But in the hours waiting for Lhasha to return, that fire had been quenched. The hate had filled a void, feeding on itself in the vacuum that was Corin’s life. However, his life was no longer a vacuum. His actions had consequences that reached beyond his own existence. Only now could the warrior understand how much his misguided hunger for “justice” had truly cost him, and what it may have cost Lhasha.
“Fhazail is not my concern anymore,” Corin said in a somber voice. “You’ll not lure me into your scaly fold so easily, dragon worshiper.”
The young wizard sat back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I have misjudged you. I see now that your concern is no longer for your own needs, but for the well being of another.”
The warrior kept silent.
“My knowledge of you extends beyond your history with Fhazail,” Azlar pressed. “I know of the thief, and of your … relationship.”
Corin ignored the insinuations of Azlar’s lascivious smile. “Quit playing games, mage. If you know something about Lhasha, then tell me.”
Azlar gave a sympathetic sigh, artificial and forced. “When our package was taken, there were several casualties of her power. Many of my own soldiers were victimized as you must have seen. I regret to tell you your friend shared their fate.”
“No!” Corin shouted, then quickly dropped his voice as he felt an increase in the pressure of the daggers against his ribs. “No. How would you know what happened to Lhasha?”
“Do not speak without thinking, fool! Did I not say my divinations were powerful? After the battle our attackers gathered up all the unfortunate victims of the package.”
“The medusa, you mean. Why not call it what it is?”
Corin never saw the blow, but he felt it. A fist buried itself into his kidney, doubling him over in his chair, his head banged against the table. “Speak the name of the package again,” Azlar whispered harshly, “and the next pain you feel will be from the daggers.”
The wizard didn’t wait for Corin to recover, but he kept on talking. “One of the statues was of a young lady. Your pretty thief, Corin One-Hand, but do not despair. There is still a chance she may yet be saved.”
Trying to shake off the effects of the savage, unexpected punch Corin couldn’t reply right away. If Azlar spoke the truth, the Dragon Cult might be his only chance to find and save Lhasha, but the cult wasn’t known for its generosity. Any hope they offered him would be tempered with serious consequences. Dealing with demons was never wise.
Still, he didn’t have many other options. “What …” he gasped, “what do I have to do?”
“Very good, Corin,” Azlar said. “I’m glad you are not so stubborn that you refuse to see reason. Many people are blind to their own best interests when they hear the words Cult of the Dragon. You will learn that we are not unreasonable. We merely want you to perform a simple task for us. And in the process, you may be able to save your little friend.”
“One job? And then we’re done?”
“One job, and you need never deal with the Dragon Cult again. A fair deal for you, I think. A bargain, even.”
Despite the assurances, Corin still had his suspicions, but he left them unspoken.
“The horde that attacked us are working for someone named Xiliath. This individual has been operating a small underground crime syndicate in Elversult for the past year. We know something of Xiliath’s operations, but we know very little about the leader himself. Xiliath always deals through middle men and underlings. Rest assured, if we knew his true identity, or where to find him, the cult would have disposed of this upstart long ago.
“However, we do know that Xiliath runs his minor empire from the safety of the smugglers’ caves carved out beneath the city streets. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of their existence?”
Corin nodded. Every citizen of Elversult knew something of the legendary smugglers’ tunnels, a vast network of passages and caverns carved out beneath the city long ago by those who wished to traffic goods away from prying eyes. According to legend, over the centuries the tunnels became so infested with traps, monsters, and other dangers that even the smugglers themselves were no longer able to safely operate from them. Well over a hundred years ago, the labyrinth had been abandoned by the very smugglers who had created it.
Despite the almost universal knowledge of their existence, the citizens of Elversult knew almost nothing of the tunnels beyond the bards’ tales and ancient myths. The exits to the main streets were well hidden, and the rumors of deadly traps and horrific monsters left behind when the smugglers deserted their underground bases were enough to dissuade most people from seeking them out. Those few adventurous souls who did set off in search of the legendary caverns beneath the city never returned.
