The hilt trembled in his hand, groaning with a sound reminiscent of the crushing avalanches he had heard throughout the winter. A deep rumbling shook the very foundations of the inn. Even the Zhakar sensed the dis shy;turbance, ceasing their attacks and falling silent in suspi shy;cion and fear.
Abruptly, a blast of cold air slashed him in the face, and a noise like a howling blizzard shrieked through the Fungus Mug. Wind eddied and swirled, driving stinging needles of ice against Ariakas-but that was nothing compared to the fate of those who stood at the other end of his sword. An explosive cone of murderous frost swept outward, freezing flesh and blood, slaying dozens of shocked, terrified Zhakar in the instant of its assault. Whirlwinds gusted through the room, sweeping over tables and chairs, frosting clothing and skin into brittle sheets of ice. Across the room, shutters erupted outward, and the howling of wind rose.
In panic, the surviving Zhakar ran screaming away from this nightmarish warrior and his deadly weapon. Ariakas looked for Tale Splintersteel in the crush, but he could see no sign of the dwarven merchant-lord. Their business was not concluded yet.
As a wide circle opened around him, Ariakas seized Ferros under one shoulder and roughly lifted the Hylar to his feet. Supporting his injured companion in one hand and brandishing the blade in the other, the man slowly dragged them both from the Fungus Mug. Dur shy;ing his deliberate advance to the door, none of the Zhakar made a move against him, perhaps because fully a quarter of the bar was filled with frozen dwarf statues, mute reminders of the price of resistance. The rest had been frozen by fear.
Finally, the pair tumbled across the threshold and into the alleyway beyond. A crowd had gathered, but these humans and Zhakar quickly parted as Ariakas, growling as he breathed, half carried Ferros away from the Fungus Mug. He stopped for a moment, realizing that he still bore his sword. As he moved to resheath the weapon, Ariakas looked at his sword and nearly dropped the dwarf in his astonishment.
The gleaming blade, once pure white, had changed to an absolutely unblemished sheen of darkest, inky black.
Chapter 13
The Way of the Temple
Ariakas supported Ferros as they stumbled down the alley, but the dwarf quickly slumped, a dead weight. The human lost his balance, and the pair tumbled into the wet gutter, blood from their wounds mingling with the effluence of the street.
"Thanks, warrior," grunted the dwarf, each word pushed forth with audible effort.
"Shut up," Ariakas groaned back. "Save your strength -I'm not gonna have you die after I went to all that trouble on your behalf."
" 'Fraid you're outta luck-that bastard stuck me pretty good." Ferros lifted his hands from his belly. Both palms were smeared with dark, sticky blood.
"Hang on," Ariakas commanded him. Pushing him shy;self upward with his hands he reached his knees, and then laboriously climbed to his feet. His left leg and both arms throbbed from nasty wounds, though the bleeding had subsided somewhat.
Reaching for the dwarf, he hoisted Ferros to a sitting position. "Hold that wound tight," he instructed.
"What d'you think yer doing?" demanded Ferros, with spirit.
"Shut up," Ariakas repeated. Kneeling, he grasped the dwarf and hoisted him over his back. Ferros grunted in irritated surprise, but kept his hands tightly pressed to the hole in his belly.
Stumbling like a drunkard, Ariakas struggled to retain his balance. He knew that if he were to fall he would never get up again-at least, not with Ferros on his back. Slowly at first, then with greater steadiness and delibera shy;tion, the human carried the dwarf to the end of the alley and turned onto Bridge Road. He didn't make for his house, however. Instead, his steps carried him up the long, climbing road to the temple of Luerkhisis.
He had no recollection of how long it took him to make that long hike, which had winded him the previ shy;ous night when he walked it uninjured and unburdened. In the lower, crowded portions of the city, bystanders took one look at the lines of furious determination etched in the warrior's face, and hastened to get out of the way.
He reached the lonely stretch of road and made his way under the early glow of crimson Lunitari, which had just risen over the shoulder of the volcano. Still he plodded forward, his mind blank, a trance of exertion propelling him through the repetitive steps.
Only when he at last reached the vast, dark snout of the temple did his awareness return. He didn't hesitate at all, marching right into one of the veils of blackness. Suppressing a shudder as the magical dark engulfed him, he continued resolutely forward until he emerged into the great, lamplit central hall.
