by Ed Greenwood
Sir Hamnet fell more than once, smearing himself with filth. It didn’t matter. He pushed himself to his feet and dashed onward, frantically searching the darkened hovels for a likely safe haven.
A triumphant cheer drew him around the next corner to the doorstep of a tavern. The building was no less a ruin than its neighbors, but its facade was brightly lit. Torches burned on either side of the wide doorway, chasing away the fog, casting broad shadows into the street. Spritely music spilled from the interior along with the sour scent of spilled ale and overcooked meat.
Sir Hamnet staggered over the stoop just as another cheer went up. He blinked, thinking his vision blurred by the frantic run, but realized the room was hazed with acrid smoke. Clusters of languid, slack-limbed men and women lounged around a dozen or so hookahs. A few turned to regard him with vague, disinterested eyes; most seemed completely unaware of his presence, so caught up were they in their ardent pursuit of oblivion.
The real center of attention-and the source of the cheering-was a large square cut into the taproom’s floor. A mob of rowdy toughs lined the miniature arena, noisily wagering on a bloody fight between a terrier and a small, slim creature, all slick-furred and sinuous. The nobleman stared for an instant, uncomprehending, as the thing locked its jaws on the terrier’s throat and tore away a gory, fatal chunk of flesh. Then the victorious gladiator reared up on its hind legs, and Sir Hamnet finally recognized the beast.
A weasel. A large, gray-furred weasel. And its beady eyes were fixed firmly on Hawklin’s face.
“Welcome,” a smooth, not-quite-melodious voice said in the noble’s ear.
A shabbily dressed man stepped before Sir Hamnet. His face was narrow, with a hawkish nose and high cheekbones beneath the grime and the scars. He was thin to emaciation, clad in tattered clothes and suffused with the stink of cheap gin. Like everyone else in the place, he wore his weapon without peacestrings. From its obvious value, the short sword hanging at his hip had certainly been stolen.
“You look a little ragged, old gent.” The stranger’s broad smile seemed to radiate welcome despite the rotting gums and missing teeth. “Best get you a seat, eh?”
Sir Hamnet was too stunned to object as the hawk-nosed man slipped a hand under his elbow and guided him to a chair at the back of the room. He was sitting before he finally gathered wits enough to speak. “I need to find a watchman,” he said. “There’s been a-”
“Shhh!” the stranger interrupted, holding up his left hand to silence the nobleman; his fourth and fifth fingers were little more than discolored stubs of scarred flesh. “The locals don’t like the king’s men much. You’d best keep your voice down. Look, I’ll be right back. There’s somebody here wants to talk to you. Maybe he can help.”
Sir Hamnet watched the hawk-nosed man weave his way to the bar. It was only then that the nobleman took in the details of his surroundings. The place was a cesspit in every sense of the word.
Fist-sized roaches picked through the spilled ale, chunks of age-petrified bread, and unconscious revelers strewn on the floor, while centipedes as long as a man’s forearm pulsed up the walls. They ducked under and around the trophies tacked there. Crude sketches of women in various stages of undress surrounded the crumbling hearth. Nearby hung a gallery of finger bones, the penalty exacted from careless pickpockets by the local watch. Parchment arrest warrants and wanted posters signed by King Azoun and a half-dozen other sires of House Obarskyr were displayed beside nooses cut from gallows all across Cormyr. Many of the ropes still bore the fleshy marks left by the infamous footpads and highwaymen who’d dangled in their choking embrace.
The most prized trophy hung over the door-a helmet once worn by a captain of the city watch. As Sir Hamnet stared at the helm, the wavering torchlight illuminated the eye slits. The captain’s head was still housed within the rusted steel, its empty eye sockets staring down in defeat at the toughs crowding the taproom.
The hawk-nosed man suddenly eclipsed the vile trophy. “I told you they don’t like the city watch,” he said as he placed a brimming mug before Sir Hamnet. With his right hand he presented the weasel from the arena. Blood darkened its muzzle, and bits of terrier fur still clung to its claws. “He’s got a message for you.”
Sir Hamnet recoiled from the weasel and from the madman holding it. But his discomfort at the beast’s proximity was nothing compared to the horror that gripped him when the animal opened its mouth and spoke.
