Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

“I know,” Caledan said with a grin. “I enjoyed it, too.” He frowned then. What in Milil’s name were guards doing bothering travelers at the gates of the city? Iriaebor had always been a free and open place in the days when Caledan had dwelt here. Merchants and wayfarers came at all hours of the day and night. There had never been any need for guards.

  “Perhaps there have been more bandits on the road of late,” Caledan said aloud, and Mista snorted softly as if to question this.

  “True. Those two were hardly the sort I would want to depend on to keep me safe from marauders. If you’re going to go to all the bother of putting guards at the gate, why use a pair of buffoons?”

  But Caledan was weary, and his throat was in sore need of a mug of ale. He resolved to think about it later.

  Horse and rider made their way through the open avenues of the New City. Before them, in the city’s center, loomed a high, rocky hill. The Tor, which was perhaps a half-league long, rose a full three hundred feet above the rest of Iriaebor, and Caledan could see the lights of the Old City flickering like golden stars in the darkness above him. Over the years, space on the narrow hilltop had been at a premium. Within a hundred years of the city’s founding, the only direction left in which to build upon the Tor was up. The result, after several centuries, was a profusion of tall, spindly towers stretching toward the sky, bound together with countless bridges that arched precariously between them like so many spiderwebs.

  Caledan guided the gray mare to the narrow road that wound back and forth up the steep southern face of the Tor. The presence of guards at the city’s gates still nagged at him, but that wasn’t the only thing that seemed different about the city. The torches that guttered in the air along the streets were few and far between, casting more shadows than light. The streets themselves were grimy and littered with trash, and foul-smelling water flowed darkly in the gutters, pooling into black, stagnant puddles in the middle of every intersection.

  Yet even more disturbing was the city’s silence. The streets were empty of all but a few individuals, and these walked quickly past Caledan, their eyes cast down toward the dirty cobbles as if they were in a hurry to be inside, though the sun was no more than an hour set. When Caledan had last visited Iriaebor, the bustling trade city’s torch-lined streets had been nearly as full at midnight as they were at midday, crowded with merchants and jongleurs, nobles and thieves. But these dark and sullen streets seemed to have little to do with the cheerful, brightly lit avenues he remembered. Of course, it had been seven years since he left, and he supposed his memories might have become overly fond. Still, he couldn’t shake the growing impression that something was amiss.

  As Mista steadily ascended the narrow road into the Old City, the tall towers closed over the streets so that riding through them was like riding through a tunnel. They passed an ill-kept tavern, the ruddy light of its fire spilling out of its doorway like blood onto the street. The sound of raucous laughter drifted out with the light, but it was a sinister rather than merry sound, and Caledan chose to ride on.

  He considered going to see if the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon still stood on the very western edge of the Tor. He thought it likely he might find an old friend or two there. But Caledan was not certain he was ready for the memories that came with meeting old friends. Instead he guided Mista toward another inn called the Wandering Wyvern, where he knew he could find good drink and good rest.

  Just then a shadowy form shambled from the dark maw of an alley, and Caledan’s hand slipped to the knife in his boot. The form stepped into the dim circle of illumination below a sputtering torch. Seeing it was an old woman, Caledan relaxed. She was clad in tattered rags wrapped about her shapeless form, and her white hair was filthy and matted against her head. She didn’t seem to see Caledan riding toward her, and she stumbled before Mista so that he was forced to rein the mare hard lest the old woman be trampled.

  “Good evening, old mother,” Caledan said as the haggard woman gazed up at him with dull, rheumy eyes. “Shouldn’t you be home on as chill a night as this?”

  The old woman shook her head, moving her lips silently, mumbling to herself as if she was trying to remember something. Then her eyes cleared for a moment, and her gaze met Caledan’s.

  “I have no home, sire,” she said finally, her voice cracked and hollow. Caledan reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a gold coin, which he pressed into the woman’s gnarled hand.

  “Then find one with this, old mother, at least for tonight.”

