The Gossamer Plain eo-1

by Thomas M. Reid

  The young woman crossed the square, pushing her way through milling merchants hawking their wares and the goodwives who bought them. Her gait was slow, almost reluctant. She paused for a moment to stare at a barrel filled with old, withered apples, and even at Aliisza's distance, the alu could hear the girl's stomach rumble. Tearing her eyes away from the food, the girl entered an alley. She passed a handful of doorways, the back entrances of several shops, until she came to her destination. She stepped inside.

  Aliisza followed her, compelled to see what sort of man she might work for that would raise the ire of a mere boy. To her surprise, she discovered that the building housed a tailor's shop. Bolts of fabric lined shelves along every wall, while spools of thread filled several wooden boxes atop work tables. A loom stood in one corner, a half-finished weave of fabric stretched across it. Two other doors led from the chamber, one toward the front of the building, most likely to the shop. The other door was on a side wall, behind a table bearing a pile of fabric scraps.

  A squat man with greasy hair and an ocular clenched in one eye glanced up from where he had been sorting needles. He scowled. "You're late," he growled.

  The girl lurched to a halt, dropped her head, and stared at the stone floor. "I'm very sorry, Master Velsin. I had the morning sickness again, and I just couldn't-"

  "I don't care what ails you," he snarled, stomping around the corner of the table. He grabbed her by one arm and jerked her to face him more directly. "You're to be here by seven bells, not a moment after. Next time you're late, don't bother coming at all."

  The girl's mouth trembled as she stared at her employer. "Y-yes, Master Velsin," she breathed.

  "Now get in there," the man snapped, flinging her arm free and jerking his thumb toward the side door. "Yrudis Gregan wants to see some new dresses."

  The girl cast her eyes down to the floor again and mumbled, "Yes, sir." She moved woodenly, untying her apron as she approached the door.

  Aliisza rolled her eyes, trying to feel uninterested in the girl's plight, but she understood what the young woman's illness meant and felt a pang of sympathy anyway. Despite her desire to leave the shop, to return to the street outside, she followed the girl.

  The cramped chamber beyond was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp on a small table in the far corner. An obese man filled most of the rest of the room, his considerable bulk spilling over the sides of a single rickety wooden chair. He was dressed in plain clothing and wore an apron, though it was caked with flour and other smears. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, a severe look on his face.

  "It's about time," he said, glaring at the girl. "I've been here since seven bells."

  "Yes, Master Gregan," the girl said. "I'm sorry."

  "Of course you are," the man replied. "Well, no more dilly-dallying. I want to see how they fit. Not going to buy my daughter such expensive dresses without knowing how they fit, you know." He gestured at a disheveled pile of fashionable dresses heaped in the corner. "Start with the blue one," he said.

  "Y-yes, Master Gregan," she answered, picking up the dress atop the pile. She held it up, looking at it.

  "You don't really think you deserve to put on dresses like that, do you?" the man asked, his tone demeaning. "They aren't for trollops like you. You must think you'd be very pretty in a dress like that. Maybe even prettier than my daughter?"

  "N-no, Master Gregan," the young woman said forlornly. She began to unbutton her own dress, turning away as she slipped it over her head, leaving herself in only her small clothes.

  "Stop that," Yrudis Gregan said sharply. He leaned forward, an eager, lascivious grin on his face. The chair creaked in complaint beneath his bulk. "Turn around so I can see you. No trollop is going to tell me she's prettier than my daughter. Turn around so I can see you!"

  Aliisza found herself back outside the tailor's shop. She was breathing faster than normal, and there was a tightness in her chest she hadn't noticed before. She realized she was clenching her fists, and she relaxed them.

  Angry? she thought. Am I angry? What do I care what happens to that girl? I didn't do that to her. It's not my problem. She turned to depart, prepared to dismiss all thoughts of the young girl from her mind forever, when she noticed a man standing in the alley, dressed in soldier's gear, watching the shop.

  An air of both sadness and fury hung about him, both at the same time. He stared at the tailor's doorway, his eyes boring unseen holes through the walls to learn what was happening inside. Once, he almost took a step forward, as if he were going to march right in there and put a stop to it, but he didn't budge. He just stood there, fighting against himself.