“You were the lone weasel at the Hill of Lost Souls,” it rasped softly, so that only Sir Hamnet could hear.
Heart thundering, blood roaring in his ears, Sir Hamnet exploded from his chair. The hawk-nosed man stepped aside as the aged explorer bolted past. “He usually prefers to chat with his own kind, so the message must’ve been important,” he called to the retreating nobleman. “Say, old gent, does this mean you don’t want to see the other side of the mirror?”
Sir Hamnet had just crossed the threshold into the alley, but the shouted question stopped him cold, just as surely, as completely, as the poisoned dagger had paralyzed Captain Truesilver. He forced himself to look up. As if following some unheard cue, the fog and the shadows parted, allowing the torchlight to shine fully on the sign hanging overhead. The weather-beaten circle of wood was colored by wedges of silver paint, a crude attempt at depicting a broken window-or a shattered mirror.
“Yes, Sir Hamnet,” the hawk-nosed man said. “The Shattered Mirror. You came here for an audience. Now you have it.”
The nobleman turned slowly, knowing it would be futile to flee. He found the taproom and its patrons transformed. Bones and grinning skulls had replaced the wooden walls and offal-smeared floor. Instead of gin-soaked toughs, denizens and fiends filled the hall. They stood in silent array, the court of Hades in all its terrible splendor. Some gripped razor-edged halberds. Others had only their horns and fangs and claws for weapons, though they were surely enough to rend any man’s soul from his flesh.
And in the center of this ghastly host sat the hawk-nosed man. His myriad names flashed through Sir Hamnet’s mind-the Lord of the Dead, the Dark Sun, Master of Strife, the Prince of Lies.
Cyric.
He was robed in darkness, the kind that shrouds the hearts of liars and infidels. The weasel curled affectionately around his neck, a living collar to that shirt of shadow. Pages of other gods’ holy books soled his boots, and the remains of false martyrs formed his throne. Free of grime, free of scars, Cyric’s countenance glowed with hideous glee. Even as Sir Hamnet watched, fingers sprouted to replace the missing digits on his left hand. He flexed the restored hand and caressed the pommel of the rose-red short sword lying across his lap.
“Well, old gent?” Cyric prompted. “Do you have something to ask?”
Sir Hamnet cast his gaze down. “As a son of House Hawklin and a member in good standing of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers, I claim the rights of safe conduct and-”
“Has anyone here raised a talon against you? No. So you’ve obviously been granted safety.” The death god sighed with impatience. “Aren’t you going to return my courtesy?”
“C–Courtesy?”
“I’ve dropped my facade. Are you going to do the same?” Cyric watched Sir Hamnet’s face for some sign of recognition, but none came. There was only the typical pall of fear and awe. “Shall I let the weasel explain it to you again? I thought he’d summed it up nicely before, but maybe he should have another go.”
At Hawklin’s stammering reply, Cyric pounded the arm of his throne. “The facade of the great hero, the great explorer!” he shrieked in a voice like an orchestra of untuned violins. “You didn’t lift a blade in defense of your companions at the Hill of Lost Souls. You ran as the first goblins entered the camp-just as you’ve run from every danger you’ve ever faced! As my sinuous friend said earlier, you were the only weasel on the hill that day.”
The Lord of the Dead closed his eyes and collected himself. “Now,” he continued more calmly, “I don’t brand you a
coward. I’d label your actions-” He paused and looked up, as if the proper word floated just over his head.
“Self-preservation,” the weasel on his shoulder rasped.
“Exactly,” Cyric chimed. He stroked the beast’s bloody muzzle affectionately before turning back to Sir Hamnet. “I applaud someone smart enough to preserve his own life, but I take exception to your imperfect guise of resolute honesty and stout-hearted courage. You haven’t convinced yourself that you’re a hero, not deep down. So don’t insult me by hiding behind a flawed mask and expecting me not to notice it’s cracked.”
“It’s not a mask,” Hawklin murmured dazedly. “My books. My maps. The Stalwarts respect all that I’ve done.” He voice grew stronger, his words more certain. “They know the truth…”
Cyric clapped slowly, facetiously. “Not embarrassingly bad, but I’ve seen you do better cheating your way out of a bar bill at the club.”
