by Ed Greenwood
Jander’s soft gasp made the Shark’s hatred-blackened heart skip a beat. The fool believes me! Her face contorted in a grimace that she thought was a smile as she left the vampire alone to agonize until nightfall.
For a place of death, the City of the Dead was very popular with the living. Many generations and many classes of Waterdhavians crumbled to dust side-by-side in pauper’s graves and gorgeously carved mausoleums: warriors, sea captains, merchants, commoners. The struggles they had with one another in life ceased to matter as, united in their mortality, they slept the final sleep. Waving grass, shady trees, and beautiful statues lent the place an aura of tranquility. During the day, this little “city” was a peaceful haven for visitors. Night, however, brought a different class of people to the cemetery-those who conducted business best transacted under the vague light of the moon and stars, business handled by people who did not want witnesses.
The centerpiece of the City was a giant monument erected only a few years past. Designed to pay tribute to the original settlers of Waterdeep, the statue was a gorgeous work of art. Dozens of individual stone carvings, depicting life-sized warriors battling with all manner of nonhuman adversaries, comprised the sixty-foot high monument. Wide at the base, it narrowed with each level until a lone hero stood atop the fray. Frozen forever at the moment of greatest action, ores speared their adversaries, doughty swordsmen slew bugbears, and heroes and monsters alike died in a variety of dramatic poses.
Here the vampire had met Maia several months ago, plying her unsavory trade. Here he hoped to see her again tonight.
Jander came in elven form, walking, but leaving no footprints. He stopped as he neared the monument. A pale white ring encircled the grand statue, and the pungent scent of garlic filled the cold night air. There came a sound of muffled sobbing, and he glanced upward. With deliberate irony, the Shark had tied the barmaid to a conquering stonework hero, who stood atop the mountain of fighters, arms raised in victory. The girl was lashed securely with rope at hands and feet. A piece of cloth shoved in her mouth stifled words, but not her sounds of fear.
Jander walked slowly around the ring of garlic until he came to a two-foot wide gap in the otherwise unbreachable barrier. He hesitated only an instant before stepping into the circle. It was obviously a trap, but what choice did he have? At the base of the monument Jander cried out and fell. His foot had been caught in a cleverly concealed, sharp-jawed animal trap made of wood, not steel. And when he hit the ground, a second trap clamped on one of his hands. Holy water soaked the traps’ jagged teeth. Steam and blood hissed from the vampire’s wounds, glittering black in the moonlight.
With his good hand, Jander splintered the wood that bit into ankle and wrist. On his feet at once, he glanced around, clearly expecting a second attack. None came.
He moved toward the statue more cautiously now, his eyes on the snow in front of him rather than the monument itself. There were several more concealed traps waiting to close upon him. Treading delicately, he avoided them. “I’m here, Maia,” he called. “You’re safe now.” The stone figure in front of him was a warrior woman with a single braid of long hair. He reached out to it, prepared to begin the climb up to Maia. But the statue smiled and sprang to life. The illusion shed, the Shark drew a small crossbow and fired a wooden shaft directly at Jander’s chest. She was no more than two yards away.
Jander grunted at the impact, but the shaft bounced off his body and fell to the grass.
The Shark gasped. The vampire smiled and tapped his chest with a golden forefinger. It clinked; too late, the Shark recalled the chain mail shirt she had seen in Jander’s cottage. She pulled down her hood, safely invisible, and jumped aside. The vampire’s hand closed on her cloak, but she yanked it out of his grasp and began to run. Jander followed without pause.
It took the Shark a moment to realize the blooder didn’t need to see her to follow her churning tracks in the snow. At once she leapt straight up, seized the mighty arm of a stone ore, and hauled herself atop it. She scrambled to the left, balanced precariously on a helmeted head and a stone shoulder, then paused, holding her breath.
For a time, the golden vampire stood still as a statue himself, gazing about, as if he could penetrate the magic that concealed her by sheer force of will. His gaze traveled over and past her. Then Jander turned and began to climb.
When he had gotten halfway up the monument, the Shark lowered herself to the ground as quietly as she could. She readjusted the hood of her cape, making sure it would not slip off as she moved. She hoped she could complete her task before the vampire noticed her telltale footprints.
