Cold Steel and Secrets: A Neverwinter Novella, Part IV

by Rosemary Jones

  ALSO BY ROSEMARY JONES

  ED GREENWOOD PRESENTS WATERDEEP

  City of the Dead

  THE DUNGEONS

  Crypt of the Moaning Diamond

  COLD STEEL AND SECRETS:

  A NEVERWINTER NOVELLA

  ©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

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  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Aleksi Briclot

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6236-5

  640-98828003-001-EN

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten,

  horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land

  with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying

  fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant

  servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF

  UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  First Page

  You can buy paper crowns on the street in Waterdeep that children like to wear. They try to snatch them from each other and the last one left crowned becomes king or queen for a day. Then it starts all over again. In Neverwinter, the game of crowns is played by older, but not wiser, heads.

  —Lord Dagult Neverember

  1478 DR

  WHEN YOU’RE CAUGHT, THE ONLY THING TO DO IS TO START ACCUSING others. Rucas Sarfael forgot who gave him that advice, but it sounded better than the blood pounding in his ears as Arlon pressed a dagger against his throat.

  “Yes, you were betrayed,” he said as calmly as he could to the enraged Nasher.

  The wounded man growled. The crowd of Nashers pressed Sarfael against the edge of the bed where Arlon was propped upright. The Nasher’s head bandage still seeped blood from the wounds he got bowling over ash zombies with his thick skull.

  “But I was not the one who betrayed you,” Sarfael went on. If ever he needed his luck, he needed it now. He had to turn the night’s disaster into something other than a death sentence for himself. He could make an honest confession, admit that he was a spy for Dhafiyand, but quite truthfully deny that he had anything to do with the Red Wizard who engineered the attack against them and stole the box that might or might not contain Neverwinter’s long-lost crown.

  Of course, the minute he confessed to being Dhafiyand’s spy, he rather doubted that he’d get another word out.

  So better to lie and lie profusely, to throw metaphorical sand in their eyes, and hope that the blinded Nashers would let him go free.

  He still doubted the outcome, but he refused to let that show on his face.

  “The Sons of Alagondar sent me,” Sarfael said.

  “What?” cried Arlon Bladeshaper, so startled he let his hand drop and knife blade slip. Sarfael tried not to wince as the dagger nicked him.

  “The Graycloaks are not pleased with your leadership, your reckless endangerment of your followers, your unwise alliances.” Ah, the words were just rolling off his tongue now. Sarfael almost smirked at the stunned expression on Arlon’s face.

  “I am as true and loyal a Son as any man,” Arlon shouted. “No man has done more to reclaim the city. No one wants to see the new Neverwinter governed by its citizens more than myself.”

  “Exactly,” said Sarfael, easing back on his heels and shaking off the hands of the stunned Nashers. “You want it so badly, that you do not stop and think about your actions. Older heads, wiser heads, know that a terrible price will be paid by all if you persist. Why look around you, see how many are wounded here tonight. All because you overreached yourself.”

  “No! What do you mean?” Arlon grew quieter and the rest pressed close around Sarfael.

  “Who were you to take the crown of Neverwinter?” Sarfael spoke with great solemnity. “You should have sent to the Graycloaks and told them your plans. Instead, you spoke rashly and loudly, very loudly, to others. Of course, you were overheard and followed out of the city.”

  Not that Sarfael knew that. But it was a good guess that Arlon had failed to keep his mouth shut.

  “No,” Arlon said with a quiet firmness that made him sound much more a leader than any shout. “I was with Elyne and the others here for the entire day. No strangers heard us.”

  “Then you have a spy among you,” said Sarfael. “Someone who slipped out and betrayed your plans to the Red Wizard who attacked us.” Even as he said it, he was certain he was right. The only question was: Who had been playing his own game amid the Nashers? And, more unsettling, how had he missed the second spy?

  “And none of us were ever alone.” Arlon looked slightly dazed at the abrupt switch from accuser to accused, but color was seeping back into his face. Give him a few more minutes, Sarfael thought, and he’ll be bellowing again.

  “As is true of Sarfae
l,” Elyne said, stepping forward and brushing aside the others. “He stayed at the school and helped the students throughout the day. No messages were sent by him. He saved our lives tonight, Arlon, and these accusations are baseless.”

  “Someone betrayed us,” Arlon stated.

