by James Lowder
Kezef sniffed the prisoner’s trail and barked feral laughter. Cyric! The thin, starving man who’d run from the cave at Kelemvor’s side was the Prince of Lies—mortal then, of course, but Cyric nonetheless. Howling in mirth, the Chaos Hound darted from the cave and headed south.
One of the giants turned away from the altar, scanning the darkness with glittering blue eyes. He raised a callused hand to his lips, mostly hidden by a dirty beard, and said, “Quiet. Something’s in here.”
“What is it, Thrym?” one of the giant’s fellows asked. like a driving wind, his whisper blew whorls of powdery snow from a nearby ledge. “More ’venturers?”
Thrym reached slowly for his massive axe. “No, not warriors. Something else … some creeping thing. I heard laughing, and now I smell something, too.”
“All you smell is the bodies,” a dark-haired giant complained. He stuffed a blunt finger in his ear and scratched, squinting the eye on that side of his face. “You let them sit near fire too long. No good to eat now.”
Thrym swatted the dark-haired giant with the flat of his axe blade. The blow echoed out of the cave, resounding over the frozen midnight land of Thar like thunder. “This not good,” Thrym ventured after a time. The greasy hair stood up on the back of his tree-trunk neck, and a vague, gnawing fear made his stomach churn as if he’d eaten a yew bush. “Something powerful spying on us.”
“Just more ’venturers. A mage or something.”
The dark-haired giant dug into his other ear. “Maybe Zzutam heard our prayers and is gonna show up again.”
Thrym got to his feet and carefully searched the corners of the cave, though he felt an unusual fear at venturing too close to the darkest of them. He found nothing, which was both relieving and troublesome.
“Here,” the black-haired giant said when Thrym returned to the prayer circle. “Maybe you need to eat. This meat still good.” He smiled his best conciliatory smile for the chief and offered him the last strips saved from the mad human Thrym himself had slain a few tendays ago.
Later, after finishing the prayers to Zzutam and devouring the last of the salted meat, Thrym dreamed of a terrible, unsettling conflict A lean, hawk-nosed man led a hundred hell hounds, all belching flame. The beasts drove the giants from their home and cornered them against a black wall. The enchanted stones were too high to leap over and too slick to scale.
A vague memory of the dream haunted Thrym for days, filled with the hawk-nosed man’s cruel laughter and the snarls of the hell hounds as they tore into the trapped frost giants.…
* * * * *
Waterdeep boasted many magnificent buildings, both ancient and modern, but few were the subject of as much gossip as Blackstaff Tower. Home to the wizard Khelben Arunsun, the tower often hosted visiting royalty and explorers of great renown. Many throughout Faerun sought Khelben’s advice on matters of state and matters of sorcery, and for that reason Blackstaff Tower sported no doors, no windows. The featureless facade discouraged would-be mages and young adventurers from calling at all watches. After a few cups of mead, however, Khelben was wont to admit he kept the doors hidden mostly because he liked the air of mystery it gave the place.
As dawn spread warm and rosy across the horizon, events were taking place upon the tower’s flat, circular roof that would lead to new tales and wild rumors. A spell far beyond the skill of Khelben—and most mortal wizards—masked the eerie flashes of light and shouted incantations emanating from the high vantage. The powerful, complicated wards Khelben had set upon the tower offered no hint of the dangerous intruder’s presence. Unaware, the archmage pored over a musty tome of forgotten lore in his library.
Even if Khelben had shaken off the enchantment and stumbled upon the mysterious stranger, he wouldn’t have believed his eyes. Most well-traveled people in Faerun could recognize Lord Chess at a glance; the foppish ruler of Zhentil Keep had a penchant for getting his likeness printed on everything from customs stamps to sheet music. If a trade good originated in, or merely passed through, the city he ruled, an image of Chess could be found on it somewhere, smiling inanely over a thick double chin.
Yet it truly was Lord Chess who sat unobserved atop Khelben’s tower, drawing arcane runes upon four wyvern skulls. When that task was completed, the nobleman set the leering bones at the points of the compass graven carefully into the roof. Finally, Chess stood and folded beefy hands over his paunch.
