was also an existence without boundaries, at least for one of Vhostym’s power. The reminder spurred him to action.
He turned back to the tower and spoke aloud a word of power.
Time stopped, at least subjectively. The world froze, except for Vhostym.
The spell would last only a short while, but he could cast it again if necessary.
Taking his pouch of enchanted emeralds in hand, he spoke a stanza of arcane words and teleported into the first floor entry hall of the tower. Torchlight lit the room but the brightness did not trouble Vhostym’s incorporeal form. Two soldiers and one of the temple’s wizards stood within, frozen between breaths. The drawbridge winches stood in alcoves to either side. Two closed wooden doors awaited in the opposite wall.
Without hesitating, Vhostym dropped one of the emeralds on the floor—the gem took corporeal form when he released it—and spoke a command word. At his utterance, the jewel shattered into a rain of shards and left in its wake a green glow that encompassed the entirety of the entry hall and extended through the wooden doors. The abjuration embodied in the glow restricted any form of extradimensional magical travel, including teleportation, into it or out of it.
Vhostym’s hastening spell augmented the already-rapid flight granted him by his spectral form and he passed rapidly through the wooden doors. A wide stairway led down. Murals depicting the Dark Sun stained the walls. The corridor linked with several rooms as well as the watch stations set in each corner of the tower. Vhostym dropped a gem, and another, until a green glow covered the entire first floor. He noted the location of those within as he moved—the guards armed with long bows at the watch stations; the servants asleep in their beds.
He floated downward through the floor and did the same on the ground floor, where most of the guards were quartered, and in the dungeon, where a few guards kept watch over prisoners. Then he floated up through the floor and did the same on the third floor, which featured a large central room around which lay the chambers of underpriests and lesser mages. In moments, that entire floor too was cloaked in green. He moved up to the next floor and repeated the process, this time painting in green the rooms of the senior priests and wizards.
A sudden rush and blur of sound told him that time had resumed. He was in the uninhabited, large central room on the fourth floor. Other than an endless series of wall murals depicting the Dark Sun reading the Cyrinishad, the room featured nothing other than several doors, four pillars, and two stairways, one leading up and one down.
He imagined the surprise the inhabitants of the tower must have felt—between blinks, the rooms they occupied had lit up with a green glow. From below, he heard alarmed shouts. No doubt someone was rushing for one of the tower’s many alarm bells.
A door to his left flew open and a priest in his night clothes, but with a blade clutched in his hand, burst out. He looked through and past Vhostym and padded toward the stairway.
Vhostym put the priest out of his mind, repeated the word of power, and again stopped time. The priest froze in mid stride. Vhostym floated up through the floor to the fifth story. There, he found almost the entire level to be a single, open chamber dedicated to the wretched rites of Cyric the Dark Sun. Inlaid tiles formed a sunburst in the center of the chamber, on which sat a pedestal of white stone shaped like a jawless skull. Vhostym could feel the magic in the room as a tingle on the nape of his neck. Wrought-iron braziers with skull motifs stood in each corner. A score or so of skeletons in plate armor lined the walls. Vhostym ignored it all and placed his abjuration gems.
He floated to the only room off the ceremonial chamber—the bedchamber of Olma Kulenvov, the highest-ranking cleric in the tower. The embers from a dying fire lit the chamber, and Olma slept comfortably in her opulent, carved ash bed. Vhostym dropped a binding gem, activated it, and exited through the roof.
Each corner of the tower’s roof featured an external observation ledge. Vhostym cast a holding ward on the doors that led to each of the posts. Three guardsmen stood on each ledge, immobile between moments. Vhostym rapidly cast a series of spells that conjured a cloud of noxious green fumes over each post. The clouds of gas appeared over and around the guards. The men were dead but did not yet know it. They existed between the last two breaths of their lives. When time resumed, the men would inhale the choking fumes and die painfully.
Vhostym flew down to the ground and cast a spell at the feet of the guards on the exterior of the tower. The evocation summoned a small, spinning ball of potential energy that would explode after a delay, the length of which Vhostym chose as he cast: a fifteen count. Then he cast another holding ward on the drawbridge and double doors.
No one would be allowed to escape the tower.
He sank below the surface of the vale, blind while he traveled through solid rock, until he reached the beginning of the broad, earthen tunnel that linked the western tower with the eastern. Timbers set at even intervals supported the ceiling. A simple incantation twisted the wood of the score or so timbers near Vhostym. They shattered, shooting splinters and chunks of jagged wood in all directions. Several passed through Vhostym’s form.
The sudden loss of support caused the roof of the tunnel to sag, crumble, finally to collapse. There would be no escape through it either. Vhostym returned to the surface and examined his handiwork.
He had turned the temple into a tomb. Those outside it would be dead when time restarted, and those within could not escape.
He waited, eager to begin.