  Aliisza knew, without knowing how she knew, that he was the girl's father. His wife had died some years before, giving birth to the boy in the garden. He was their sole parent, taking care of the three of them ever since. She also knew that he was dead, a ghost like her, a figure no one could notice. He couldn't help his daughter.

  He had died not too many nights before, ambushed and slaughtered along with the rest of his Sundabarian patrol, the victim of fiendish orcs under a gibbous moon in a narrow canyon.

  Myshik awoke, just as he intended to, in darkness. His chamber was silent save for the gurgle of a fountain. It was nearly dark in the room, lit only by the soft glow of some magical light emanating from nowhere in particular. The half-dragon stretched and sat up.

  "Come to me," he commanded softly, and instantly, a figure stood before him, one of the servants Kaanyr Vhok had offered as part of the palatial accoutrements of his magical safehold.

  The figure, a human woman dressed in diaphanous silks, smiled and waited, watching the draconic hobgoblin mutely.

  Myshik arose from his bed and dressed quickly, donning his full armor and weaponry. He felt rested, refreshed. He was also giddy with anticipation. He checked over his gear once, twice, a third time, knowing he could make no mistakes and survive.

  "Lead me," he commanded softly. "Show me the door to the canomorph's chamber."

  Without a word, the servant turned and began to walk. She moved through Myshik's own door into the tapestried and carpeted hallway beyond. She moved silently, crossing the floor on dainty feet that seemed to barely touch the ground.

  The draconic hobgoblin followed, trying to emulate her as best he could. He was not a deft being, and his boots thudded more loudly than he would have liked.

  The beautiful servant paused in front of a door, not far from the half-dragon's own. She wordlessly pointed at it and stood still, watching him and smiling gently.

  Myshik thought carefully about how to word his next instruction. If he did not explain it thoroughly and correctly, the consequences would be disastrous. Finally, he formulated his order. "Without disturbing Kaanyr Vhok in anyway, enter his chambers, retrieve the sculpted archway that creates this place, and return with it to me."

  As the servant vanished, Myshik slipped through the door and entered Kurkle's chambers. The half-hobgoblin was assaulted by overwhelming heat. He gasped as waves of it crashed against him, carrying the stench of burning stone. The ring upon the hobgoblin's finger repelled the brunt of the devastating swelter, but he broke out in a sweat immediately.

  The room looked nothing like a guest room. It appeared more like a small hollow upon the blasted landscape of the Plane of Fire, a sheltered spot among low stone ridges made of scorched and glowing hot rock. The light was dim, as it had been in Myshik's room and in the hall outside, so his eyes had no trouble spying the figure curled up within the hollow.

  Kurkle was sleeping in hound form, but his canine head rose up at Myshik's approach. The canomorph let out a low growl and leaped to his feet as the half-dragon rushed at him. He hefted the dwarven war axe high in the air and swung forward.

  Kurkle tried to jump clear of the strike, but Myshik was too quick and the canomorph too slowed by the daze of sleep. The axe bit deeply into Kurkle's flank. The impact reverberated with a rumbling boom and knocked the fiery creature aside.
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br />   Kurkle yelped in pain as he sprawled away. He tried to stagger upright, but his hind legs didn't work properly. With a keening whimper, the canomorph began to shift form, changing into a half-orc. As he transformed, his belongings appeared, and Kurkle fumbled in a pouch strapped to his hip.

  Myshik strode forward again. He pulled his axe back for another blow, eager to strike before his foe extracted the object he sought. Kurkle yanked a flask free and tried to guzzle the contents and roll clear of the draconic hobgoblin at the same time, but even as a humanoid, his injured legs hindered him.

  Myshik slammed the axe down hard, splitting the half-orc's skull.

  Kurkle's eyes went wide and glazed over as the concussive thump caved most of his head in. The flask fell from his hand and tumbled to the scorching ground. Its contents leaked onto the searing rock, evaporating in thick wisps of greenish steam. His body flopped onto the stones, limp.