“W-Will you let me go now, please?” he mumbled. “It’s almost finished. Just as the parchment instructed.”
Of course not, Chess, a smooth voice murmured in his mind. I need the help of a mortal to snare this beast You’ll be free when the battle’s won.
Driven by the arcane presence possessing him, Chess walked to the center of the roof, his steps stuttering and tentative. There he rechecked the three thick candles set in a small half-circle. Yes, they were still lit, still facing the trapdoor that led up from the interior. He took a small jar of spider blood and drew a rune that had been ancient long before the fabled city of Myth Drannor fell, long before Waterdeep had been a minor trading post at the edge of the frozen North. His hand trembled as he completed the rune, but not enough to spoil its grace or its effectiveness.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
“I’m afraid,” Chess whined. “If Cyric finds out—”
You prayed someone would take revenge on Cyric for killing Leira, Chess. I heard you. And now, after I answer your prayers and give you the chance to help, all you can tell me is that you’re afraid?
“But I am afraid. If I die, Cyric will have my soul.” Chess dropped to his knees, his fine silk breeches coming perilously close to marring the circle around the rune. He brought his hands up to cover his face and wept. “Then he’ll know. He’ll look at me and know I betrayed him.”
I’ll take your soul into my domain, the voice soothed. Cyric won’t find you there, not unless I let him.…
Lord Chess was not a brave man, but neither was he stupid. He recognized the threat in those words; it was too late to turn back now. “What do I do next?”
Take out the parchment and repeat the last phrase.
Wiping away his tears, Chess withdrew the glowing sheet of moonlight from his billowing sleeve and read the final verse of the enchantment:
“A mortal kills the candle first.
A god’s breath slakes the second’s thirst.
A traitor’s blood to drown the last.
The web of intrigue now is cast.”
The parchment fell apart, slipping like moonbeams through Chess’s fingers. The radiance from the sundered page settled over the skulls and the candles. After a moment the light faded, and with it disappeared the weird compass burned into the boards.
“That third part still bothers me,” Chess murmured. “Why blood?”
Because the spell says so, the voice replied. You have that dirk I gave you. All you need to do is prick your thumb. A little blood will do.…
“He comesss,” the wyvern skull to the south croaked. “The Chaosss Hound comesss from the sssouth.”
Finished not a moment too soon, the voice said. Quickly, Chess, behind the candles. He’s coming just as we expected. And remember, the first and third candles are your responsibility.
The fat man bustled to the spot he’d marked with the elder sign and planted his slippered feet carefully over the rune. Chess was so concerned with keeping his toes inside the circle of protection that he didn’t see Kezef slide through the trapdoor, insubstantial as a ghost.
The Hound crouched low at the unexpected obstacle before him, growling like a dozen winter-starved wolves. His body became corporeal again, all decaying and maggoty.
“Don’t think you can fool me, Mask, hiding in bloated flesh armor like that.” Kezef began to slink toward Chess, his tail curled down between his bony legs. “I could smell you a hundred miles from here. Tell me, how long do you think you can keep fooling Cyric with this little game of yours? I spotted you right away, and I’m
no god.…”
Snuff the first candle, the God of Intrigue said calmly to Chess. Use your fingers.
The lord of Zhentil Keep didn’t move, merely stared at the massive hound creeping toward him. The thing’s flesh was oozing, like pus from an old sore, and its paws burned prints into the ground. Black, pointed teeth filled the hound’s mouth. Its eyes glinted with unearthly malevolence.
The candle, Mask commanded, his voice full of godly wrath. You must extinguish it now, Chess.
The fear-wrought paralysis broken, the nobleman reached down to the first of the yellow tallow sticks. Kezef lunged forward, but Mask countered by moving Chess’s stubby fingers and greasy lips in the gestures and incantation for a powerful spell. The distance between the monstrous hound and the cowering human warped, elongated. No matter how fast Kezef ran, he seemed to get no closer to his prey.
