Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 08] - Easy Betrayals

by Richard Baker (epub)

  The Tyrian’s intuition was correct; they traveled about fifty yards down the alley and found themselves at a narrow courtyard or portico. The back side of the column-bordered palace loomed over an open space littered with broken masonry. Rings looked around nervously, but there was no more sign of the undead.

  “Look here,” said Jacob. He pointed at a disordered line of shallow dimples in the sand, crossing and re-crossing a small but steep drift. “Someone’s footsteps.”

  “They must be fresh. The wind would’ve covered them if they’d been here long.” Rings followed the steps to a gaping dark archway in the stone building ahead. By one side of the door a crude chalk mark caught his eye. “We’re on the right track. That’s Belgin’s mark.”

  Jacob glanced around and then ducked his head to descend the narrow steps beyond. Rings followed carefully, axe at the ready. At the bottom, the steps opened out into a long, low chamber lined with stout columns. Moving slowly, the two fighters advanced into the chamber, examining their surroundings. “I think these are more portals,” Jacob said after a long moment.

  “Looks like it,” Rings answered. “I guess the old Netherese had an aversion to using their legs. There must be dozens of these things.”

  About halfway across the chamber from the stairway, they found an archway marked with a chalk symbol and a set of dwarven runes beneath it. Rings studied the archway in silence for a long time, ignoring the fighter beside him.

  “Well? What is it?” Jacob asked irritably.

  “Belgin and Miltiades went this way, chasing Eidola.”

  “What’s the rest of the writing?”

  “The word to open the gate,” Rings said. “Are you ready?”

  Jacob’s eyes were far away. Rings almost repeated his question before the Tyrian absently nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Rings turned back to the portal and spoke the word Belgin had marked for him. Before his eyes, the gray stone seemed to shimmer and vanish, replaced by a curtain of seamless black. “It’s open,” he said, glancing back at Jacob.

  He was just in time to see the fighter’s blade punch into his chest.

  Rings grunted with the impact, blinking in disbelief. Steel grated on bone as Jacob withdrew his sword, red for almost a foot of its length. Rings tried to raise the axe of his fathers to strike at his slayer, but the weapon seemed impossibly heavy, and it slipped from his grasp to fall ringing to the floor. “You bastard,” he gasped once, and then the breath fled from him. With a groan he toppled to the cold stone floor, blood fountaining from his wound.

  Jacob raised his sword again and met his eyes. The curly-haired fighter smiled coldly. “Thanks for reading the trigger. I don’t know a word of Dwarvish. Why don’t you stay here and take a breather, and I’ll go on ahead and see how Miltiades and Belgin are faring.”

  “Why?” rasped Rings. Weakly he pushed himself up with one hand on the floor, the other clamped over the ghastly injury.

  “Let’s just say that Eidola’s an old friend.” Jacob eyed him clinically, then lowered his sword. With brutal efficiency he lashed out with one boot and kicked Rings’s supporting arm out from under him, crumpling the dwarf to the floor again, then kicked him hard five times for good measure before he stopped. “Damn. You got blood all over my boot,” he remarked.

  Then he stepped over the small, still form and ducked into the portal.

  Blackness and cold, an instant of silence that seared Belgin’s senses, and he was through the portal again. Shivering, he swept his flank with his rapier, ready for any threat. They stood in a chamber that might have been a Netherese crypt ages ago, but it had been plundered and looted decades or centuries in the past. What was so important, so dangerous, that these dead princes were buried thousands of miles from their home? The sharper wondered. The colorful murals had flaked and peeled from exposure to the outside air, and what little statuary remained had been smashed and vandalized. The stone sepulchre in the center of the room lay broken and empty, and the doors at the far end of the chamber were torn from their hinges.

  Miltiades stood beside him, scanning his side of the room. His hammer still retained his spell of illumination, and its soft silver glow cast gray shadows against the ruined walls and broken vaulting. “I’d guess that these places were built to house liches through the dark ages of undeath,” he said quietly.

  “Liches?” Belgin recoiled a step, even though he could plainly see that no such creature had inhabited this particular tomb for long years. “Why do you say that?”