  She looked at the coin for a moment as if puzzled by it and then nodded as she turned down the street. Caledan watched her as she shambled away, mumbling to herself. He shook his head as he nudged Mista onward. He didn’t remember that the elderly had ever been turned out onto the city’s streets before, either. It seemed there was a lot he didn’t remember.

  He soon found himself before the Wandering Wyvern. To his relief it looked much as it had on the day he left, a blocky, comfortable-looking building with the High Tower of the city lord looming above it. “I was beginning to think I had come to the wrong city, Mista,” Caledan said to his mount.

  In the small courtyard Caledan called for the stable boy, who appeared moments later, bleary-eyed and with straw in his hair, apparently having been asleep in the barn.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” the lad said. “We don’t usually have travelers after dark.”

  “Take this,” Caledan said, flipping a copper coin to the boy as the lad led Mista toward the stable. “And if you tell her several times over what a lovely horse she is, it’s likely she won’t even try to bite you.”

  “Aye, milord!”

  The interior of the inn was comfortably warm, but there were few patrons, and most of these cast mistrustful looks at Caledan before huddling back down over their food or drink. Caledan took a place on a bench at one of the long wooden tables, and when the innkeep, a nervous little man, came to him, he ordered a plate of whatever food there might be in the kitchen and a mug of ale.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” the innkeep said fretfully, “but there’s no ale served after sundown.”

  “What?” Caledan said, completely taken aback.

  “It’s in the rules.” The innkeep gestured furtively toward a large, crudely drawn placard nailed to one of the walls. The placard was filled with line after line of writing scrawled too poorly to be legible at a distance, though the large words which headed it were clear enough. They read: Lord Cutter’s Rules.

  “Since when are there rules about drinking ale in Iriaebor?” Caledan asked with growing annoyance.

  “Since that lout Cutter came, that’s when,” a rough voice growled next to Caledan. He turned to see a burly, red-faced man sitting nearby. The comment seemed to make the innkeep uncomfortable, for the nervous little man looked hurriedly about, as if to make certain no one was watching, and then disappeared into the kitchen. “Every day there’s another of Cutter’s rules come down from the tower,” said the big man, who from his dress and size appeared to be a dockhand.

  Cutter. That was the name the guards at the gate had spoken. Curious, Caledan moved over and sat next to the man, whom the other patrons seemed to be purposefully ignoring.

  “Just who is this ‘Cutter’?” Caledan asked, trying to make his tone as sympathetic as possible. “Is Cutter the city lord?”

  “Aye,” the dockhand said glumly. “Ever since good old Bron disappeared a year or so ago. Wasn’t so bad at first, but that didn’t last long. Seems old Cutter never runs out o’ rules, and all of them boil down to the same thing—there’s nothing worth having or doing that’s allowed no more. And you learn quick enough all right not to break any of ’em. You do that, and Cutter’s guards haul you away, and no one ever sees you again.” He paused for a moment, taking a reflexive pull on his mug and frowning when he realized it was only water. By the look of him, he must have swallowed as much ale as he could possibly hold before the sun had set. “You just come into the city?” he asked.
r />   Caledan nodded. “I’ve been traveling for a long time.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t ’ave come here,” the dockhand said, and after that he fell into a gloomy silence. Caledan left him in peace.

  The nervous innkeep came back not long after with a plate of food for Caledan. The fare was good—a thick stew, cheese, and brown bread—but there wasn’t much of it. He had just finished eating when the door of the inn opened, and a tall, fierce man clad in the livery of a city guard stepped through. A tense hush fell over the common room. Conversations halted in midsentence, and forks froze in midair.

  The guard scanned the room slowly with hard eyes. His countenance was harsh and proud, his sharp cheekbones each outlined by a thin white scar. His hand rested with practiced ease on the polished sword hilt at his hip. This man was a warrior, and a dangerous one at that, Caledan thought.

  “Innkeep, bring me food,” he barked in a guttural voice. “Make it your best, and make it quick. Otherwise I might get angry.” A cruel smile touched his thin lips, and his dark eyes glittered perilously. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  The innkeep swallowed hard and bobbed his head, scurrying off to the kitchen like a frightened mouse. The guard sat at a table in a dim corner, a leer on his face. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword.