Chess closed his eyes and pinched the flame on the first candle. The wick had been woven from the hair of prisoners wrongfully held by lawful and good kings, and it didn’t give up its spark easily. The stubborn flame burned Chess’s thumb and forefinger black before it died.
One down, Mask purred. No fear, Chess. This will be much easier than you—
An ear-splitting howl drowned out the rest of Mask’s confident words and sent a violent quake of terror down the nobleman’s spine. A wave of confusion swept over both god and man. Chess stumbled back, out of the protective circle, and clamped his hands over his ears.
Kezef was on him before he had a chance to scream. The Chaos Hound rammed him, driving him away from the candles and the protective rune. Through it all, the shriek continued, sending any thoughts of defense or escape tumbling into a maelstrom of sound.
“Come out, Mask,” Kezef rumbled. “Face me yourself, coward.”
The Hound’s breath became a puff of corrosive mist in the bitter winter air. The acid sprayed across the nobleman’s face and chest, scouring flesh from his bones. It was Chess’s scream that now rang out over Blackstaff Tower as he twitched and writhed beneath the awful weight of Kezef’s front paws.
“I’ve already chosssen a much more sssuitable location,” one of the wyvern skulls hissed jovially. “You know, Kezef, you really ssshould do sssomething about that breath of yoursss.…”
The Chaos Hound darted away from Lord Chess to the skull positioned directly across the tower. Kezef’s swift passing caused the candles to gutter, but their wicks held the flames greedily. With one hiss of his corrosive breath, the Hound melted the skull.
“Your hunger must be dulling your senses,” Mask said. The Patron of Thieves stood at the roof’s center, holding the second candle in his gloved hand. He raised his mask slightly and blew it out. “Now, Chess. The third must be snuffed with your blood. You won’t need the dagger. Just lean over it.”
The lord of Zhentil Keep had crawled to the center of the roof and grasped the final candle. Fingers trailing ragged tatters of flesh, the nobleman reached for the dirk Mask had given him. All the while he looked out at the guttering flame from a face that was no longer a face.
Lord Chess was dead before he closed his fingers on the knife, his arms and hands ground to paste in Kezef’s black teeth. The thick candle tumbled through the air, only to land in a spreading puddle of crimson. The blood stained the tallow dark and doused the flame with a long, bubbling sizzle.
“And that’s three.”
The compass Mask had inscribed upon the roof appeared again, its curves and points etched in radiance more dazzling than the morning sunlight streaming over the City of Splendors. The lines of the pattern folded together. They engulfed Kezef like a huge fishing net. An unbreakable knot sealed the net above the Hound, and the remaining wyvern skulls fused to form an intricate seal over that.
Mask stood over the nobleman’s gory, armless corpse. “Sorry, Chess, but the enchantment really did call for you to do a lot more than prick your thumb. Rest easy, though. You played your part perfectly.”
The God of Intrigue turned to the Chaos Hound. “We would have used this to trap you last time, Kezef, but the pathetic bleeding hearts like Mystra refused to go along with human sacrifice.”
Mask erased the runic symbol with his foot. The destruction of the glyph, which had never provided Lord Chess the least bit of protection, closed the final part of the trap. A crimson flame lit the last of the three candles, trailing a thick, pungent smoke that balled like a giant’s fist above the tower. The fist closed over the howling, struggling Chaos Hound and drew him swiftly into the candle.
“Cyric!” Kezef screamed as he disappeared into the waxy prison. “Avenge me!”
“Oh, he’ll avenge this slap all right, but not against me.” Mask kicked the corpse of Lord Chess onto its back. The acid had ravaged the nobleman’s face, but there was just enough flab left for the Lord of the Dead to identify him. “I’m not quite ready to challenge the Prince of Lies, not without allies, anyway.”
He touched the seared flesh around the dead man’s throat and a silver-white chain appeared. The disk dangling from the chain held a circle of eight stars with a trail of mist bleeding from its center—the holy symbol of Mystra.
