“The history of Rashemen is fraught with war and strife,” Tatigan went on. He pointed at the map on the wall. “Even their geography works against them. Look: Their southern neighbors, the Thayans, launched countless invasions over hundreds of years. From the East, the Tuigan horde did the same, to say nothing of the lost empires of Narfell and Raumathar-powers that used Rashemi land as a battleground. Despite all this, their people carve home and glory out of a harsh, isolated environment. They submit utterly to the authority of the wychlaran-witches-and reward their warriors for superior skill and fighting prowess. In battle, frenzy consumes their berserker warriors, a force that rivals the ecstasy of pain and suffering embraced by the children of Netheril, the shadar-kai. The great irony is that the isolated natures of both peoples would never allow one to seek out the other for an alliance.”
“Until now,” Ashok said.
“Precisely.”
“Can we expect a fight from these berserkers?” Skagi said. Like Ashok, he’d regained his composure from the jhuild.
“That all depends,” Tatigan said. “They open their lands for trade caravans, though they never welcome outsiders with open arms. Shadar-kai have walked among them before as sellswords on caravan runs out from Ikemmu, so you’re nothing new to them-a curiosity perhaps, but nothing more.”
“This isn’t a trading mission for us. We’re approaching their people directly for aid,” Ashok said quietly. He took another sip of the red liquid. It burned on his lips. “That changes the game.”
“Indeed,” Tatigan said. “Honestly, I’m looking forward to seeing how all the pieces come together.”
“If our relations are poor, you’ll be in the middle of it,” Skagi pointed out.
“He’s right,” Ashok said. “Does your voice carry any weight among the Rashemi? Could you help us secure an audience with the witches?”
“The wychlaran don’t involve themselves with common trade matters,” Tatigan said. “The most I could do is talk to the local folk on your behalf, but it won’t make you less suspicious. No, in this you’re going to be on your own.”
If Ilvani was dreaming about a Rashemi witch, there had to be a reason for it. “We’ll just have to make them understand our need,” Ashok said.
Skagi held up his empty glass. “And get them to share their firewine.”
CHAPTER SIX
During the days that followed, Ashok stayed on the fringes of the caravan preparations. Reflecting the dynamic of the races in Ikemmu, there was little for him or the other shadar-kai to do-this stage of the journey belonged to the merchants of the coster caravan.
The plan as Uwan had laid it out with Tatigan was for Ashok, Skagi, Cree, and Ilvani to escort Tatigan, accompanied by three other merchants and their personal guards, through the Underdark side of the city. They and the rest of the crew, including the drovers and the wagons, would then use a portal to transport themselves and the trade cargo to the surface of Faerun.
Tatigan and several other wealthy merchants in Ikemmu paid a bloated sum in coin to maintain the portal in order to transport cargo. Of course, the magic that powered the portal was unstable-all the merchants knew that. More often than not, they lost cargo, and sometimes entire wagons were transported across half of Faerun in the opposite direction from where they intended to go, but most of the merchants felt it was worth the risk to avoid losing half their yearly incomes to drow raiding parties.
In the meantime, though, Ashok did not sit idle. He had his own tasks to complete, his own preparations to make. And though it pained him, the first thing he did was return to the forges and the scene of Olra’s murder.
He found the woman he and Olra had rescued at work alone by the fire. Clerics had healed her wounds, but Ashok noticed a small tattoo of a black snake wound around her arm, just below where the creature had bitten her.
She worked meticulously and with such concentration that she didn’t notice when Ashok entered the hut. She held a length of red-glowing metal in gloved hands, a fiery brand that would become a sword when she finished molding it.
The woman turned and saw him. She had dark hair drawn into a tail away from her face. A pair of silver studs pierced her nose, and across her collarbone was another tattoo-a length of spiked chain not unlike his own.
“I wondered when you’d come back,” she said. Her voice was gentle, at odds with the harsh forge fire and the gleaming brand she held up between them. The red fire reflected in her black eyes.