Hastening to the circle of garlic, she closed the opening with the remainder of the bulbs she had with her. He now had no escape-he couldn’t even fly over the ring. She returned to the statue and followed the vampire up.
His movements were swift and sure, but not unnaturally so. Jander was taking great care not to reveal his true nature to Maia. Thus far, his deception was to the Shark’s advantage. She followed at her own brisk pace, climbing up the battling warriors as easily as if they were limbs of a particularly gnarled tree.
He had reached the top now. There was silence, and the Shark knew that the blooder was staring at the holy symbols she’d draped across Maia’s body. Carefully, quietly, the hunter continued to climb, listening all the while.
“Lathander, protect me!” came Maia’s fear-shrill voice as Jander pulled the gag from her mouth. “Don’t kill me! Please! She-she told me what you are. I’ll do whatever you want, but, please, don’t kill me!”
Stunned silence. The Shark pulled herself up over a dying archer, awaiting the blooder’s response with malicious glee. “No, Maia,” came Jander’s voice, filled with an ancient weariness. “I won’t kill you. I just-here, let me set you free.”
The Shark was able to see him now. Safely invisible, she watched, tense, as Jander moved to untie the hands of the still-hysterical young girl. He successfully freed her hands and knelt to work at the knots that bound her ankles. Light exploded from the small pink medallion hidden in the folds of Maia’s skirts. The Shark’s spell had worked beautifully.
The vampire flung his arms up to shield his eyes, stumbled, and hurtled off the monument. The Shark hastened forward. One hand gripping a dying troll, the hunter watched Jander’s fall. His body shimmered, recasting itself into a small brown bat. He began to fly back up to the top.
Behind her, the Shark heard Maia sob as she worked loose the knots. Then, whimpering, the barmaid started the climb down from the monument. The Shark ignored her; Maia had served her purpose.
Instead, the hunter kept her attention focused on the vampire. Leaning out precariously over the raised stone swords and braced javelins that pointed up from below, she clung to the troll statue and withdrew a small pouch from her pocket. Grains of wheat fell in a shower over the bat. This was the Shark’s favorite trick to play on a vampire in bat form. The grain would confuse the vermin’s senses, making it fly wildly. And that would give the Shark a chance to prepare another, more deadly attack.
But Jander did not veer off. The little bat flitted crazily for a moment, then continued moving directly for the Shark’s face. No cloak of invisibility could protect her from the heightened senses provided to the vampire in his bat form. She could see the vermin’s tiny, sharp-toothed jaws opening as it approached her eyes.
Startled, the Shark ducked. Her foot slipped from the snow-slicked perch, and she dropped toward the upturned stone javelins below. She did not cry out, merely grunted when her death plummet was abruptly cut short. A spear wielded by a bugbear had snagged her cloak. Her throat was bruised from the sudden tug, but she was alive.
The Shark hung, dangling, swinging slightly back and forth. Her mind raced, and she cursed herself. She’d prepared no spells for this eventuality-no floating, flying, or transformational magic. Grunting with the effort, she reached up, trying to grab the stone spear that held her suspended. She could not reach it. She then stretched
to the right as far as she could in hopes of seizing the ugly, porcine face of an ore beating down a hapless stone hero. She grasped only empty air.
More frightened than she had been in decades, the Shark craned her neck to look upward.
The blooder was an elven silhouette against the star-filled sky as he bent to look at her. Then, slowly, he moved. One arm reached down.
Crying incoherently, the Shark twisted away. Her cloak tore a little, and she dropped four inches. At least the vampire was too far above her to reach her-but, ah gods, he could crawl… “Give me your hand.”
For a moment, she couldn’t comprehend the words, so unexpected were they. Jander stretched his hand farther. “Give me your hand. I can’t quite reach you!”
The cloak ripped again. The Shark stared down at the next tier of battling warriors and their pointed stone weapons. It was at least a twenty-foot drop.
“I’m coming, Shakira. Hold on.” And indeed, the golden vampire began to climb, headfirst, down to reach her.