After less than a ten count, the blurry rush of sound and motion told him that time had resumed. It was time to kill.
Cale, Jak, and Magadon stood on the maindeck of Demon Binder, looking at one another.
They had a ship, still cutting through the sea, but had no one to man it.
“What now?” Jak asked.
Cale thought about it and made his decision.
“We take a moment to free the slaves, then find the slaadi and kill them. Right now.” To Magadon, he said, “You have a link with Riven?”
Magadon nodded. “Erevis, are you certain? Riven said he would signal us when the time was right.”
“Mags,” Cale said, “Mask wanted the slaadi to escape and they escaped. That’s
all I am going to give Riven and that’s all I’m going to give Mask. We want the slaadi dead for our own reasons. Mask’s are … incidental to those.”
Jak’s eyebrows raised but he held his tongue.
Magadon blanched and shook his head. “I should have such nerve when it comes to speaking of my own father.”
Cale knew that Magadon was born of Mephistopheles, an archdevil. The guide did not even care to speak his father’s name.
“Mask isn’t my father,” Cale said.
“No,” Magadon agreed, though the word sounded more like a question than a statement.
To Jak, Cale said, “Go release the slaves, little man. See if any of them can sail this ship to take the rest back to land. We are leaving as soon as they’re out.”
Jak nodded. “I saw keys for the cages on one of the corpses.” He turned and sped off.
“Show me, Mags,” Cale said.
Magadon furrowed his brow in concentration and a rosy glow haloed his head. He held out his hand to Cale. Cale took it, felt his mind meet Magadon’s, and saw what the guide saw through Riven’s eyes….
They were on a ship sailing its way through the night and the dark water. A soft, inexplicable green glow shrouded the entire vessel. Cale had no notion what it was. The ship sported three masts to Demon Binder’s two, and its sails were triangular rather than square.
Riven stood on the maindeck and looked out over the sea. An enormous peak exploded up from the sea behind the ship. Sheer sides rose from the waters and extended toward starry skies. A single tower on a high promontory was backlit by the starlight.
Cale knew the name of the island, though he had never seen it before. Everyone who lived near the waters of the Inner Sea had heard of Traitor’s Isle. Sailors used the island and its magical tower as a distance marker. Cale let the mental image of the ship sink into his mind. He extended his senses to feel the shadows aboard and….
Felt nothing.
He tried again but still could not feel the shadows aboard the other ship. Something was blocking him.
The green glow. It was somehow blocking his ability to transport himself aboard. He clenched his fists in frustration. He considered trying to transport them into the water near the ship, but dismissed the idea. Even a small mistake in the transport could leave them alone on the open sea. Besides, even if he could put them next to the ship’s hull, how then would they get aboard?
“What is it?” Magadon said.
“A problem,” Cale answered, and left it at that. He released his hold on Magadon and considered.
He looked toward the hold. Jak had hung a rope ladder from the top of the hatch. One by one, the freed slaves climbed up it and stood on deck. They wore only ragged tunics and trousers. All were bootless. All had a tenday’s growth of beard on their faces. Many coughed or swayed on their feet.
Their gazes went to the dead and unconscious Thayans, still scattered about the deck, to Cale, to Magadon. Most gave hard smiles and nods.
They stood about near the hatch, obviously unsure what to do. Other than the coughing, they looked to be in decent health, nothing like the slaves Cale had seen in Skullport.
Cale and Magadon walked over to the slaves as more continued to climb the ladder. Before Cale could speak, one of the former slaves, a short, thickset man of about thirty winters, stepped forth and said, “Seems we owe you thanks, lubber, for freeing us and giving these Thayan flesh peddlers what they deserved.” He grinned—his front teeth were gone—and extended his hand. “So, thanks to you.”
Cale took the man’s hand in his own. Nods around. Murmured gratitude.
The man had called Cale “lubber.” Cale’s hopes rose.
“You are a sailor, then?”
“Aye,” said the man.
“As are we all,” said another bass voice, from just inside the hold. A thicket of black hair appeared in the hatchway, followed by a head the size of a bucket, and a body as large as a great orc. A black beard, shot through with gray, hid his mouth, but the man’s dark eyes carried a hardness Cale had seen only in his own reflection and Riven’s single eye. An overlarge, misshapen nose jutted from his face like a weathered crag.
“Captain on deck,” said the man with whom Cale had been conversing, and the rest of the former slaves stood at attention.
“Ease, men,” the captain said, and lifted himself fully out of the hatch. The men relaxed and the captain’s gaze swept the ship, the sea.
“This whore is still underway. Jeg, Hessim, Veer, Pellak, get the mainsail furled. Nom, get her anchor down until we know what’s what. Ashin, get on the helm.”
Without hesitation, the men snapped to their duties. Cale considered protesting, thought better of it, and got out of their way.