  “It cannot be anyone here,” Elyne said. “We kept to ourselves throughout the day. We left the city in small groups, but nobody went alone and nobody left our sight.”

  “Except Montimort,” said Parnadiz. “He went off in the afternoon, said he needed something for his spell to summon the crown.”

  Montimort flushed red and started to stutter a denial.

  As always, Elyne stepped between the Luskar boy and the others. “He risked the most for us. He worked that spell. Why would he betray us?”

  From everything he’d done, and from everything he’d said, Sarfael could think of no reason that Montimort would collude with any enemy. The boy lived to help Elyne. He even wanted to crown her queen of Neverwinter.

  Still, Parnidiz’s story did spark a question. Sarfael remembered their earlier conversation about the spell necessary to summon the crown. “You said the spell came from knowing the right order of words, spoken in the correct place. What ingredients would you need?”

  Montimort slid off the stool and along the wall, backing away from them.

  “What have you done, my friend?” Elyne asked him, very gently.

  “Nothing,” Montimort could barely speak. His voice came out in a strangled whisper. His limbs shook and his head began to twitch like a worried rodent.

  Another question bobbed up in Sarfael’s worried mind and it was out of his mouth before he stopped to think: “Who gave you the spell to kill Karion?”

  He heard Montimort squeak and Elyne gasp. The boy threw one despairing look at them and then bolted toward the door.

  Stocky Parnadiz grabbed him. He locked his arms tight around Montimort and dragged him back.

  “I did it for all of us,” Montimort yelled into their astonished faces. “I had to. But I would never have let him take the crown. I didn’t know he would try to steal it.”

  “So you did know that Red Wizard?” Elyne asked in puzzled sorrow.

  “No, yes,” Montimort squirmed under the weight of their stares. “I needed a spell, something to force Karion to help us. He … this man … he offered to teach me. I didn’t know what he was.”

  “Did you tell him about the crown?” Arlon asked.

  “He never saw the box,” Montimort said. “I would just take him copies of the certain words, ones I needed help to translate. I never spoke about the crown or what it was.”

  “But he guessed,” Arlon said. “Something you said. Something you did. He knew what you were trying to summon.”

  “He sent you to Upland Rise, didn’t he?” Sarfael asked. The location had made no sense to him at the time, unprotected, outside the city walls. A perfect place for an ambush. Now he understood.

  Montimort nodded. “He said that we had to go there. That we could not make the spell work anywhere else. But I never thought he would steal the box.”

  “Do you know his name?” Elyne questioned him.

  “I never heard a name. Elyne, I meant no harm. I only wanted to help,” Montimort pleaded with her.

  Elyne sighed. “You led us into an ambush, whether you meant to or not.”

  “What will you do?” Montimort asked in a very small voice. “Will you make me leave the Nashers?”

  “It’s not for me to decide,” Elyne said with a glance at Arlon, who lay looking somewhat stunned by all the revelations. “It will be put to a vote, you know that.”

  Montimort turned pale. He had always been the outsider in the group, only tolerated because of Elyne’s constant championship.

  Sarfael pitied the boy, but he could not let him remain silent. Too much was at stake. They had to recover the crown. Far better the Nashers held it than a Red Wizard. “What else can you tell us of this Red Wizard? We need to find him.”

  “I met him in his house,” said Montimort. “At least, I assume that it was his. A small house near the docks. Very plain on the outside but the rooms were full of little treasures. Very warm too. But I suppose that was because he was an old man. He always had a fire going when I went there.”

  Even as he spoke, Rucas Sarfael knew the name of their thief. He knew why the Red Wizard’s ink-stained hand had seemed so familiar when he snatched the box away from Montimort. But it made no sense: Dhafiyand a Red Wizard? Lord Neverember’s spymaster stealing the crown of Neverwinter for himself?

  “There has indeed been treachery,” Sarfael said aloud and the rest turned toward him with startled looks. Perhaps they had never heard him sound so cold, so furious. “But I know this man and where he lives. I can take you to his house.”

  Sarfael’s hand curled around the twisted black horn that formed the hilt of Mavreen’s sword. The Red Wizards turned her body into a monster. He still remembered the hideous night he was forced to cut her head from her shoulders to lay her back into her grave. He remembered too telling that story to Dhafiyand. How the old man’s ready sympathy made him willing to listen to Dhafiyand’s plots and plans. How Dhafiyand assured him that the Red Wizards were no longer a threat in Neverwinter because of his work.