“I left my weapon behind,” Ashok said.
The unforged weapon drew his gaze. The metal was hot enough to sear flesh, yet she held the brand up close to her face without flinching, studying every curve, each imperfection in the metal.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the forge master said. “I find I like the metal best in this shape-unforged, barely more than a thought.”
“I’d always heard the blacksmith loves the finished weapon best,” Ashok observed.
“Oh, there’s beauty in that, too, and a blood bond between the forger and the blade. But in this breath, the metal is only what we make of it in our thoughts. It’s perfect in a way it never will be again. We bend and shape it, so malleable, even though it has the power to burn us down. There is always the risk that the fire will maim us and master us.”
“And there lies the joy,” Ashok murmured.
“For all shadar-kai,” the woman said. “I see in my mind now the warrior who will claim this blade. She haunts my dreams, whispering to me to curve the steel inward, shape the hilt thus and so. She is quite demanding.”
“You know who she is?” Ashok asked.
“No,” the woman said, “and I likely never will. It’s not my place to know where the weapons go when they leave my forge, but I dream of the wonders they’ve seen, the blood they’ve tasted in battle.” She blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “Oh, and my name is Kerthta. Forgive my manner, but I don’t converse with many people. May I know you?”
“I’m Ashok. How is your arm?”
She touched the tattoo, and a fleeting emotion crossed her face, too quickly hidden for Ashok to identify it. “I’m healed. I wear this to honor the leader of the Camborrs.”
Something in the way she said the title struck Ashok. “Did you know Olra?” he asked.
Kerthta nodded. “I wear the snake to honor her. I claim no part in its defeat.”
And something else became clear to Ashok then, as he replayed the memory of Olra running toward the forge huts and raising the alarm, the desperation in her cry. Ashok had never stopped to wonder at it, at why she’d been afraid when she should have been charging into battle exhilarated. And her eagerness to kill the snake … Now Ashok knew what drove her.
“You honor her well,” Ashok said.
The woman didn’t answer. She went to the wall next to the forge and removed his spiked chain from a peg. She brought it to him, and Ashok saw in the firelight that she’d cleaned and sharpened the spikes to razor points. There was more-an odd sheen reflected from the metal, but he attributed it to the wavering firelight.
“I once wielded a similar weapon, before I trained for the forge,” the woman said. She let the links dangle from her hands like rolls of silk. “As I honor Olra, so I try to do the same when I give this weapon back to you. It is more than it was. I’ve placed magic in the steel that can cut where it would never have cut before. May you treat it better than you treated Olra.”
Reaching for the weapon, Ashok stopped and let his hands fall. He went cold inside. “I didn’t mean to let her die. I did everything I could to prevent it.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Kerthta said. “You heard her final wishes, and so did I. They were the words of a friend, yet you discarded them.”
Ashok’s face flushed with shame and anger. “I couldn’t control the shadow snake. A Camborr must always control or, if he cannot, kill. Olra’s rule.”
“So you did. You killed the snake.”
“Not soon enough.”
/> “Make no mistake, Ashok, the hands of the forge masters guide the weapons of Ikemmu as surely as if we wielded them ourselves,” Kerthta said. “I tell you, you fought well and bear no shame.”
“I keep my own counsel where my battles are concerned,” Ashok said. “Olra was dying. She chose me for an honor I don’t deserve.”
Kerthta shook her head in disgust. “Then take your weapon and go.” She dropped his chain in the dirt.
Jaw clenched, Ashok bent and retrieved it. His pride almost caused him to leave the chain behind, but he knew he would need it for what lay ahead. He left the hut.
Ashok sought out Neimal just after the Monril bell. Having retrieved one weapon, Ashok reflected with grim humor that it was time to reclaim another.
He found Neimal by the city gate, issuing instructions to the Guardians who were about to go out to their posts at the Shadowfell portal.
