Twilight Falling

by Paul S. Kemp

  Not waiting for Cale, Riven lunged forward and unleashed a flurry of slashes. Preternaturally quick, the little easterner danced left, ducked below a cross slash, and stabbed low with his falchion. The blow nicked Riven’s forearm near the elbow. The assassin grunted, slashed high, and managed to open a slit in the easterner’s shoulder.

  Cale started to rush in on the easterner’s blade side, his own sword gripped in both hands, when a voice from behind cut through the melee like a razor.

  “Cease now or the halfling dies!”

  Cale stopped in mid-stride, blade held before him. Riven and the easterner, not more than a pace and a half apart, stopped too but kept blades at the ready. All eyes turned to the speaker.

  The half-drow and Vraggen stood at the mouth of the alley. The half-drow, smiling and dressed in a flamboyant green silk shirt and cloak, held Jak by a handful of his red hair. With his other hand, he held a long sword at the halfling’s throat.

  “I don’t know how they saw me, Cale,” said the halfling.

  “There are many things you don’t know,” Azriim said, and he gave a hard smile. “Now, speak again and you die.”

  Jak bit his lip and said nothing.

  Beside the half-drow, dressed in a gray cloak and skullcap, stood the dark-eyed wizard. He held an iron wand in his left hand.

  For a moment, everyone simply stared at everyone else. The only sound in the alley was that of the combatants’ respiration and Dolgan’s gurgling. Cale glanced down at Dolgan in contempt. He was surprised the man was still alive.

  Vraggen broke the silence. “The globe,” he said, his voice a low hiss.

  Cale made eye contact with Jak. With his eyes, the halfling indicated his hand, then signaled in handcant, I’m ready.

  Cale understood.

  “The globe,” Vraggen repeated. “Or your friend dies right now. Followed by your other friend …”

  Riven scoffed at that.

  “… followed by you.”

  “It’s gone,” Cale said. “I destroyed it.”

  He could think of no better lie on short notice.

  The wizard sighed with impatience and said, “A lie. Azriim.”

  The half-drow jerked Jak’s head back to expose his throat. The halfling grunted. His fists clenched. The half-drow’s—Azriim’s—forearm tensed.

  Decide quickly, Cale, said Azriim’s voice in his head.

  “It’s in my pack,” said Cale, low and dangerous.

  Azriim stayed his hand and looked to Vraggen.

  “Of course it is,” said the wizard with a smug smile. He tapped his wand in his palm.

  “Here,” said Cale as he slowly unslung his bag, catching Jak’s eye as he did, and he fished out the burlap sack containing the half-sphere.

  The wizard’s eyes blazed as Cale peeled back the cloth to unveil the half-globe. The half-drow gave a satisfied smile. For a moment, Azriim’s sword arm relaxed. Cale saw the tendons slacken.

  Jak burst into action.

  In a single motion, the halfling grabbed the half-drow’s blade with his left hand—grimacing as it sliced open his palm—and held it at bay while he lifted his foot slightly, drew a small punch dagger from a boot sheath with his right hand, and used a reverse strike to stab the half-drow in the thigh. Azriim howled and clutched at the wound with his free hand. Jak ducked under the half-drow’s attempt to muscle his sword into the halfling’s jugular and tumbled away, leaving Azriim holding nothing more than a clump of his hair. Jak regained his feet in an instant and brandished the dagger.

  Pressing his bleeding hand against his thigh, he said, “C’mon, you drow bastard!”

  Azriim’s mismatched eyes burned. Ignoring the bleeding thigh wound, he brandished his blade and advanced on Jak. The halfling, hugging the opposite wall of the alley, backed off toward Cale.

  Cale started to step to Jak’s aid but stopped. He didn’t want leave the sphere unguarded.

  Just behind Cale, the easterner unleashed slash after slash at Riven. Riven parried his blows and answered with his own sabre cuts. Their exchange brought them both within arm’s reach of Cale, who stood over the sphere, looking this way and that. In the meantime, the wizard leveled his wand.

  Things were going bad fast. Cale stopped the combat the only way he could. Gripping his blade in both hands, he held it over the half-sphere. Shadows danced in the air between the half-sphere and the steel.

  “Stop, or I’ll destroy it right now!”