She suddenly knew, knew with a deep, inner certainty, that Jander Sunstar was not coming to kill her. He was coming to save her life, to pull her back to safety. She, the Shark, the woman who had spent her life perfecting the art of murder, had finally failed to kill. And having failed, she would owe her life to the creature she had sought to destroy. If his forgiving hands closed on her, she would never be able to lift a weapon again. She would cease to be the Shark.
She didn’t even have to think. Reaching up, she twined both hands in the cloak. “The Shark sends you to the Nine Hells,” she said aloud, but this time the words were intended for her own ears.
As the vampire’s fingers reached out to her, the Shark smiled like the predator she was, spat at his despairing, beautiful face, and tore the cloak free.
Gallows Day
David Cook
They did not look like the most dangerous of thieves. Desperate perhaps, as they sat at a wobbly table covered with half-filled tankards that clung to the wood in sticky pools of spilled drink. Drunk, too. It was barely midmorning, but already the four thieves had drained two skins of hosteler Gurin’s cheapest ale, and they showed no inclination to stop.
Of course, their crimes didn’t shine in their drunken faces. Nobody could look at the little one and know he was the man who’d poisoned all the pets in Lord Brion’s kennel just to silence the guard dogs. Slouched over her drink, the woman hardly looked the type to spell-torch a jeweler’s shop to cover her escape, nor the old man across from her the kind to settle a turf fight with a quick knife thrust on a rooftop. At Gurin’s they looked like any other collection of sorry drunks.
They weren’t the only ones in the alehouse. It was crowded enough with other drinkers who shared their desperate looks. The four of them huddled at a poor table near the back. In their dark corner, past the stalls and benches that made the small tavern all the more crowded, they drank and talked, their voices low out of habit. No one paid them any mind-Gurin’s alehouse was for serious drinking. With its dirt floor and rickety furniture, there was no other reason to be there.
“Pour me more,” demanded Sprite-Heels, a halfling and the smallest of the four. Leaning back in the big chair, the impish fellow could only waggle his furry feet impatiently above the floor. His childlike face soured with annoyance that his cup was drained.
“Yer cup’s all yer caring for,” grumbled the thin old man astraddle the chair beside the halfling. This one was skull-bald and pockmarked, lending the taint of walking death to his already frightening looks. “It’s Therm’s last day on earth. Can’t you care about ‘im more than yer drink?” Nonetheless, the ancient hefted a skin and poured the halfling a drink — and one for himself.
“Better him to the leafless tree than me, Corrick,” the halfling mocked as he cracked open a walnut and picked out the meat.
“Sprite, you’re a horrible creature,” sniffed the woman who sat on the halfling’s left. She was no more sober than the rest. She might have been striking once. Now she was just hard-used. Her face was mapped by fine red veins from too many late nights and too much drink, her brown hair a disheveled cascade that tumbled down over her ample bosom. “My poor Therm, waiting to be hanged — “
“Yer poor Therin!” snorted Corrick, blowing ale-foam from his lips. “Before ‘im it was yer poor Emersar, then it was that barbarian oaf — “
“Xarcas weren’t no oaf! He would’ve been a grand one for the highwayman’s law. He could ride and use a sword more than you ever could, you poxy nip,” the woman snapped back. Her fingers wove patterns on the table that the other two did not notice. “Xarcas would’ve been a terror to coachmen on the Berdusk Road.”
“If he hadn’t boozed himself to death on Gurin’s cheap bub,” the halfling slipped in with a snigger. “You do pick them, Maeve.”
The woman shook with drunken fury. With an over-grand sweep, she raised her arms archly, a pinch of wax and a bit of feather between her fingertips. “Let’s see how you two like being-”
“Stow you, Brown Maeve. There’ll be no sorcery here.” The fourth drinker at the table finally broke his peace, his voice iron calm and cold. Dark eyes watched the woman over the lip of a raised mug. They glittered with confidence, knowing she would not defy him. They were dark eyes that mirrored the gray streaking in his curly, black hair. Though he’d been drinking, the man’s gaze was as clear as a card-sharper’s during the deal.
At a distance he appeared not tall, not short, neither dark nor fair. He was a plain man, and there was always one like him in every crowd. Only his clothes were distinctive-linen, thick velvet, and rare leathers. In another alehouse, onlookers might believe he was a fop about to be gulled by the other three. Here in Gurin’s ale shop, as out of place as he might seem, folks knew better. He was Pinch, wild rogue and upright man. He’d come to Gurin’s to drink a wake, for it was his man that was due to be hanged today.