  Myshik sighed and cleaned the blade of his axe on the dead guide's tunic. "Sorry, dog-man," he said softly as he stepped away. "Nothing personal. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He moved to the door and paused, looking back. "But then again, I never liked being called 'drako.' " With that, the half-dragon slipped outside.

  The servant had returned and waited patiently, the arch clutched in her hands. Myshik listened for a moment to see if her subterfuge had roused the cambion. He heard no cries of anger, no alarms. He feared that Vhok might have warded his room with magic to protect himself from just such an act.

  Foolish, trusting fiend, Myshik thought as he took the arch from the servant. My father and uncle do not enter into pacts with the likes of you.

  The half-dragon proceeded into the dining room. As he expected, it was empty and dark. He studied the large table that dominated the chamber, wondering if his axe held within it the power to destroy the thing.

  Only one means to find out, he decided.

  Hoisting the axe, he raised it as high as his arms would stretch and called on all his strength. With one powerful downstroke, Myshik slashed the head of the axe against the surface of the magical table. With an ear-splitting crack, the thunderous weapon sundered the table, splitting it into two separate halves.

  Myshik smiled in satisfaction. That ought to do it, he thought. Time to go.

  The hobgoblin turned and hurried from the room. He strode toward the entrance of the palace. He approached the door, sealed shut with stone, and recalled how Vhok had opened it the previous morning. Myshik had made certain to pay careful attention so he would be able to mimic Vhok's gestures precisely. He blew through the arch and watched as the shimmering curtain appeared.

  Behind him, the half-hobgoblin heard a muffled shout. The glow of a lantern brightened the hallway above and behind him, from the direction of Vhok's chambers.

  "Hope you enjoy your new home, demon," Myshik muttered softly. He stepped through the portal. "You're going to be here a while," he added as he stepped into the heat and smoke of the tortured Plane of Fire. "In fact," he finished, "I sincerely hope forever." The half-dragon then held his lips to the arch and blew once more.

  The magical doorway winked out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Damn that traitorous, blue-skinned bastard!" Kaanyr Vhok roared, holding a fragment of splintered wood. He stared at the ruined dining table. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the half-hobgoblin's neck, choke the life from him. He could feel his own neck bulging from anger. "Damn him and his cursed axe, too! Damn his whole clan to the foulest pits of the Nine Hells!" Vhok screamed, flinging the shard across the chamber. He turned and stalked out of the room.

  Zasian, who had just neared the dining chamber, had to press himself against the wall of the corridor to avoid being overrun by the stalking cambion. As Vhok stormed past, the priest said, "Your fears were correct. Kurkle is dead."

  Vhok did not acknowledge his companion's words. He already knew the ivory sculpture that would permit them egress from the mansion was gone. It only made sense that Myshik would have killed their guide and destroyed their map.

  Leave no stone unturned in the act of betrayal, Vhok thought bitterly.

  After the cambion passed, Zasian spun and followed, a frown on his face. "I am not sure how we can extricate ourselves from this space," he said. "Removing the focus from within the extradimensional pocket precludes us from-"

  "I swear," Vhok interrupted, "when we do get out of here, I'm going to roast that hobgoblin on an open spit!" He reached the front door, nothing more than a stone wall without the arch. He pounded his fist against it. "And I'm going to go to that mountain, and I'm going to gut his father and his uncle," he added, beginning to pace. "Damn them," he spat again.

  "Calm yourself, Vhok," Zasian said, taking a seat on the bottom step of one of the twin staircases. "One thing at a time. First, let's figure out a means of extricating ourselves, then we can worry about revenge."

  "Blast!" the half-fiend snarled. "I trusted him. I trusted all of them! What kind of a fool am I?" His anger was so acute that he could see spots swimming in his vision. All he wanted was one chance to confront the draconic hobgoblin. One chance to impart due payment.

  "Indeed," Zasian said. "But circumstances were chaotic and dire. The dwarves pressed the fight, and we had only moments to choose. And your sorceress unexpectedly succumbed to injuries beyond our ken to address. A plan is only good until the first bow shot is fired, then battle is a series of adjustments. You know full well that you cannot make any progress in any endeavor without adapting, and that you must trust that some things, or someone, will not behave as you anticipate."