“As you must know,” Azlar continued, “the maze of tunnels has never been fully explored, and sending our men in to flush Xiliath out was never worth the risk or the bother. In the past, the Cult of the Dragon regarded Xiliath as nothing more than a minor annoyance; far less troublesome to our cause than the Purple Masks, or Yanseldara’s she-bitch Vaerana Hawklyn and her Harper allies.
“But with the theft of our package, Xiliath has become much more than just a minor nuisance. The time has come to destroy his operations, if not the man himself.”
“How does this concern me?”
“Through means that do not concern you I have obtained a map of the tunnels. Specifically the section that makes up Xiliath’s lair. We will use this map when we move on his underground stronghold. However, given Fhazail’s recent treachery, I am reluctant to risk my men until I know the map is genuine.”
From his robes Azlar produced a rolled scroll. “Here is a copy of our map. You will infiltrate Xiliath’s base and verify the map’s accuracy for me.”
“How does my scouting help Lhasha?” Corin asked, slowly unrolling the map. According to legend the tunnel system beneath Elversult was vast, but the complexity of the document before him was staggering, and, from what he could tell, this was only a small section of the entire network.
“As I said earlier, Xiliath’s men collected all the statues from the ambush and brought them back to their leader’s stronghold, including your Lhasha. If you look on the map you’ll see a particularly large cavern in the heart of Xiliath’s tunnels. This area has only one entrance, no doubt heavily guarded. The smugglers who built the tunnels used it as a storage room for valuable merchandise. Here, Xiliath keeps those things he considers valuable—like the package, and her victims.”
“So he’s taken Lhasha there?”
“Undoubtedly,” the wizard responded. “If you can use this map to reach her, and bring her out, then obviously its worth will be proven.”
“Even if I do find her, what good will it do?” Corin asked. “I can’t carry her out on my shoulders, not if she’s …” His voice trailed off, unable to voice her horrible fate.
From beneath the voluminous folds of the mage’s robes a small vial appeared on the table. “This will restore your friend to her natural state. Simply pour it over her stone form. Be warned: There is enough for a single use, and no more. Do not waste it.”
With his good hand Corin picked up the vial and carefully examined it. It would take a pretty firm blow to shatter the thick, solid glass of the heavy container. The stopper was wedged tightly into the neck, with no chance of it coming loose accidentally. Through the opaque distortion of the vial, Corin could make out a syrupy, brightly colored liquid inside.
“It’s a suicide mission,” he said, still studying the potion. “There’ll be guards and traps all over the place. Restoring Lhasha might set off some type of alarm, and getting out will be twice as hard as getting in.”
Azlar shrugged. “That is not my problem. This is the chance I’m offering to you.”
Corin thought it over for a few minutes. He knew Azlar wasn’t telling him everything. It was obvious the mage held something back, but Corin doubted he’d get anything more out of the wizard.
&nb
sp; “It’s a deal. I’ll do it for Lhasha.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Azlar warned. “We are loathe to leave the package in Xiliath’s hands for any length of time. If you have not returned in a couple days, I will have to assume you have failed, and the cult will take other steps.”
“I’ll go tonight. I just need to get some supplies.”
“Be careful who you speak of this to,” the wizard cautioned. “If news of the package reaches the authorities, Xiliath will likely destroy all the evidence. I’m sure I need not explain the consequences of using the potion on a pile of rubble.”
The image of Lhasha’s shattered form rose unbidden to Corin’s mind, and he grimaced as if in pain. Azlar, misinterpreting his gesture, waved his hand, and his goons withdrew their knives and stepped away, still keeping a cautious eye on the one-armed warrior.
Corin slowly pushed his seat back and rose to his feet. “Where will I find you once I’m done?”
“You will not find me. We shall never speak again. If you succeed, I will know.”