  Gradually, the conversation in the common room started up again, though now it was even more subdued than before. The nervous little innkeep brought a steaming platter of roasted meat for the guard and received only a harsh glare in payment.

  “Friend,” Caledan said softly, turning to the nearby dockhand who was scowling at his mug, “you wouldn’t happen to know who that cheerful-looking fellow in the corner is, would you?”

  “Him?” the dockhand grunted. “He’s one of Cutter’s captains, he is. Let me tell you, stranger, you don’t want to have no trouble with him. He’d gut you as soon as say good-day to you. You’d do best to keep out of his way, you would.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Here.” Caledan slipped a few coins toward the fellow. “Wait until dawn, then buy yourself a mug or two.”

  “Say! Gods be with you, lordship,” the dockhand said. His bleary eyes glimmered as he pocketed the coins, but Caledan had already moved away toward a shadowed alcove where he could watch the guard without risk of notice.

  The guard’s black leather jerkin was emblazoned with the traditional symbol of Iriaebor—a silver tower above an azure river. However, Caledan noticed that a crimson moon had been added to the insignia, rising behind the tower. No doubt that was Lord Cutter’s touch. Caledan found he cared for it as little as the other changes which had befallen the city.

  When the guard finished his food, he roughly pushed his plate away and stood. His chair clattered to the floor, and the inn fell deathly silent.

  “What are you maggots staring at?” the guard snarled. The patrons in the room quickly averted their eyes. The guard snorted in disgust and then swaggered out the inn’s doorway.

  Pausing a few moments, so as not to appear as if he were following, Caledan stood and walked casually out of the door into the night beyond. He espied the guard in the distance, striding jauntily down the dimly lit street. Caledan followed, keeping to the shadows.

  The guard made his way down the Street of Jewels and then turned onto the Street of Lanterns, disappearing from view. This had not been a particularly savory part of town even seven years ago, and now it was worse. Bold, red-eyed rats scurried in the refuse-lined gutters, and wicked laughter drifted down from open windows above.

  Caledan turned the corner and then paused. The guard was gone. He must have entered one of the doorways that lined the street. Caledan muttered an oath, but there was nothing he could do. He turned around to make his way back toward the Wandering Wyvern.

  He found himself facing the tall warrior with scarred cheeks.

  “Don’t you know, friend,” the guard said with an evil grin, “it isn’t safe to be about on the streets at night.” The guard’s sword glimmered dully in the dim light. “I’d best see you to Lord Cutter’s dungeon. Trust me, you’ll be much safer there.”

  Caledan started to back up, but the grating of a boot heel on the cobbles behind him brought him to a halt. He looked quickly about to see two more guards step out of a shadowed doorway a dozen paces away. He was outnumbered.

  Caledan swore under his breath. This wasn’t the sort of homecoming he had envisioned.

  Two

  The two guards advanced on Caledan from either side, short swords drawn. The captain watched with a satisfied leer, his dark eyes glittering.

  “Don’t worry, friend,” the captain said with a coarse laugh. “I’m sure you’ll find Cutter’s dungeons most inviting.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be rude and turn down that gracious invitation,” Caledan replied cheerfully. He had already developed a serious dislike for this fellow.

  The captain nodded almost imperceptibly to the guards behind Caledan, but Caledan was ready. He feinted a lunge at the guard to his left, a pot-bellied fellow whose stupid grin displayed a half-dozen jagged yellow teeth. The guard swung his blade wildly with enough force to cleave Caledan in two, but Caledan dodged to one side. The force of the guard’s swing carried him forward, and his companion screamed as the sword bit deeply into his side. The snaggle-toothed guard watched in confusion as his companion slumped to the street, a rivulet of dark blood trickling into the gutter to mingle with the filth.

  “Kill him, you idiot!” the captain snarled. The pot-bellied guard roared in rage, rushing at Caledan and shaking his bloodied sword.