Novices and priestesses hurried toward him from all directions as he gently lowered Ferros Windchisel to the floor. The dwarf's eyes were closed, and his skin-where it showed between beard and scalp hair-had faded to a pasty gray. Still, the warrior felt a trace of a heartbeat, and the Hylar held his hands clenched determinedly over his wound.
"Lord Ariakas! What's the matter?"
Ariakas looked up, grateful to hear his name. He rec shy;ognized one of the mature young priestesses from his tour of the temple-she was a green-collar who had been leading a discussion class.
"We need the high priest! Show me to a private cham shy;ber, and get this dwarf carried there-but go easy on him! It's bad. And send someone for Wryllish Parkane- immediately]"
He felt a jolt of cruel satisfaction at the fear that flick shy;ered across the young woman's face. "Take them to the meditation rooms!" she barked at the novices, then turned and bowed to Ariakas with full composure. "I'll get the high priest myself!" She spun and raced off through the hall.
Six strapping novices gingerly lifted the dwarf and carried him through a door at one end of the great hall. Aria.kas, unaware any longer of his own weariness or pain, followed them into a hallway leading to many smaller rooms. The young priests carried Ferros into one of these, laying him carefully onto a low bed against one wall.
Before the warrior could kneel beside the dwarf, Wryl shy;lish Parkane hurried into the room, still tying the knot on his belt. Gesturing the novices to leave, the high priest turned to Ariakas.
"I came as soon as I could-you brought a dwarf, Derillyth said!"
"He's badly wounded," Ariakas said peremptorily. "Help him!"
The priest approached Ferros Windchisel doubtfully. "He doesn't look like a Zhakar…."
"By the Abyss, man-he's not Zhakar! Who said he was? Just help him, before it's too late!"
"Look here, my good Lord Ariakas," objected Wryllish. "You were to investigate the Zhakar. And when I heard you'd brought a dwarf here, I naturally thought-"
"Damn your thoughts!" snarled the warrior. "I went to those accursed dwarves and this is the result of my attempts! The Zhakar are the nastiest, most murderous bunch of little swamp leeches I've ever seen in my life!"
"You antagonized them?" inquired Wryllish Parkane, disapprovingly. "But we need-"
"Listen to me." Ariakas lowered his voice, but his grim determination carried through the level tones. "If you let this dwarf die, his won't be the only corpse I leave behind when I depart this temple. Now, get busy."
Shock was replaced by fear in the high priest's eyes, and again Ariakas felt that fire of satisfaction. Good, he thought, the man knows where I stand.
Wryllish Parkane took a deep breath. The momentary terror that had flickered in his face quickly vanished, replaced by serene confidence. "I shall not heal him," Wryllish began.
Ariakas suppressed the urge to draw his sword or repeat his demand. He sensed that the cleric had more to say. Nevertheless, Parkane's next words took the warrior by complete surprise.
"You will," concluded the high priest.
Ariakas opened his mouth to object, but held his tongue at the sight of Parkane's upraised hand.
"You do not think you can do this-but you can," he explained. "Now, kneel beside the wounded one."
Mutely, Ariakas did as he was told.
This close, he was shocked by the deathly pale cast to Fer
ros Windchisel's features. Even more disturbing, the warrior saw that the dwarf's hands had relaxed, and though they had fallen away from the puncture, no fresh blood emerged.
"Place your hands over the wound," instructed Wryl-lish Parkane.
Ariakas lowered his palms to the bloody, sticky hole in Ferros Windchisel's tunic.
"Now, pray-pray to the Dark Queen that she grant your miserable request! Call upon mighty Takhisis, war shy;rior, and beg that she grant you her favor!"
Wryllish Parkane's voice had taken on a hard edge, and Ariakas flinched under the onslaught of the words. It took all of his self-control to keep calm, to hold his hands on the dwarf's belly and try to shake off his frus shy;tration and rage.