With nothing more to discuss, Corin left, casting a contemptuous glance back at the hunchbacked waitress cowering behind the bar, watching him go.
Azlar waited until Corin had left before rising himself. Instantly his bodyguards were beside him, ready to give their lives to protect the cult’s latest rising star. Azlar didn’t even acknowledge them. He was thinking about the one-armed warrior.
Of course, he didn’t expect Corin to succeed. The map he had given the one-armed man was incomplete. It showed only the most heavily used and well-guarded passages controlled by Xiliath. Azlar’s own map, the true copy, contained several less secure routes into Xiliath’s stronghold as well as weaknesses in his defenses. The sheer size of the tunnel system made it impossible for Xiliath to guard every access point to his lair. The very thing that had kept him safe from discovery this past year now made him vulnerable to attack.
When Corin descended into the underground labyrinth, he would quickly be spotted by Xiliath’s guards. The alarm would be raised, and the warrior would find himself facing the greater part of Xiliath’s army.
This was fine as far as Azlar was concerned. Corin was nothing more than a distraction, a way to draw the attention of the main part of Xiliath’s forces. While he bumbled foolishly into certain death, Azlar and his men would launch a surprise attack of their own through a different passage. By the time Xiliath’s troops realized their mistake, Azlar would already be safely back on the city’s surface with the package.
But the one-armed man was strong. He had destroyed the naga in the warehouse. Azlar couldn’t underestimate him. If he somehow managed, against all odds, to escape with his life the cult would need to take steps to insure his silence. Permanent steps.
However, that was a matter not yet worthy of serious consideration. Recovering the package took precedence. Satisfied with his plan, the wizard spun on his heel and marched out the door, his guards following closely in his wake.
It was nearly ten minutes after he’d left before the waitress dared to come out from her hiding place.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Are you here for the worship services?” the priest of Gond asked.
“No, not really. I need to see Fendel.” Corin had tried to find the secret door in the back of the temple grounds that the gnome had brought them through last time, but his search had proved fruitless.
“I’m sorry, but Fendel is extremely busy right now. He toils in his workshop in the service of the Wonderbringer. Perhaps one of our other artificers can help you?”
“It has to be Fendel. It’s very important.”
The priest who had greeted him at the door to the House of Hands gave him the once over, as if mere visual inspection could give him some inkling as to Corin’s purpose. Obviously, he didn’t like what he saw.
“I’m sorry, but Fendel hates to be interrupted when he is performing Gond’s will. Perhaps if you came back in a few days.”
Corin was reluctant to explain his situation to the priest in any sort of detail. He still didn’t trust religious institutions on general principle, and any mention of the Dragon Cult would probably send the underling running to the High Artificer. Ultimately it would get back to Yanseldara. For Lhasha’s sake he couldn’t let that happen, but he needed to see the gnome. He couldn’t do this without help.
“Please,” he implored. “It’s about Lhasha.”
The mention of the name of Fendel’s ward affected a sudden transformation in the attitude of the priest. “Is Lhasha in trouble?” he asked, the concern evident on his sooty face.
“I’m afraid I can’t say. Please, take me to Fendel.”
“Of course,” the priest replied, without even a hint of his former reluctance. “Follow me.”
Soon they stood before the familiar door of the gnome’s workshop. The priest knocked several times, banging his fist emphatically against the wood.
“Go away!” came the voice from inside.
“Fendel,” the priest called out. “There’s someone here to see you!”
“Then go away and take him with you!”
“It’s about Lhasha,” Corin called out.
A second later the door opened. Fendel used one grubby hand to usher Corin in, while the other shooed his fellow priest away. With the heel of his boot he kicked the door closed behind them.
As usual, Fendel’s workshop was a collage of indecipherable blueprints and unidentifiable, half-finished projects. This time Corin cared little for the intriguing inventions scattered about.
“Where have you been?” Fendel chastised, shaking Corin’s elbow in exasperation. His tone was that of a parent addressing a young, willful child. “I heard about your little misadventure in the warehouse—leaving my ladder behind like some kind of calling card! Completely unprofessional.