“Runnin’ hard at night,” the captain said to Cale. “Thayans are fool sailors. You’re not seamen, are you?”
“No,” Cale answered.
“But you two and the little fellow would be the men who freed us.”
Cale nodded, as did Magadon.
“Then you have my gratitude and that of my crew.” He extended his hand. “Captain Evrel Kes, out of Marsember. These are my men.”
Cale took his hand. Despite the captain’s age and the fact that his large body had gone somewhat fat, there was strength in his grip.
“Erevis Cale,” Cale answered.
“Magadon, out of Starmantle.”
“Jak Fleet,” said the little man’s voice as his red head popped out of the hold and he climbed onto deck. To Cale, Jak said, “That’s everyone. Still some stores down there. Grain and spices, I think.”
Cale realized the captain had come up from the hold last, only after all his men had been freed and sent above. Cale liked him already.
Above and around them, Cale and his comrades watched as the captain’s men scaled the mast and began drawing up the mainsail. They hollered down to Nom to drop anchor.
“I can see, you fish turds,” Nom shot back from the bow, and released the anchor.
Evrel smiled at his men’s banter.
From the helmsman’s perch, Ashin called, “This one’s still alive, Captain.”
“As are a few of these,” called another crewman, sticking his foot into one of the Thayans Cale had left unconscious on the deck.
Evrel looked at Cale and said, “The punishment at sea for slavery is execution.”
Cale saw no bloodlust in the captain’s eyes, no need for vengeance. Evrel was simply proposing to do what he saw as his duty.
“You are captain of this ship, now,” Cale answered, and not even Jak protested.
Evrel nodded. “You know the law of the sea, Ashin. They go over. All of them.”
Ashin nodded, heaved the still immobilized slaver over his shoulder, carried him to the side, and cast him over. Three other crewmen threw the unconscious Thayans over the rail.
“The corpses go after them,” said Evrel to the crew. “Step to it, lads. This ship stinks badly enough.”
The crew gathered the remaining dead and pitched them over, but not before stripping them of weapons and valuables. The captain watched it all, then turned back to Cale.
“I left my manners in the hold,” he said, and smiled. “Well met, Erevis, Magadon, and Jak. Now, if you were sailors, I’d wonder at a mutiny. As it is, I wonder how you got aboard. I do not see another ship.”
“Spell,” Cale said, and left it at that.
Evrel frowned. Cale knew that sailors were notoriously suspicious of magic, and captains more than most.
“You’re hunting Thayans, then?” Evrel asked. “Or slavers maybe? Or did this crew in particular do something to run afoul of you three?”
Cale shook his head. “None of those. What we are hunting escaped us. The slavers just got in our way.”
The captain stared at him a moment.
“Reason enough,” Evrel said. “And fortunate for me and my men. I’ll remember to stay out of your way.”
The dropped anchor noticeably slowed the s
hip. The rest of Evrel’s crew, having cleared the decks of bodies, set about familiarizing themselves with the vessel’s operation and layout. The heavyset man Cale had spoke with earlier issued frequent orders. Cale assumed him to be Evrel’s first mate. He soon walked over to confer with his captain.
“My first mate,” Evrel explained. “Gorse Olis.”
Gorse nodded a greeting. Cale, Jak, and Magadon reciprocated.
Jak asked, “How did you and your crew end up here, like this?”
The captain’s lips curled and Gorse gave a harsh laugh.
Evrel said, “I commanded Sea Reaver, a carrack out of Marsember. We were taken on the open sea by a three-ship pirate fleet out of the Pirate Isles. These bastards,” he made a gesture to indicate the Thayans, “bought us from the slave blocks there. I don’t know what they had in mind for us.”
“Nothing good,” Gorse said.
“That’s certain,” answered the captain.
Cale had given the captain and crew time to get their hands around the ship, so he cut to his question. He had no other options. They would have to pursue the slaadi using ordinary methods of transport.
“We need your services, captain. Can you sail this ship? The … men we are pursuing are aboard another ship and we have to catch them.”
Evrel and Gorse shared a look and Gorse nodded.
Evrel looked back to Cale and said, “She’s an ugly Thayan bitch, but we can sail her, Erevis Cale. Where is the other ship you’re after? Be difficult to track her by night.”
Cale said, “Near Traitor’s Isle is the last we knew of her.”
Evrel nodded and called over his shoulder to the helmsman’s post. “Ashin, where in Umberlee’s realm are we? And how far from Traitor’s Isle?”
Ashin plucked the mechanical device from the table near him and climbed out of the steering pocket. He held the device to his eyes, looked skyward, and manipulated the mechanism.
Evrel said, “As long as he can see the sky, Ashin can locate us on the Inner Sea better than any helmsman I have ever seen. He can make a decent estimate even without the astrolabe.”