Slowly, he focused his thoughts on his companion. He recalled the Hylar's loyalty, his courage. Parkane's rant shy;ing continued unabated, but Ariakas pushed it to the far recesses of his mind. Instead, his thoughts returned to the sinuous, five-headed being that had appeared before him in the tower. He sensed that the Queen of Darkness could slay him any of a dozen ways, with no more effort than Ariakas would use to kill a mosquito; this was a power that he could respect. He pleaded with her to heal Ferros, begging her to mend his flesh, to restore the dwarf's blood to his body and the hearty color to his skin. And gradually, in the depths of his prayer, he felt himself surrender. Yielding up to the swelling knowl shy;edge within him, he granted that he would be the Dark Queen's tool… her agent for whatever tasks she wanted him to perform.
In return, all he demanded was power. Not knowing whether he spoke aloud or only within the anguished passages of his mind, he groveled, he pro shy;fessed his loyalty, he promised to always obey her will. He offered up his past in its entirety as a wretched waste
of time and years-for it had not been dedicated to labors in her name.
Despite his prayers, her power hovered yet beyond the grasp of his mind, his being. How long he knelt there, tears streaming down his face, he did not know. It did not matter. At some point during the long darkness of the night, his professions of faith passed from the con shy;scious to the unconscious realm. He slept, but his dreams continued on the winding trail begun by his thoughts. Takhisis appeared in those dreams, and he would never recall the things that she told him, the pledges he made to her. When he awakened, all he would remember was that she was pleased.
Sunlight streamed through a window Ariakas had not even noticed on the previous night. The warrior lay slumped on the floor. He stretched and turned, gradu shy;ally recognizing the still form of Ferros Windchisel.
Suddenly the dwarf gave a snort and sat up, blinking in confusion. He saw Ariakas, seated on the floor beside his bed, and his eyes widened in shock.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, embar shy;rassed. Then he blinked and looked around. "Well, maybe first you can tell me where we are."
"The temple," explained the warrior. As Ariakas spoke he saw Ferros scowl, obviously settling the events of the previous evening into place in his mind.
"Wait a minute!" Ferros inspected the hole, crusted with dried blood, that had ruined his tunic. Gingerly, his fingers explored the skin underneath. "This is … strange," he said softly.
For the first time Ariakas noticed that his own numer shy;ous wounds were gone. He held out his arm, looking for the especially deep gash over his biceps, but found no sign of even the faintest scar.
"All right," spat Ferros Windchisel, his face locked into a fierce scowl. "What happened? How come I'm not dead?"
"Is that what you wanted?" retorted Ariakas sourly. "I went to a lot of trouble-"
"Yeah, sorry," Ferros interrupted sheepishly. "It's just, well, kind of a shock. So tell me, why aren't we both full of holes?"
"There is power here," Ariakas said cautiously. He was not prepared to take Ferros, or anyone, into his con shy;fidence regarding the trancelike experience of the night before. "One of the old gods, I should say. I think the priests used that power to heal us."
"How did I gef here?"
"I carried you."
The Hylar's eyes widened, and he appraised Ariakas. "Thanks," he offered gruffly. "I owe you my-"
"The account's even," Ariakas interrupted. "Remem shy;ber the ogre in the drawbridge room?"
Ferros shook his head. "That was different. If you had died, my chances of escaping would have died with you. Here, you could have left me in the bar or outside, and saved yourself a lot of trouble. I mean it-I owe you."
"Those were quite ornery buggers-your cousins," noted Ariakas. "Are you glad you found them?"
"I'm not done yet," Ferros Windchisel said grimly. "Did you see if Tale Splintersteel got frosted with the rest of 'em?"
Ariakas shook his head. "As far as I know, he skipped out the back way. Not that it would be much use going to talk to him, anyway," he reflected ruefully, remembering the high priest's disappointment.
"It's not him I want to find," Ferros said, sitting up. Ariakas noticed that clean clothes had been provided for himself and the dwarf, and the two dressed while the Hylar explained. "I want to find the kingdom itself. I won't be going back to Thorbardin until I can learn more about them."
"Last night didn't tell you enough?"
Ferros scowled stubbornly. "I can't assume that one tavern represents the attitudes of an entire nation. And, too, when one dwarven nation is in trouble, even un shy;friendly dwarves can make good allies."
"You sound like you think there's going to be some kind of war," noted Ariakas, raising his eyebrows. He started to shave, using his dagger and cold water. "Does Thorbardin face invasion?"