“Seen me do better? You’ve been watching me?”
“No more than any other liar.”
Hawklin’s bushy white brows knit over his dark eyes. “This was a trap! You charged that monster Other with luring me here, tempting me to search this place out!”
An amused murmur rippled through the assembled court of Hades.
“I hardly need to employ imitation fiends like Uther when I have the endless hosts of the underworld at my beck and call,” the Lord of Strife replied blandly. “And I leave this pathway to Hades open, and let my minions circulate stories of its existence, to see who wanders in. It breaks up the monotony of listening to the dead drone on about their tedious past lives, to the damned scream in agony. I just happened to recognize you when you crossed the threshold.”
Cyric studied the nobleman for a moment, then shook his head. “I hope I haven’t overestimated you, old gent. You forge lies well enough, but you’ve hidden your heart from them, shielded it with a wall of delusory respect built up by those boors at your club.”
The weasel perked up and added, “But the problem with walls is, you never know which way they’re going to fall when they finally crumble. Maybe out, maybe in.”
Casually Cyric gestured to two of the largest, most hideous fiends in his entourage. “Throw him out-but be careful you don’t hurt him. He’s under my protection until he reaches the mortal realms.”
A scream wrenched itself from Sir Hamnet’s throat as the fiends closed on him. They gripped him with fingers liquid and putrefying, but strong as vices, and lifted him from the ground. Cold seeped into his flesh at their touch. It spread up his arms and across his chest, chilling his heart, making it thud against his ribs like a frantic caged animal.
Sir Hamnet was still screaming when the city watch found him at sunrise the next morning, kneeling in the mud before the burned-out shell of an abandoned building. They recognized him, of course, his fame having spread beyond the walls of the Stalwart Club long ago. That was fortunate, since the watchmen would have been less patient, less gentle with a commoner so obviously insane with drink.
“We’ll take you to the temple of Mystra, Sir Hamnet,” the captain offered. “They’ll look you over there. Then we’ll take your report.”
“No. Take me home.”
“Fine. We’ll have you to your estate before the servants are done preparing breakfast,” the captain replied.
“I said home,” Sir Hamnet croaked. “Home, damn you. The Stalwart Club.”
For three days, Sir Hamnet Hawklin immersed himself in the healing familiarity of the society’s library. He slept in his chair, his rapier never far from his hand. He spoke little, and when he did it was only in carefully worded snatches that obscured more than they illuminated. Still, he revealed enough for his fellow Stalwarts to construct their own, utterly distorted account of Gareth Truesilver’s demise and Hawklin’s own confrontation with Cyric. Their version cast Sir Hamnet as a valiant defender, overcome by a combined cadre of body snatchers and fiends that grew in number with each telling.
The nobleman did not object, and some time during the second day he almost came to believe that he had crossed steel with a dozen assassins and denizens in his friend’s defense. Soon after, plans were begun for Sir Hamnet’s long-overdue statue. Hawklin had warmed by then to the familiar role of daring trailblazer and all-around stout fellow. In his own mind, he even managed to dismiss the most troubling events at the Shattered Mirror as toxin-induced hallucinations, brought on by a nick from a body snatcher’s poisoned blade.
Only one topic rivaled Sir Hamnet’s bravery in those three days-the whereabouts of Uther. The butler had been missing since the night of the disastrous expedition, a sure sign of his involvement with Captain Truesilver’s waylaying.
Those clubmen who’d befriended the monstrous servant chose to believe he’d fled in fear upon hearing of the soldier’s death; kindhearted though they were, these misguided folk found themselves shouted down more and more as the hours passed. No, the butler had clearly orchestrated the captain’s murder, and it was only a matter of time before he was brought to justice.
The last place any of the Stalwarts expected the frightful servant to appear was in the library itself. Yet Uther strode into that cavernous, trophy-lined room just as twilight settled upon Suzail that third night.
He ignored the gasps of surprise and the angry, shouted accusations. Anyone who got too close was warned away with a shake of his magnificently horned head, or shoved away by a black-clawed hand. And the mages scattered about the room knew better than to attempt to restrain him through spellcraft; the same misfired magic that had warped the butler’s form had made him immune to all further enchantment.