  In a flash Caledan dove for the dead guard’s sword, rolled, and came up standing. He thrust the blade out before him just in time to meet the guard’s rush. The man’s eyes went wide. He slipped backward off the sword, the blood-smeared blade making a sucking noise as it pulled from his chest. Like a felled tree, the guard toppled to the street.

  The captain regarded the bodies of his fallen men dispassionately for a moment, then turned his glittering gaze toward Caledan. “You’re full of surprises, friend,” he said, stepping across the corpses. “It appears I’ll have to deal with you myself. It will be worth it, however. Lord Cutter will be most interested to meet you, I think.” He lifted his gleaming sword, his stance practiced and ready, his eyes deadly.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint your master, then,” Caledan said wryly. He dropped the bloodstained short sword and tensed as if to run. Victory glimmered in the captain’s eyes as he lunged for Caledan, but he was far too slow.

  In the space between heartbeats, Caledan reached down, drew the knife from the sheath inside his boot, and let it fly. For a frozen moment the knife spun in the air, glinting in the light of a nearby torch. Then the captain stumbled backward, his dark eyes filled with dull astonishment. He clutched weakly at the hilt of the knife buried in his chest and slumped wordlessly to the cobbles.

  Caledan quickly surveyed the shadowy street around him, but it was empty. Apparently there were no more city guards nearby. He knelt beside the staring corpse of the captain and retrieved his dagger. He pulled the black leather glove from the captain’s left hand and then swore softly, his suspicion confirmed. The captain was missing the tips of his last two fingers. It was an age-old sign of loyalty and devotion to cut off a fingertip and ritually present it to one’s master. But Caledan knew of only one group in the Realms that still practiced that barbarous tradition.

  The Zhentarim.

  “I suppose they’re after the caravan routes,” Caledan muttered in disgust as he stood up. He had dealt with the Zhentarim before, in his days as a Harper. Those were not memories he cherished.

  The Zhentarim were members of a dark, secretive society based in Zhentil Keep, a city on the edge of the Moon-sea far to the west. Made up of warriors and sorcerers, renegade clerics and thieves, the Zhentarim’s goal was to bring as many of the Realms as possible under its control, and then to bleed the lands d
ry. Now it appeared that Iriaebor—along with the lucrative trade routes it controlled—was the Black Network’s latest prize.

  This Lord Cutter was probably a Zhentarim himself. It would certainly explain the pall that had been cast over the city. The Zhentarim cared nothing for life or beauty. Only gold meant something to their black hearts—gold and power.

  Caledan cleaned his dagger on the dead man’s cloak and resheathed it. “It’s good to be home,” he said bitterly, staring at the three corpses, then he started off through the canyons of the Old City, back toward the Wandering Wyvern.

  Moments later a shadow separated itself from the blackness of a doorway to slip away through the darkened city. The street was silent for a time. Then the first of the rats came upon the corpses and squealed over its grisly discovery.

  * * * * *

  “Play us another one, Anja!”

  The cluttered little cottage was filled with golden candlelight and the sound of laughter. Anja, a plump woman with bright black eyes and ruddy cheeks, smiled at the small audience of coarsely clad farmers gathered about her.

  “All right. One more, Garl, and then it’s home with you louts.” She lifted the wooden flute to her lips. It was a simple instrument, worn with long years of playing. Anja had made it herself when she was barely more than a lass, and it had been her truest companion through three husbands and a half-dozen droughts. Life was hard here on the sun-parched plains so close to the vast desert of Anauroch, but it was not without its pleasures, and music was one of them.

  Though her hands were toughened and calloused from years of toil, Anja’s fingers moved nimbly over the flute. She played a carefree, lilting air, and the farmers stamped their dirty boots and clapped their hands in time to the music. But it wasn’t the music alone that had brought her friends to her cottage.

  Even as Anja played, the shadows cast by the candles began to dance upon the whitewashed walls.

  The shadows seemed almost to bow and whirl to the music of the flute, their outlines suggesting dancers at a fancy ball. A slender shadow, hinting at a young maiden, flickered and seemed to spurn the advances of a decidedly rotund shadow. The men laughed as they watched the shadowplay.