“No spells, no trouble, Maeve.” The words carried in them the expectation of obedience.
Maeve pulled short as soon as Pinch spoke. For a moment she drunkenly challenged his gaze-but for only a moment. It might have been the faint frown on his lips that discouraged her, reminding her of the boundless limits of his revenge. Whatever the cause, Maeve reluctantly lowered her arms.
“It ain’t right, Pinch,” she slurred as she fumbled selfconsciously with her mug. “It’s gallows day. They got no cause talking like that, not today.” The wizardress peered venomously at the pair who had roused her ire.
“Course not, Maeve,” Pinch agreed smoothly, playing her like a sharper’s mark. “Corrick, Sprite-let her be.” Only after he spoke did the thief turn his gaze to the others. Old Corrick twisted uncomfortably under Pinch’s hard gaze while Sprite casually took an interest in the nutshells on the table.
“Just a little sport, that’s all-to take our minds off the day’s gloom,” the halfling offered as his drink-clouded countenance transformed into one of childlike innocence.
Pinch poured himself another mugful of ale and scowled at the halfling. The little fellow’s smile might work well on the conies he cheated, but it didn’t soften him one bit. “No more of it. Maeve’s got the sense of things. It’s not right to go mocking Therin’s hanging.” He drained the draught in a single long pull, all the while keeping his dark eyes on the other two.
“It’s not like we haven’t seen folks swing, Pinch. Even of our own.” Sprite leaned forward to prop his chin on the edge of the table. With a small dagger that seemed to come from nowhere, he began to play an idle pass at mumblety-peg on the tabletop. “Besides a hanging’s always good for trade. Draws a nice crowd. We should be striking the gawkers while they still got their purses full.”
“We should be leaving town, that’s what we should be doing, not sitting ‘ere boozing,” Corrick growled. ‘Therin’s still got time to turn on us all.”
Pinch raised a sharp eyebrow at that. Therm had been his choice as lieutenant. With a snake’s speed, the master thief shot o
ut a hand, seized Corrick by a ragged collar, and jerked the old man closer, till their faces were practically cheek to cheek. ‘Tell me, Gran’,” he hissed, “who’s the upright man here, you or me?” Even as Pinch asked, one hand slipped to the dagger in his boot.
Ancient Corrick wormed in the grasp, his eyes flickering in panic as he saw the black-haired rogue’s hand move south. “You be, Pinch. No one else,” he gasped in breathless sincerity.
“That be so?” Pinch mocked as he let Corrick’s dirty shirt slip from his fingers. The ancient slid his chair away from the master thief’s side of the table. His own hand started to drift toward the sheath knife at his side.
“Here now-Pinch, Corrick-your cups are empty,” Sprite-Heels offered eagerly. He hopped up on his chair, dragged their tankards to the center of the table, and sloshed the last ale from the serving skin until both cups were filled to the brim. ‘To Therin’s memory,” he toasted, his own mug held aloft. Neither Pinch nor Corrick moved, eyes locked on each other.
“To poor, dear Therin,” Brown Maeve nervously added, clinking her mug to Sprite’s.
The master thief’s expression shifted into a thin smile as he lifted the mug set out for him. He held the cup there till Corrick followed suit. Still their eyes watched each other, ignoring the other two at the table. “To Therin-would all my children be so true,” the master rogue offered. He tapped his mug to Sprite’s and Maeve’s.
‘To Therin-may ‘is tongue stay still.” With that toast Corrick broke away from his leader’s gaze. The mugs clinked once more, and Sprite muttered a benedictus for them all under his breath.
Pinch leaned back and unkinked his stiff leg, the reward of a bad tumble while on a roof-breaking job. “Therin’s kept his peace till now. He’ll keep his trap shut till the end,” was the master thief’s confident prediction.
Composure already regained, Corrick shook his bony head, once again sputtering off the golden foam of drink. “Knowing the ‘igh lord’s permanently canceled yer debts got a way of changing a man,” he counterpredicted.