Uther stalked to one particular bookshelf, a place of honor near the hearth, and paused there. With his usual efficiency, he began to withdraw the tomes and scrolls and maps housed there. Most of the Stalwarts knew whose books they were; those few who didn’t could guess.
“Outrage upon outrage!” Sir Hamnet cried, finally jolted out of his shocked silence by Uther’s astounding impertinence. “Leave those volumes alone, you murderous brute!”
“These books have been shelved incorrectly,” Uther noted without looking up from his task. “The cases nearest the hearth are reserved for histories, Sir Hamnet. Your works are fiction.”
As he closed on the butler, the aged nobleman reached for his rapier and drew it with a flourish. “I’ll run you through unless you put them back.”
“Coward.”
The voice was labored, the word thick and ill-formed, but it was clear enough to draw everyone’s attention to the figure framed by the library’s massive doorway. Captain since the watchmen would have been less patient, less gentle with a commoner so obviously insane with drink.
“We’ll take you to the temple of Mystra, Sir Hamnet,” the captain offered. “They’ll look you over there. Then we’ll take your report.”
“No. Take me home.”
“Fine. We’ll have you to your estate before the servants are done preparing breakfast,” the captain replied.
“I said home,” Sir Hamnet croaked. “Home, damn you. The Stalwart Club.”
For three days, Sir Hamnet Hawklin immersed himself in the healing familiarity of the society’s library. He slept in his chair, his rapier never far from his hand. He spoke little, and when he did it was only in carefully worded snatches that obscured more than they illuminated. Still, he revealed enough for his fellow Stalwarts to construct their own, utterly distorted account of Gareth Truesilver’s demise and Hawklin’s own confrontation with Cyric. Their version cast Sir Hamnet as a valiant defender, overcome by a combined cadre of body snatchers and fiends that grew in number with each telling.
The nobleman did not object, and some time during the second day he almost came to believe that he had crossed steel with a dozen assassins and denizens in his friend’s defense. Soon after, plans were begun for Sir Hamnet’s long-overdue statue. Hawklin had warmed by then to the familial’ role of daring trailblazer and all-around stout fellow
. In his own mind, he even managed to dismiss the most troubling events at the Shattered Mirror as toxin-induced hallucinations, brought on by a nick from a body snatcher’s poisoned blade.
Only one topic rivaled Sir Hamnet’s bravery in those three days-the whereabouts of Uther. The butler had been missing since the night of the disastrous expedition, a sure sign of his involvement with Captain Truesilver’s waylaying.
Those clubmen who’d befriended the monstrous servant chose to believe he’d fled in fear upon hearing of the soldier’s death; kindhearted though they were, these misguided folk found themselves shouted down more and more as the hours passed. No, the butler had clearly orchestrated the captain’s murder, and it was only a matter of time before he was brought to justice.
The last place any of the Stalwarts expected the frightful servant to appear was in the library itself. Yet Uther strode into that cavernous, trophy-lined room just as twilight settled upon Suzail that third night.
He ignored the gasps of surprise and the angry, shouted accusations. Anyone who got too close was warned away with a shake of his magnificently horned head, or shoved away by a black-clawed hand. And the mages scattered about the room knew better than to attempt to restrain him through spellcraft; the same misfired magic that had warped the butler’s form had made him immune to all further enchantment.
Uther stalked to one particular bookshelf, a place of honor near the hearth, and paused there. With his usual efficiency, he began to withdraw the tomes and scrolls and maps housed there. Most of the Stalwarts knew whose books they were; those few who didn’t could guess.
“Outrage upon outrage!” Sir Hamnet cried, finally jolted out of his shocked silence by Uther’s astounding impertinence. “Leave those volumes alone, you murderous brute!”
“These books have been shelved incorrectly,” Uther noted without looking up from his task. “The cases nearest the hearth are reserved for histories, Sir Hamnet. Your works are fiction.”
As he closed on the butler, the aged nobleman reached for his rapier and drew it with a flourish. “I’ll run you through unless you put them back.”