  He raised the blade, and for a heartbeat, all motion in the alley stopped. Vraggen’s eyes went wide. He continued to point his wand at Cale but held up his other hand, palm outward.

  “Do not,” he said, as though he was in a position to give orders. “Do not, Cale.”

  Jak took advantage of the pause in the combat to back farther away from the half-drow and nearer to Cale. Azriim eyed him throughout.

  “This is the blade that split it in half, mage,” Cale said. “I’ll turn it to shards this time.”

  “I’ll kill you slowly if you do,” Vraggen said.

  Cale heard the worry behind the mage’s bravado. Vraggen wanted the half-sphere badly.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ll split you groin to gullet. Either way, you’ll not have what you want.”

  Vraggen’s jaw tightened. His fingers whitened around the wand. A halo of shadows swirled around his head. Cale could fairly see his mind churning.

  “Destroy the globe and the guard from Stormweather Towers will die. Painfully, I promise you. Will you be able to live with the knowledge that you caused him so much pain?”

  The mage spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that Cale knew the threat to be no bluff. Azriim looked to Cale and chuckled.

  Cale would have torn out his tongue if he could have.

  From behind, Riven, breathing heavily, said, “Bugger these whoresons, Cale. Do it.”

  He lunged at the easterner—a bluff designed to elicit a start. The easterner didn’t move a muscle, merely eyed him coolly.

  “Quiet your dog, Cale,” said Vraggen, his eyes still on Cale’s sword.

  Riven said nothing but Cale could imagine the hateful sneer he shot the mage.

  Cale reached a decision quickly. The mage was right. He would not be able to live with himself if he brought harm to Ren. That left only one course: he would arrange for the trade he had anticipated all along. But he wanted to know what the sphere was before he turned it over—if he turned it over.

  “This,” Cale said, and lightly tapped the half-sphere with his sword, an act that elicited a wince from Vraggen, “for the guard. Two days from now, at the eighth hour, at the Twisted Elm north of the High Bridge.”

  A common location for meetings, the Twisted Elm was a well known landmark along the north road, not far out of Selgaunt and surrounded by an expanse of flat plain. It would be easy to avoid an ambush there. Rumors said the Elm’s roots craved blood; Cale suspected the rumors had their origin in meetings gone bad. A lot of blood had been spilled under the Elm’s eaves.

  Vraggen’s brow furrowed. He fiddled with the wand, as though trying to decide if he could use it on Cale before Cale could strike the half-sphere.

  “You are not in a position to be requesting terms, Erevis Cale,” he said at last.

  Cale knew he had the advantage then. He almost smiled … almost.

  “I’m not requesting anything, mage. I’m telling you how this is going to unfold. You want this half of the sphere much more than I want the guard safely returned.”

  That was a lie, but Vraggen wouldn’t know it.

  “If that was true, you’d have destroyed it already. Do you take me for a fool, Cale?”

  “Try me then,” Cale challenged and again raised his blade.

  For a moment, Vraggen said nothing, but Cale could see his mind racing behind his emotionless eyes, could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

  “Two days hence, then,” Vraggen managed to say without anger.

  Cale allowed himself to exhale.


  Indicating Azriim and the easterner, he said, “And if I catch sight of these errand boys in the meantime, I destroy my half on the spot. Then I come for you.”

  At that, Vraggen gave a tight smile. Azriim too grinned broadly, and Cale saw that he had perfect teeth. From behind and just to Cale’s right, the easterner spat a glob onto Cale’s boot.

  Cale looked at it, looked at the easterner …

  Quick as an adder, Cale lashed out with his right hand, grabbed the easterner by the cloak, and jerked him in close before he could bring his falchion to bear.

  “Next time those are teeth you’re spitting,” he said, and he shoved the man, stumbling, past Jak and toward the mage.

  The easterner quickly recovered his balance, if not his dignity. He whirled around and started to advance on Cale, snarling. Vraggen reached out a hand and held him back. The man stared hate at Cale.

  It was Riven’s turn to chuckle.

  “Leave,” ordered Cale. “We’re operating on my terms now, and this little party is over.”

  “For now,” Azriim said, and his smile disappeared.

  With exaggerated care, Vraggen replaced the wand into the folds of his cloak.