  So the spymaster had lied to his spy? Well, that was a dangerous game for him to play, thought Sarfael, for one betrayal must lead to another.

  “Come,” he said out loud. “I will lead you to the Red Wizard. But bring your weapons. He is a cunning old dog and I expect him to bite when cornered.”

  The house was empty except for one aged maidservant who fled when confronted at the door by a crowd of armed Nashers.

  Elyne led Montimort, Parnadiz, Charinyn, and half a dozen others. The wounded, including Arlon, stayed behind, despite vehement protests by Arlon. But Sarfael insisted. He dared not confront Dhafiyand with anyone less than able. The man’s powers were obviously formidable, as demonstrated during the attack on Upland Rise.

  “How do you know this house?” Elyne asked as they searched through the rooms for some trace of the box or Dhafiyand.

  “I had some dealings with the man,” Sarfael answered. How many of his secrets had he given away to Dhafiyand while the man, that master spy, had watched and listened and betrayed none of his own?

  “What dealings?” Elyne pressed him.

  “Actions to be regretted,” Sarfael admitted.

  She looked unsatisfied with his curt reply. “Who are you really?” she said. “You are no agent of the Graycloaks. I know the Sons well, and they might summon Arlon to them to lecture him about his tactics. But they would not place a spy in our midst.”

  “Call me an adopted son of Neverwinter,” Sarfael said. “For that is what I am now. I find I have grown very fond of this city, and its citizens.”

  “But how do you know this Dhafiyand?” Elyne said.

  I never knew him, he thought to himself. For I all counted him an interesting employer, and preened myself when I tricked him out of an extra fee, and told him of Mavreen’s death when I was sentimental and deep in the cups at the end of an adventure.

  Out loud, he said, “I thought he was a friend.”

  Sarfael began to search the papers on Dhafiyand’s table. The piles slid in all directions. There were charts, maps, notes, and memorandum. But nothing of any use.

  For once, the room seemed a little cool. Sarfael glanced at the fireplace. The fire was out, and gray, cold ash lay scattered across the hearth.

  He walked across the room. The pearl-encrusted miniature lay facedown on the mantel. He turned the picture over. The painting was hideous. The moon elf lady stared back at him with mad eyes burning in an undead face.

  “What did Karion say?” he asked Elyne. “When he was having that fit of prophecy? Something about a moon elf grasping for the treasures of Neverwinter with her undead hands?”

  “Valindra,” Elyne said. “That was the name. But he also talked a
bout Greeth, and Luskan, and things that were long ago. His powers of prediction were never great. He was a seer who always mixed up the past with the future.”

  “She speaks with a painted mouth,” Sarfael recalled Karion’s words. He flipped the miniature over. The words to a Thayan spell circled across the deep, square back. The style looked familiar.

  “Montimort,” Sarfael said to the boy, “is this another summoning box? Like the one that hid the crown?”

  The young wizard took it from him and nodded. He pushed with his thumb the line between the back and the painting that formed the lid to the little Luskar puzzle box.

  Unlike the larger box that they found in Karion’s house, it swung easily open, revealing a folded parchment inside. From the way that it was crumpled inside the box, Sarfael knew that somebody had already read it and hastily replaced it. He plucked it out of Montimort’s hand.

  “What is it?” asked Elyne.

  “A way to send messages in and out of the city with no one knowing,” he said. “Montimort told us, didn’t you, that a pair of boxes would be used by pirate captains to pass treasures between ship and city. Or messages?”

  “Yes,” said Montimort. The boy was still pale and kept sending worried glances at Elyne. “They might use them to send a message.”

  Sarfael plucked the wrinkled parchment out of the box. He unrolled it to reveal a single order, much like the one he’d seen only days ago on Dhafiyand’s table.

  “Kill Neverember and bring the crown to me. You will have the reward promised.” It was unsigned, but Sarfael could not mistake it for a message from Waterdeep’s Open Lord. Neverember would not be ordering his own murder.

  A shout from Charinyn startled them. The girl reached into the stack of kindling next to the fireplace and pulled out the box inscribed with the Thayan summoning spell. It had been hidden beneath the sticks.

  “Open it,” Sarfael said, but he knew what he would see. The girl pried the lid open. The box was empty. The crown, if it had been there, was gone. With a cry of disappointment, Charinyn dropped the box on the table.