  “Netheril’s archmages ruled that land. Knowing that the time of their natural deaths were upon them, maybe they arranged for the construction of tombs that would keep out looters and defilers and hide them from their living rivals but allow them to leave when they so chose.”

  “The Netherese were in the habit of deifying their rulers,” Belgin said. “It would make sense. The desert temple was the center of a cult of death priests who watched over their lords’ sleep and awaited the day of their undead resurrection. I wonder how many of these places still exist?”

  “Does it matter?” Miltiades asked. “You’re not thinking of using the portals to rummage through Netherese crypts, are you?”

  Belgin thought of the cold emerald fire dancing in the eyes of the desert temple’s dead warriors and the horrifying determination of the creature that guarded the place against intrusion. There are easier ways to make a living, he said to himself. Like hunting down doppelgänger.

  “It might be handy to know where all those portals go, but I don’t think I want to cross any more liches than I have to. I’ll leave their tombs in peace from now on.”

  He laughed at his own remark, but the thick dust and rot in the chamber got into his lungs, and he coughed until it felt like someone had stabbed him between the ribs. Gasping for air, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried not to notice the dark bloody smear on his glove.

  Miltiades waited, frowning. “Can you continue?”

  “I’ll live—for now, anyway. Lead the way.”

  The paladin grimaced and clapped one mailed hand to the sharper’s shoulder, then turned and picked his way from the wreckage of the crypt. The ancient doors had stood at the end of a long corridor much like the one under Aetheric’s palace, and a faint set of tracks marred the dust on the stone flagstones.

  “No hard decisions yet,” Miltiades observed, advancing down the hall. “She must have gone this way.”

  The passageway led several hundred feet before opening high in a dank and lightless cavern whose sides stretched away into the darkness. A cold, foul wind sighed through the chamber, hinting at vast gulfs and trackless mazes in the endless night. What kind of place is this? It must go on forever, Belgin thought. I can feel eyes in the darkness. Beneath them, a narrow ledge circled the upper portion of the cavern, with a steep scramble through a forest of stalagmites to the cavern floor. They dropped lightly from the mouth of the finished passage to the shelf of natural stone, peering down at the yawning darkness below. “How big is this place?” Belgin muttered.

  “No one knows of a larger or more dangerous maze,” Miltiades said. “Undermountain stretches for miles beneath the city and Mount Waterdeep. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that inhabit Halaster’s dungeons, Belgin; keep your eyes open and watch your back down here.”

  “I really wish you’d kept that to yourself.” The sharper glanced left and right, then slid down the slope to the cavern floor. He could sense water nearby, a lot of it; the wind was cold and damp, and the sound of the air seemed to indicate an immense cavern. At the bottom, a shelf of gray stone held a couple of muddy footprints. Carefully, he knelt to examine them. A few grains of wet sand remained in the tracks. “Stay toward the right,” he said quietly. “I think she’s following that wall.”

  “All right,” agreed the paladin. He moved off into the darkness, keeping the dank cavern wall close by his right hand. Ahead, the sound of water grew louder, and Belgin became aware of a strong
salty reek to the air. After a lifetime of piracy on the open main, he knew the smell of the sea. They followed the cavern wall until it met a dark, lapping arm of water a hundred yards or so from the passageway they’d come from. “Where did she go from here, Belgin? Can you tell?”

  “Look here,” the sharper said. Smooth, dark pebbles made up the shoreline, but a shallow groove showed where some of the pebbles had been displaced. “There was a boat here.”

  “Eidola took it?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it, Miltiades. It’s almost impossible to track over stone, and she might have turned out away from the wall before she came here. The boat that made this mark might have been here minutes past, or it might have only landed once years ago.” He stood and peered out over the Stygian lake. “Can you dim your magical light?”

  “Of course,” the paladin said. He lowered the hammer and allowed the silver light to fade.

  As Belgin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he became aware of a strange glimmer far off across the water. Phosphorescent green seemed to swirl and dance beneath the surface of the water, but beyond that a sickly yellow glow seemed to illuminate the far end of the cavern. “I think that’s lantern light over there,” he said. “Do you know where we are, Miltiades?”