  “We shall do this your way for now, Erevis Cale,” the mage said, “but before we part, let me leave you with a reminder of the price the guard will pay if you do not turn the remainder of the globe over to me.”

  He nodded to Azriim and the half-drow’s grin returned.

  You will love this, said his voice in Cale’s head.

  Slowly, so as not to give alarm, Azriim reached into an inner pocket of his cloak and withdrew something wrapped in a silken handkerchief. Cale’s stomach churned.

  When Azriim unveiled the severed fingers that lay within, the half-drow’s grin widened. He cast them to the road, near Cale’s feet. The easterner smirked, though his gray eyes remained hard. Vraggen showed no emotion but his cloak pin, shaped like a jawless skull, seemed to leer.

  “Those are three of his fingers, Cale,” the mage said. “Next time, it shall be his tongue. After that, only Savras can say. But you should know that I can maintain his life for some time even while removing substantial amounts of flesh, which I will do, if necessary. And after that, I will come for you.” Vraggen fixed his gaze on Cale. “Do not trifle with me, Cale. Is it clear to you that I am in earnest?”

  It was, but Cale would not give the bastard the satisfaction of an acknowledgement.

  “You were leaving, I believe,” said Cale.

  Vraggen looked past Cale to Riven and said, “You could join me, Drasek. We were both Zhents once, allies even. I could use you now, and I can pay you well.”

  Riven sneered, “You couldn’t pay me enough. Self-important dolts like you are the reason I left the Network in the first place.”

  Vraggen’s eyes went hard. His lips twisted into a contemptuous smile.

  “I frightened you the last time we met, did I not, Riven? Probably left you teary eyed in the street, bawling like a babe. Next time you won’t come back from that place.”

  Riven started toward the wizard and said, “Frighten? Let me show you how frightened—”

  Cale grabbed Riven’s cloak and stopped the assassin’s advance. Riven didn’t take his eye off the wizard.

  “Take your hand off me, Cale.”

  Cale could feel the tension in the assassin’s body.

  “Not now, Riven.” He shook him once, hard. “Not now. But that time will come.”

  Riven looked at him, let his body relax, then looked back to Vraggen.

  “You’re already dead, mage,” the assassin said. “And you’ll never see me coming. After this little bit with the sphere is over, you’d better sleep with one eye open.”

  Vraggen stared holes at them and said, “After this is over, I won’t sleep at all.”

  Cale had no idea what that meant, but he’d had enough.

  “Leave,” he ordered.

  Vraggen looked to Cale, smiled, and nodded at Riven.

  “It is well that you can control your dog, Cale,” he chuckled. “But, as you said, we were leaving. Azriim, gather up our dog and let us be on our way.”

  Cale thought Vraggen wanted Azriim to retrieve Dolgan’s corpse, but to Cale’s utter amazement, Dolgan was still alive. The big man’s leg twitched. He gave a wet groan. His armor and tunic were stained dark with enough blood to fill a well bucket but somehow he still breathed. Cale couldn’t believe it. His blow would have felled an ogre.

  “Trickster’s hairy toes,” Jak breathed, and he shrank away from the big man.

  Azriim sheathed his blade, stepped forward without a hint of wariness—Cale or Jak could have stabbed him through the chest—and helped Dolgan to his feet. Inexplicably, the wounds Cale had dealt the big man had already stopped bleeding.

  “Hurt?” Azriim asked him.

  “Yes.” Dolgan gave Cale a leer. Blood caked his teeth and mouth. “But it’s a good hurt.”

  “Mind the clothes,” Azriim said, and he held the big man at arm’s length to keep Dolgan’s bloodstained tunic away from his finery.

  In that moment, Cale thought with certainty that Dolgan must be insane, or a worshiper of Loviatar, or perhaps both.

  Azriim and Dolgan backed off—Azriim eyeing Jak darkly—until they stood beside Vraggen and the little easterner near the mouth of the alley. Jak slid nearer to Riven and Cale.

  “Two days, Cale,” Vraggen said. “For the guard’s sake, do not be late and do not attempt any trickery.”

  “You bring him to the Twisted Elm—intact—and you’ll have your sphere, intact.”

  Vraggen nodded. Azriim gave a graceful bow.