“Is that why didn’t you come back here yesterday morning? Thought I’d be mad, or something? Or was Lhasha just too embarrassed by the gaff to look me in the eye?”
Suddenly the gnome stopped his tirade. “Wait a minute—where is Lhasha? What happened?”
“They took her,” Corin said flatly. “I’m going to get her back.”
“Who took her?” Fendel demanded, clenching his grip on Corin’s elbow.
“Someone named Xiliath. At least, someone working for Xiliath.” The warrior shook his elbow free from the gnome’s grip. “I’m going to get her back.”
“Xiliath,” the gnome muttered, rubbing his dirty, scraggly beard. “I’ve heard that name before.” He turned his eyes to Corin, his gaze piercing. “You better tell me what happened. Everything.”
“I don’t have time for stories,” Corin said through slightly clenched teeth. His failure to protect Lhasha had been eating away at him since the meeting with the cult wizard, and Corin was loathe to share his humiliation with the gnome. “I just need some supplies. I’ll have to pay you on credit.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the gnome spat, “I’m not charging you for anything. Not for this. But if you really want my help in getting Lhasha back, you’ll tell me everything that happened. Solving problems is what I do best.”
Realizing the gnome was right, Corin swallowed his pride and related the entire shameful tale: his inability to sense the set-up at the cult warehouse, his selfish efforts to find Fhazail and exact his vengeance, his cowardly flight from the ambush by Xiliath’s army in the clearing, the conversation with Azlar at the Weeping Griffin. He even told Fendel about the medusa. Corin held nothing back in his confession. Once the words started, they gushed forth in a litany of his faults, a fountain of guilt and remorse spilling out at the feet of his small, wrinkled confessor.
When he was done, the gnome said nothing. He just stared at the floor for a long, long time.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her,” Corin whispered, his voice choking slightly. “There is no excuse, but I will get her back!”
Fendel waved a sooty hand dismissively. “Don’t drown in self-
contempt, Corin. I hardly see anything you have to be ashamed of.” The gnome cut Corin’s protests off by adding, “It’s all water under the bridge, anyway. We have to focus on what comes next, not what’s been done.”
The warrior nodded. Move forward. A lesson he had learned in his time with the White Shields, one he had unfortunately forgotten with the loss of his hand. Regret was a crutch for the weak. The strong learned from their mistakes, they didn’t wallow in them. This was not the time for apologies, it was the time for redemption.
“Fendel,” he said, his voice assuming its usual steadfast timbre, “give me whatever you can. Equipment, advice—everything. I will get Lhasha back.”
“Give me a minute,” the gnome responded, still tugging at his beard. “Let me piece this all together.” He began to whisper, half to himself and half for Corin’s benefit.
“The Cult of the Dragon. Xiliath. What do they have in common? A charmed medusa. But why smuggle a medusa into Elversult?”
The gnome looked up at Corin, his eyes alight with sudden understanding. “Yanseldara. They’re going to kill her. Whoever controls the medusa has the perfect assassin. Just place her in the crowds lining the street during the parades of the Greengrass festival. One look and the Lady Lord of Elversult is nothing but a pile of stone, Vaerana, too. In the chaos and terror of the medusa’s discovery, it wouldn’t be hard to overturn their carriage, and smash them both to bits.”
Corin didn’t doubt the veracity of the gnome’s conclusions. In fact, he didn’t really care. All he wanted was to get Lhasha back. “Are you going to tell the High Artificer?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
“No. He’d go straight to the Moonstorm House and report this to Vaerana. The cult and Xiliath will both be watching our city’s leader very closely. Even a hint that their secret is out and they’ll disappear for a few months until the search for them dies down.…” The gnome’s voice trailed off
“And they’ll take Lhasha with them,” Corin finished.
“If they don’t simply destroy all the evidence,” Fendel added ominously.
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