  The paladin nodded in the darkness beside him. “Yes, I think I do. It’s Skullport.”

  “Skullport? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Trouble.” Miltiades glowered across the underwater channel, his face unreadable in the gloom. “That’s where Eidola must be.”

  “How do you know?” asked Belgin.

  “If there’s anyplace in the world she can lose us, that will be it. Come on, we’d better find another boat.” The paladin led the way as they started up the shoreline, scrambling and slipping on the wet rocks. They’d only gone a few dozen paces when Belgin suddenly lunged forward to catch the paladin’s arm, motioning him to silence. “What is it?”

  “Something’s coming up behind us,” the sharper whispered. As they stood in silence for a moment, the clatter of rocks and scrape of awkward footsteps in the darkness behind them was obvious. Belgin quietly moved out away from the shore into the center of the cavern, seeking to flank their pursuer. Behind him, he sensed Miltiades steeling himself for a fight. With a whispered prayer to Tyr, the paladin brightened his hammer to the fullest power of the spell, flooding the cavern with silver light.

  “Who goes there?” he called in challenge.

  “Miltiades? Is that you?” Stumbling out of the darkness, Jacob blundered into the light, shielding his eyes with his hand. The fighter held his sword at the ready, and his armor showed battle damage and sand scratches from the desert storm. “I never thought I’d see you again!”

  “Jacob?” Miltiades clasped the fighter’s arm. “I’m sorry we left you behind, but I’m glad to see you now.”

  “I understand; the quest comes first. You did the right thing, Miltiades. What happened to you after the storm hit?”

  “We waited for you, but—”

  “One moment,” said Belgin, advancing out of the darkness. “Where is Rings?”

  The fighter stood silent for a long moment, and then said flatly, “He didn’t make it, sharper. He died in the city.”

  Belgin closed his eyes and sat down heavily on the cold stones. Kurthe, Brindra, Anvil, now Rings. Will any of us be left by the time this is all done? Any of us? The paladins watched him, but they kept their distance. They’d traveled with Rings only a few hours, and they didn’t presume to offer any platitudes for Belgin. It would have been ridiculous. Of all of them, why is it that I’m the one still standing? The sharper thought bitterly. How much longer do I have, anyway? A month? Six months? But I’m alive, and they’re all dead.

  All dead.

  Chapter 5

  Betrayal

  “I hate this place,” Miltiades muttered beneath a heavy cowl. Eyes narrowed at the mindless dead who milled and trudged past them in the warrenlike streets, the paladin clutched his dark cloak closer to his breast and shifted the hammer in his hand. “When I’ve finished with the doppelgänger, I’ve a mind to muster a dozen or so of Tyr’s bravest sons and return to set this wrong aright. It is an abomination in the eyes of the just.”

  Good luck, thought Belgin, but he kept his remark to himself. Skullport rambled and twisted in the darkness of the great sea cavern, illuminated by sickly yellow lanterns and green fox fire. Its dismal alleyways and ramshackle buildings reminded him of the worst pirate dens he’d seen in the Five Kingdoms, but this place was far more sinister than the rough-and-tumble seaports he knew. Skullport was a place of dark pleasures and grim designs, a place where things that could not abide the light of day chose to do their business.

  “I don’t like it much, either,” Belgin admitted. “Best we do what we came to do and get out of here fast.”

  Miltiades’s hood nodded. The paladin didn’t care for Belgin’s suggestion of a disguise, but he’d reluctantly agreed after the sharper had pointedly asked how many other paladins in shining armor he saw stomping around in Skullport’s streets. “She must have friends here. I’ve heard that the so-called Unseen lurk somewhere in this dismal pit. We’ll start with them.”

  “Any idea of how to find them, Miltiades? They must be called the Unseen for some reason, after all,” Jacob pointed out.