  “A pleasure, gentlemen,” said the half-drow, “and I use that term casually. I’ll look forward to our next meeting.”

  “As will I,” said Cale, and promised violence with his gaze.

  Riven pointed his swords at the easterner and added, “And if you step between me and your pet wizard again, maybe we’ll have our dance after all, eh?”

  The easterner said nothing, merely spat, sheathed his blade, and glared.

  “Until then,” Vraggen said, and he removed from his robes a teleportation rod similar to that used by the attackers in Stormweather Towers.

  Each of the mage’s team removed a similar rod. A few turns of the bronze devices and all but Azriim were gone.

  The half-drow delayed a fraction of a heartbeat, and in that moment, his laughing voice sounded in Cale’s head, What do you think of my new pants?

  Then he too was gone. But for Dolgan’s blood on the ground of the alley, the combat might never have occurred.

  Cale, Riven, and Jak stared at one another in silence for a long moment.

  After a time, Jak summed up all of their thinking.

  “Dark,” he cursed. “Dark and empty.”

  Cale agreed. Who were these bastards?

  “Your hand,” he said to Jak.

  “Huh? Oh.”

  Jak sheathed his punch dagger, took out his holy symbol, and intoned a prayer to Brandobaris. The skin of his hand closed completely. He flexed it, seemed satisfied.

  “Now I need a smoke,” the halfling said. He took out his pipe and popped it in his mouth, though he didn’t light it.

  “You?” Cale asked Riven, and indicated the slash the assassin had taken on his forearm.

  “It’s shallow. Save the spell.”

  Cale didn’t argue. The thought of using a healing spell on Riven made him uncomfortable anyway.

  The assassin held the sleeve of his cloak against the wound and pressed hard to stop the bleeding.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cale said. “Nothing has changed. We still head for Jak’s contact.” He kneeled, repacked the half-sphere in his pack, and used a handkerchief—he habitually carried one; once a butler always a butler, he supposed—to pick up Ren’s fingers. They would serve as Cale’s talisman until he brought the young man back safely.

  “Your sage is going to have two days
,” Cale said to Jak. “I want to know what this sphere is before the meet at the Twisted Elm.” He looked at each of Riven and Jak in turn. “Whatever it is though, our priority remains getting Ren back safely. Agreed? He’s just a boy, caught up in this by Beshaba’s own ill luck.”

  “Agreed,” said the halfling.

  “Agreed,” said Riven, managing to sound only a little reluctant.

  Cale sheathed his blade.

  “That doesn’t mean we’re giving Vraggen the sphere,” he added. “That only means we’re getting Ren back alive. Either way, we hunt them down and kill them all afterward. Agreed?”

  Riven sheathed his sabers, smiled hard, and said, “Agreed.”

  Jak said in a softer tone, “Agreed. But …”

  Cale looked at him and asked, “But?”

  “Did you see how fast they healed, Cale?” Jak tapped the stem of his pipe on his chin the way he did when thinking hard. “Both the half-drow and the small one. And that big one with the axe? No one should have lived through that. Look at all the blood.”

  Cale looked to the pool of blood congealing on the cobbles of the alley—Dolgan’s blood. He thought the same thing.

  Riven spat. “So they’re hearty whoresons. I’ve seen men like that before. Takes more to put ’em down, is all. But we saw that they bleed; they’ll die.”

  “That’s more than hearty,” Jak said, shaking his head. He lowered his voice. “Those aren’t mental mages. In fact, I … I don’t think they’re human.”

  “Dung,” cursed Riven. “You’re mad, Fleet. They’re as much men as us.”

  Cale ignored Riven. He knew Riven lacked subtlety, in manners as well as thought, and he knew of the assassin’s distaste for things magical. Riven would not consider the possibility that Vraggen and his team might be other than they appeared because he didn’t want to consider it. Strange for a man who had gone so far in the Zhents, an organization rife with wizards.

  To Cale though, Jak’s point seemed well taken. All of Vraggen’s crew had demonstrated a lack of concern with wounds. Nine Hells, Dolgan seemed to enjoy being wounded! And all had healed rapidly—too rapidly. Azriim and the woman had shown telepathic powers, and they had the ability to look like other men.

  “Shapeshifters,” Cale breathed. “Dark.”