  "To the Nine Hells with that," Vhok spat, dismissing the priest's words with a wave of his hand. "Never again," he vowed. "No one ever gets Kaanyr Vhok backed into a corner this way again. I trust no one but myself."

  "Including me?" Zasian asked quietly. "Are you going to condemn me now solely on the virtue that I am not you?"

  Vhok stopped pacing and stared at the priest. "Have you given me cause not to?" he asked, giving the human a baleful stare. "Or are you in league with Myshik? Clan Morueme?"

  "Yes, of course I am," Zasian responded, a dangerous gleam in his eye. "I plotted to trap myself within this posh prison from the very start!"

  Vhok smirked. "More clever ways of deflecting blame have been utilized before," he commented. He folded his arms across his chest and continued to stare at his counterpart. "What better way to throw me off than to appear as a fellow victim?"

  Zasian threw his hands in the air. "Then your cause is already lost," he said, rising to his feet. "If you believe that, then you know that I have lied about everything, even the prediction of Aliisza's capture and confinement within the House of the Triad. And thus," he added, turning and ascending the stairs, "this entire journey has been one elaborate charade, a worthless endeavor that I put myself through for no good reason, when I could have easily sent you through the Everfire and left you helpless on this plane, with no guide and no hope of returning, and not bothered with all the rest of the hardship!"

  Vhok watched as the priest reached the top of the staircase. His anger, though not abated, began to crystallize and focus on the true source of his woes. He knew it would have been much easier for Zasian to betray him earlier in the game, if that had been the Banite's intention from the start.

  "You're right," he said, spreading his arms in acceptance. "I cannot explain why you would have willingly suffered through all this if you had intended to send me here and abandon me."

  "I'm glad you're finally seeing sense," Zasian replied, leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs.

  "Indeed," Vhok said. "But also understand the larger implications of this betrayal to me. Clan Morueme knows I am here, so they also know my army is leaderless, vulnerable. I am now forced to consider which course of action is more urgent-continuing with my quest, or returning to Sundabar to stave off a powerful enemy. An enemy, I should add," he said, giving Zasian a meaningful stare, "that might conside
r Sundabar itself ripe for the picking."

  Zasian nodded. "The thought had crossed my mind. But I think your situation in the Silver Marches is secure for the moment. It will take the dragons tendays to organize and muster their forces for such an attack."

  "There are other ways they could wreak havoc," Vhok countered.

  Zasian shrugged. "Even if they attempted to take control of your Scourged Legion by subterfuge, it would require significant time to draw the whole army together and do anything with it." He shook his head. "No, I think we should keep moving forward. Success in this gives you the tools to thwart them more handily."

  Vhok knew the priest was correct. He still worried about being away while the cursed dragons maneuvered.

  "And Aliisza is waiting for you," the priest added. "If we don't press on, she's trapped there for good."

  Vhok drew in a deep breath and sighed. "Of course," he said. "I knew from the start that nothing else would matter if I fell short in this quest. That still holds true. Reach the Lifespring, gain its power, and all the rest will fall into place."

  "Very good," Zasian said. "Then let's work on getting ourselves out of here." He turned away from the railing and strode toward his room.

  "Where are you going?" Vhok asked.

  "To pray," the priest replied. "I think divine intervention will be necessary to get us out of here."

  And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Vhok silently asked. He looked at the sealed doorway and pounded it once more with his fist.

  Aliisza could not bring herself to look down into the square below. She knew the hustle and bustle of the Sundabarians was not entirely real, but a conjuration from her own mind. Indeed, every aspect of the world around her-from the cobbled streets to the azure sky-was an illusion, part of the game her mind was playing with her. Such was the magical power of the strange prison in which the angels had incarcerated her.

  The dead soldier she had witnessed, the plight of his orphaned family weighing heavily on his restless soul-this had been only the first of many tragic tales the alu had witnessed. There had been others, so many others. She had turned away from each of them, dismissing them all.