  The big fighter brought up the rear of their small party, keeping a sharp eye out behind them. In order to conceal their Tyrian armor, both Jacob and Miltiades had borrowed dark cloaks from ally drunks who’d never need them again. While Miltiades steamed and stewed in his shroud, Jacob grinned ear to ear, obviously enjoying the stealthy approach.

  “Question one of these wretched villains scurrying by,” Miltiades said. “Noph’s lasso ought to elicit the answers we need. Sooner or later, we’ll find one who knows something.”

  Belgin rolled his eyes, but assented. “Fine. It lacks subtlety, but well try it your way. I suspect that flashing gold in one of these alehouses would only mark us as targets, anyway.” He eased the rope into his hand and measured it carefully. Together, the three men waited in the mouth of a dark alleyway, watching the mindless dead come and go. Dozens of humans, draw, and more monstrous creatures passed while they watched, but almost all traveled in pairs or small groups, watching the streets carefully. Two times the three men lassoed solitary corsairs when no one else seemed to be paying attention, but the fellows they caught knew nothing of Skullport’s Unseen. Jacob whistled merrily and bound them in the filth-strewn alleyway, out of sight of the street.

  After a half-hour or so, a proud mageling sauntered down the street at a moment when no one else seemed to be near. At a nod from Miltiades, Belgin threw the lasso at her without a word. The braid seemed to leap out of his hand, directing itself into a tight loop as it settled silently over the mark. “Come here, and do not resist!” Belgin hissed. The mage stiffened and started to raise her hands, but the magic of the lasso trapped her.

  Snarling in rage, she plodded toward the alleyway. “You have no idea who you’re trifling with, fool! When I get free—”

  “You will remain silent and answer only the questions I put to you,” Belgin said. The fox-faced woman broke off abruptly, but her eyes were daggers of ice. “Have you ever heard of the Unseen?”

  “Yes,” the mage grated angrily.

  “Do you know where they can be found?”

  “No.”

  “Feel free to respond in something besides monosyllables,” Belgin said wryly. “Do you know of any way we could find them?”

  “Yes”

  Miltiades snorted. “So how can we find them? What’s the best way?”

  Struggling to resist, the mage winced and tried to mumble. The lasso of truth dragged her words forth. “There is an alehouse called the Broken Pike, several hundred yards up the street. In the back room, a man named Marks buys and sells stolen baubles. He only pretends to be a fence, though; in truth he is a doppelgänger who keeps his ear to th
e corsairs’ tales. I know that he reports to others. Apply this damned lasso to him, and he’ll have to lead you to the Unseen.”

  “How do you know this?” Belgin asked suspiciously.

  The woman glared at him. “I’ve used my magic on their behalf from time to time. Marks is the man I dealt with, and he paid me well.”

  “Are you a doppelgänger, too?”

  “No,” she grated.

  Belgin looked at Miltiades and set one hand to his knife hilt. The paladin shook his head and quickly struck the mageling with one blow of his hammer, knocking her out. She crumpled to the ground, and the sharper released the lasso’s hold, coiling it in his hands.

  “Do you believe her?” Jacob asked warily.

  “So far Noph’s lasso has proved impervious to deceit,” Miltiades said.

  Belgin nudged the unconscious sorceress with his toe. “What about her? She seems a bad enemy to leave on our trail.”

  “Doubtless she has committed many crimes, but she aided us in her quest. It would be unjust to reward her with death.” Miltiades hid his hammer under his cloak, and turned into the narrow street. “Come, we’ve wasted enough time. Every minute we delay increases Eidola’s chances of escaping us altogether.”

  The streets of Skullport were silent and almost deserted. From time to time a zombie or skeleton would stagger past, engaged on some dark mission that kept its dead limbs moving, but the deeper Belgin followed Miltiades into Skullport, the fewer people he saw. Leaning out over the alleyway, the ramshackle buildings on either side narrowed the space overhead to a mere arm’s length, enclosing them in a dank tunnel of shuttered windows and sagging porches. Thin, black mire oozed around their feet as they slogged from one dim circle of lantern light to the next.

  “I don’t like the feel of this place,” Belgin said softly. “Something’s wrong here.”

  “It took you this long to figure that out?” Jacob snapped.