“Your friend is still out there,” she said when Ashok approached. “I don’t like having my portal Guardians stand out on the plain listening to that beast’s screaming. I’ve had to shorten the guard shifts because of it.”
“It’s my fault,” Ashok said. “I should have done something about him before now. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Neimal raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were going off with the caravan to the mirror world.”
“I am,” Ashok said, “but I want to take the nightmare with me.”
Neimal laughed. Ashok had never heard the witch show true amusement, but her voice was full of it now. “You’re the craziest shadar-kai I’ve ever encountered, Ashok, and I’ve seen some interesting things guarding this wall. Taking a nightmare on a caravan run full of humans and horses-I wonder which one of them will bolt first?”
“That’s why I need your help,” Ashok said. He could feel the excitement building in his blood. He hadn’t felt this alive in days and wished he could thank some creature other than the nightmare for it. “I need you to put an enchantment on the beast, as you did for me once before. But this time I need an illusion to make it look like a normal horse.”
“It won’t matter how normal the thing looks or acts-the caravan crew will sense the aura of terror it projects,” Neimal said. “The horses will feel it first and break their harnesses, and then the humans will react. Their dreams will drive them mad.”
“The nightmare has always targeted me with its visions,” Ashok said. “Their dreams will be safe. As for the rest, can you give me a spell to mask its aura? Something to outlast the journey?”
The witch pursed her lips. “No spell I cast will last that long. There is an item I can give you, but it’s highly valuable. If anything were to happen to it-”
“A risk,” Ashok agreed, “but think of what you’ll gain in return. The nightmare won’t trouble your Guardians anymore.”
“You’ll leave the beast in Faerun?” Neimal said.
“The nightmare goes where it wants. I’ve never had any control over that.”
“Why do you want to take it?” she said. “All this time, you could have gone out to the plain to ride the beast, yet you never did. Now you want to take it to Faerun.”
“When Ilvani and the nightmare came together out on the plain, the beast fought off the madness that gripped it,” Ashok said. “If the spirits attack us when we get to Rashemen, the nightmare will be able to warn me by its actions. I’ll know to be ready.”
He’d thought the plan over carefully during the past few days. Although familiar with the shadow beasts of the plain, Ashok knew nothing of the creatures of Rashemen. The telthors, whatever they were, might react with violence toward Ilvani the same way the spectral panthers and shadow snakes had. If that happened, Ashok wanted warning and all the powers he could muster for defense.
Neimal considered his words, and finally she nodded. “Come back at the Tet bell,” she told him. “I’ll have the item for you then. Its suppression aura is continuous as long as it touches the nightmare’s flesh. I’ll weave the illusion into it when you bring the beast into the city.”
“My thanks,” Ashok said.
“Tempus go with you, Ashok,” Neimal said.
Ashok nodded, though as far as he was concerned, Tempus could stay in Ikemmu. The city needed Him more than Ashok did.
Later, Ashok stood on the Shadowfell plain, more than two miles from the portal and the Guardians who stood watch. They’d offered him aid, thinking he meant to tame the nightmare with his chain. They had no idea the stallion was waiting for him.
But maybe I have a few surprises for him, Ashok thought.
From his pouch, Ashok took out the item Neimal had given him before he left the city: a necklace of yellowish bone spurs threaded onto a thin metal chain and magically altered by the witch to fit around the nightmare’s neck. Neimal told him if he could get it on the stallion, the necklace would suppress his aura of terror down to the blood.
Ashok hoped it was impervious to fire.
The necklace in one hand, Ashok fingered the spikes of his chain with the other. He thought he felt warmth from the metal, but he passed it off as the heat from his body infecting the chain. His thoughts filled with strategies of defense and the option for retreat if it came to that.
In his heart, he knew neither of them would back down. The anticipation built to an ache, his tense muscles ready to fight. And it would be a fight-a brutal one. The nightmare would make Ashok earn his service.