“Why, Lord Chess. You were a secret member of the Church of Mysteries! Treachery in Cyric’s holy city, and at the highest levels. Tsk. He will be disappointed.… Still, I’ll take your soul in. After all, we wouldn’t want you telling your former liege how I, er, encouraged your work with the Lady of Mysteries.”
A sheet of parchment created from moonlight appeared in Mask’s hand. On it was inscribed the ancient and complicated rite by which a god could contain a power such as Kezef, but only with the cooperation of a mortal. Mask changed the traitor mentioned in the spell to a faithful minion and erased the necessity for blood to be shed; he knew Cyric would never buy Mystra killing traitors or murdering innocents to seal an enchantment. Obviously, Chess’s death was an unfortunate accident. After all, the Hound’s teeth marks were all over the poor fool.
With narrowed eyes, the Lord of Shadows surveyed his work. Yes, this would do nicely. When the shielding spell was lifted and Cyric discovered his faithful dog had been waylaid.… Mask smiled. The Prince of Lies would be swift in showing his displeasure with both Mystra and Zhentil Keep.
The tallow prison firmly in one gloved hand, the God of Intrigue melted into the lengthening shadows next to the corpulent remains of Lord Chess. The mystery he left in his wake atop Blackstaff Tower would baffle sages and gossips in the City of Splendors for decades. Its effects were felt throughout the heavens in mere moments.
X
DUEL-EDGED SWORD
Wherein Cyric investigates the waylaying of the
Chaos Hound, Gwydion speaks the name of the wrong person at the worst possible instant, and the identity of Kelemvor’s strange jailor is finally revealed.
Cyric threw the two spent candles and the holy symbol at Jergal. The seneschal didn’t raise a hand to deflect the missiles, didn’t flinch when they rebounded painfully from his smooth gray face.
“Of course this is a trick!” the Prince of Lies shouted. “Mystra isn’t fool enough to leave her holy symbol and a page from her spellbook at the scene of the crime. She isn’t like that blunt dolt Torm, who can’t spell ‘subtlety,’ let alone practice it.”
The Lord of the Dead hunched down in his throne. Twisting the moonlight parchment in his bony fingers, he studied the severed head resting awkwardly on the floor before him. Much of the fat had been burned away from the face, but it had obviously belonged to Lord Chess. Kezef had done the gruesome damage with his corrosive breath; it didn’t take a master sage to figure that out. The real question was, why had Chess been involved in the treachery and which god—or gods—had orchestrated the capture of the Chaos Hound? The spell on the parchment was powerful enough to imprison the beast, but only a deity would be strong enough to hold Kezef while Chess extinguished the candles.
“Well,” Cyric murmured to the severed head, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
Chess opened his eyes and stared blankly at the tips of the death god’s boots. A thick, bubbling wail burbled from lips seared by acid, sticky with blood. “I have nothing to tell you, murderer of Leira.”
Cyric leaned forward to study the ravaged face. He punctuated his next question by rapping the rolled parchment into his palm with each word. “Who’s pulling your strings, puppet?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
A pause, then Chess replied, “The difference between the two is academic, at least as far as you’re concerned. You’ll get no more from me about the matter.”
“You grow bold now that you’re dead. Where’s that foppishness the world found so revolting?”
“Burned away with my flesh and flown with my fear of dying,” Chess murmured. “And since you know not where I am, no new fears can claim me.”
Muttering bitter maledictions, the Prince of Lies slouched back in his throne. “Perhaps there are other creatures like Kezef in the planes, things that can track the dead. Then I’ll personally deliver virgin fears to you, you simpering lackey.”
“Indeed. There may be trackers like the Chaos Hound—” Chess would have shrugged had his head still been attached to his shoulders “—but my protector has thousands of candles to trap them in.”
“I can summon your consciousness like this whenever I wish.” Cyric leaped from the throne and placed his foot atop the severed head. “I’ll keep your mind anchored in my throne room and demand you entertain me. You’ll be my jester.”
Chess laughed, a sickening, liquid sound. “My protector asks me to remind you of something: Your talons do not reach as far as you’d like to think. Kelemvor’s soul is hidden from you. Placing another beyond your grasp would be a simple enough matter.”