"Nobody knows for sure. But it's not just us, or me," Ferros declared. "There's a lot of talk of trouble-the elves of Qualinesti patrol like there's a threat on every border. And surely," Ferros added, studying the human carefully, "you've noticed the troops here in Sanction. I think someone is getting ready for war-and when one army gets ready, all the rest have to prepare."
"I had noticed the numbers. But I don't think they're in service right now. You don't see any unit standards or barracks."
"How much of the city have you really seen?" pressed the Hylar. "All the alleys and buildings? Who knows what goes on in them?"
Ariakas shrugged. "As for me, when there's war, there's work. Not that I'm looking for either."
He told the dwarf where he lived, and when he learned that Ferros was quartered in a noisy waterfront inn he invited the Hylar to be his guest. Ferros agreed to bring his things over later in the afternoon, and Ariakas led him through the great hall of the temple to the door. "I'm going to talk to the high priest," the warrior told the dwarf.
Ferros gruffly repeated his thanks, then ducked through the curtain of darkness and disappeared.
"You were going to speak to me?"
Ariakas whirled in surprise as Wryllish Parkane silently stepped up behind him. Flushing, he nodded.
"We'll talk later," said the high priest. "Right now, Patriarch Fendis is beginning a lesson-historical studies I think you will find quite interesting. It's as good a place as any to begin your tutorship."
"My tutorship?" Ariakas glowered at the unperturbed priest.
"Forgive me. Doubtless there are many important matters requiring your immediate attention. Just remem shy;ber," Wryllish said, "it is not for me, nor for yourself that you now make your choices-it is for her."
The meaning of the priest's words hit Ariakas like a blow. For a moment he had to suppress an urge to kneel, to beg his queen's forgiveness. He spoke to her mutely in supplication, knowing he was right not to display weak shy;ness before the high priest.
"Where is the patriarch holding forth?" he asked.
Wryllish Parkane smiled slightly and led the warrior to one of the many small rooms off the great hall. He saw several novices, and two gray-haired priests, blue col shy;lars, all seated on the floor. One of the elders was speak shy;ing, which he continued to do without pause as Ariakas entered and sat on the opposite side of the room from the circle.
&nbs
p; "The Kingpriest of Istar epitomizes the arrogance of faiths who claim the mantle of 'goodness'," Patriarch Fendis was explaining. "At first, that ignoble ruler hurled his hatred at everything he branded as 'evil,' and even in the beginning he forged his branding irons with his own convenience in mind."
Ariakas was in fact immediately interested. His travels had taken him around the fringes of the Blood Sea, and he had marveled at the thought of the mighty nation that lay buried by the crimson maelstrom. The power to rack a land like that, he had often reflected, was the ultimate attainment of mastery.
The cleric continued through the morning, presenting an insightful description of the ebb and flow of god-power that had culminated in the Cataclysm. Ariakas learned that Takhisis had remained aloof and unin-volved in that celestial conspiracy. Alone among the gods of great power, she watched Reorx, Paladine, Gilean, and the lesser deities hurl flaming wrath from the heavens.
Yet in the wake of the godswrath, when humans declared themselves bereft of immortal leadership, Takhisis had been cast aside with the rest of the pan shy;theon. Now she worked slowly to spread word of her existence, and her destiny-the destiny of greatness that would be shared by all her faithful.
The pictures woven by the patriarch's words brought to Ariakas's mind images of huge armies, powerful war machines, and vast, stone-walled fortresses. And, vividly imagining, Ariakas saw that he rode in the thick of battle-he commanded, wielding the power of his queen like a mighty sabre over the field.
* * * * *
In the following weeks, Ariakas attended regular stud shy;ies at the temple. Though every instinct told him that Tale Splintersteel must be punished for his treachery, Ariakas somehow found the serenity to delay his revenge until the future.
As the days passed, he delved into mountains of information on topics to which he'd never before devoted much attention. In addition to history, he was exposed to the poetry of the ancient bards, the Public Tomes of Astinus, the elven histories by Quivalin Sath, dwarven epics by Chisel Loremaster, and an assortment of legends and mythologies from across the width and breadth of Ansalon.
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