A speck of movement appeared on the horizon. Ashok drew in a breath and let it out. Time slowed down, and every sound on the desolate plain faded to silence. In that breath of utter peace, he heard the distant pound of hooves against the cracked soil.
One, two, three, four went his breaths on the air-the fiery hooves struck the ground, the blacksmith smote her anvil and forged her weapon. They were all in Ashok’s mind-the city beneath him, the sky above him, and he and the nightmare in between, on the edge-the breath between action and inaction.
He remembered experiencing this same sensation with Vedoran on the bridges between Pyton and Hevalor. He’d been a separate entity then, too, utterly alone and yet surrounded by Ikemmu. These moments, the small eternities, the spaces in which entire lives were lived-shadar-kai lives.
These moments belong to no gods, Ashok thought. They are only mine.
The nightmare came across the plain with mane and tail ablaze, the beast an exhilarating mass of coordinated muscles and graceful steps. Once within sight of Ashok, the nightmare slowed and tensed, nostrils flaring in question.
He’s looking for Ilvani, Ashok realized. He remembers that pain.
Holding the necklace loose in his hand, Ashok came toward the beast to reassure him that he’d indeed come alone. The nightmare snorted and put his nose against Ashok’s chest, taking in his scent.
“That’s right,” Ashok said. “No one but you and I-no one around to see if we kill each other out here.”
Whickering, the nightmare regarded him with his red eyes, and Ashok wondered, not for the first time, how much the beast could actually understand him. Was the nightmare intelligent enough to comprehend speech, or was their relationship purely instinctual, a shared bond of blood and death?
“You understand well enough to know that I want something from you,” Ashok said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need you.”
The line of flames that ran up and down the beast’s spine dimmed somewhat, which to Ashok meant calm. But the heat was a constant presence, a promise of violence. Ashok gripped his chain and carefully raised the bone spur necklace.
He saw a flash, the whites of the nightmare’s eyes, but by then it was too late. The beast reared into the air and kicked. Ashok saved himself at the last second by angling his body to the right. The blow glanced off his left shoulder, but the force drove Ashok to the ground.
Instinctively, he rolled away, but the nightmare didn’t attack again. He knew that pursuing Ashok inevitably meant tasting his spiked chain. Instead, he danced back, an
d the flame burned bright and hot from his back.
Coughing, Ashok sat up. His arm was numb from shoulder to elbow, except when he tried to move it. Then his shattered bones grated against each other and made Ashok’s vision go dark around the edges. He gasped with the pain of it. He couldn’t let himself lose consciousness-he needed the pain as he needed the nightmare’s trust.
He stood and faced the nightmare again, his dead arm dangling at his side. “So the direct approach isn’t going to work, eh?” he asked the stallion. “It’s all right. I thought you’d say no at first. Let me convince you.”
The spiked chain came up, then down. Spikes tore up the dirt at the nightmare’s feet. The beast jumped away, but Ashok followed, driving the beast in a circle. His chain clipped his front forelock, and the nightmare screamed loudly, a sound that momentarily deafened Ashok.
The scream died away, but the disorienting effect left him dizzy and fighting the fear aura. He came on the attack again, but he stepped sluggishly. The nightmare saw the advantage and charged in beneath the reach of Ashok’s chain.
At close range, there was biting and fire. Ashok dodged the beast’s mouth, but the nightmare slammed into him with his body, burning Ashok’s cheek and barely missing his eyes and mouth. He fell again, blistered skin scraping the ground. Ashok breathed heavily and took in this newest source of agony. Waves of pain shuddered through him, but the injuries weren’t debilitating. He’d far from reached his limits. The nightmare knew that as well as he did.
Ashok got up. The problem had become apparent to him at the same time his face was being ground into the dirt. He had two hands, but with a broken arm, he would never be able to manipulate his chain and throw the enchantment over the beast’s head. The nightmare would make him fight with one or the other, and the necklace was a poor choice for a weapon.
Unbroken Chain: The Darker Road (single books) Page 8