Crucible

by Troy Denning

  But mine was to be a different story.

  One

  On the morning of the storming of Candlekeep, I was given the honor of joining the command party atop a knoll some distance from the citadel. The Caliph had appointed me, as Finder of the Book, to stand in his place while his best swordsmen joined the Faithful on the plain below. These warriors formed but a fraction of the forces amassed in the name of Cyric, the One and All.

  To my left stood Most High Haroun with his horde of black-armored bodyguards. He was a tall and hulking man in jingling chain mail, who commanded a great following of Faithful Warriors called the Black Helms. On my right stood His Deadliness Jabbar, with his own throng of bodyguards. His Deadliness was a pale man, shunning noisy armor in favor of a soft-swishing priest’s robe. He commanded the Purple Lancers, a following of Faithful Warriors equal in size to that of Most High Haroun. Together, their troops were called the Company of the Ebon Spur. The warriors of the Ebon Spur were Cyric’s shock riders, an elite cavalry from Amn who plunged into battle mounted on war bulls. And their leaders, Jabbar and Haroun, were known as the Dark Lords.

  Across a thousand paces of open plain, high atop a jagged horn of black basalt that loomed a hundred feet above the crashing seashore, soared the impregnable towers of Candlekeep. In the soft light before dawn, I could see tiny figures standing in the embrasures along the outer wall, peering down on the road that circled up the tor. In my mind, I could even hear our foes up there laughing, boasting of the short work they would make of us as we climbed up the narrow path to the High Gate.

  “… stones will crack their skulls like eggs.”

  “like spoiled eggs no dog would eat!”

  “Aye, Carl, like old stinking eggs with gray rotten yolks, so slick and foul we’ll be stuck up here till the rains come to wash their brains off the ramp!”

  “Ha! Till the rains come! Ha-harragh!”

  I was content to let them laugh. The almighty hand of Cyric the Invincible would shield our army during its long climb; I had seen this in a dream. Soon enough, the Ebon Spur would be cutting the smirks from their dead faces.

  I nodded to the signal masters. It was but an honorary act of command, and my only one. Although the Dark Lords had an uneasy alliance, they were united in this much: on this day of glory, no Caliph’s delegate from far-flung Calimshan would overshadow them.

  The signal masters unfurled their dark flags, and a great clamor spread across the plain as our army made ready its weapons and shields. The fire giants of the Scarlet Fellowhood, hired for the cause at vast expense, took up their iron battering ram and formed a wedge. Behind them, the two troops of the Ebon Spur mounted their black-horned war bulls and formed their lines, the Black Helms of Most High Haroun to the left of the road and the Purple Lancers of His Deadliness Jabbar to the right. Together, all the riders of the Ebon Spur numbered several hundred strong.

  Next came the Caliph’s Sabers, led by the Caliph’s second son, the prince (the first prince remained in the City of Brilliance to watch over my fortune and wife). Then came the Sable Daggers of Soubar, Tunland’s Ravagers, the Invisible Axes from Iriaebor, and a dozen other foot companies sent by the Night Goddess Shar and Talos the Destroyer to win the favor of Our Lord Cyric. A tribe of Cloak Wood orcs had even joined our side. Truly, it was the mightiest Army of Belief ever assembled, and it filled my heart to think my own actions had brought it there.

  When the companies had made ready, all eyes turned toward the Dark Lords. The Most High raised his staff of office, a golden scepter crowned by an iron starburst—which was half of Cyric’s sacred starburst-and-skull. Jabbar did not raise his own half, for the two commanders of the Ebon Spur always refused to look upon one another directly, and he had not seen Haroun’s signal. A young aide emerged from the throng of bodyguards and stepped to His Deadliness’s side.

  I could not hear what was said, but when the adjutant backed away, Jabbar spun upon his heel and looked toward the back of the hill, barking at his guards to give him a view. The mob parted. His Deadliness gazed out over the plain a moment, then whirled around and pointed his scepter at the signal masters.

  “Hold!”

  “Hold?” Haroun’s head snapped around to glare at His Deadliness. “We agreed at dawn, you double-tongued coward!”

  Jabbar accepted the insult with the softest sissing of breath, a sure sign he would have his vengeance later. “This is no treachery, fool. A column is coming down the Way of the Lion.”

  “More reinforcements?” Haroun growled. “Ours or theirs?”

  His Deadliness raised his shoulders. “I can’t make out their banners. But the company looks large. We dare not ignore it.”

  “Or so you say.”

  Haroun stomped across the knoll to see for himself. His bodyguards followed behind, amidst a great cacophony of ringing armor and rattling weapons.

  From our impatient army below arose a din of snorting beasts and groaning men. The commanders of the foot companies scowled up toward the knoll, their lips curling with curses upon the names of Haroun and Jabbar. The captains of the Ebon Spur, more accustomed to the discord between the Dark Lords, simply ordered their troops to dismount—war bulls were not patient beasts; once mounted, they craved the charge.

  I went to join the others across the hilltop. Although I was neither tall nor imposing—in truth, I was short and pudgy, with a round face and bulging eyes that made me look the exact opposite of menacing—the crowd let me pass. I was the Finder of the Book, the Sly One who had outwitted Oghma the Wise, and only the Dark Lords themselves cared to risk my ire.

  I squeezed out of the throng and found myself standing in the no-man’s-land that always separated Haroun and Jabbar. Both Dark Lords were gazing down the Way of the Lion toward a long file of foot soldiers. The white-clad warriors were mere dots of chalk upon the gray road, yet their company banners were so huge I beheld their symbol clearly. It was a nine-stranded whip entwined around a white staff, all against a crimson background.

  “Loviatar?” I gasped.

  “The Monks of the White Rod,” said Haroun. “A good order, disciples of pain. The more they hurt, the harder they fight.”

  “Whether that is good or bad depends on whom they support,” said His Deadliness Jabbar. “Loviatar has yet to declare.”

  “They must be ours,” I said. Few men would have been so bold as to offer their opinion to a Dark Lord, but I had made certain ‘special arrangements’ with both Jabbar and Haroun that allowed me this freedom. “Is Loviatar not one of the Dark Gods?”

  “She was also beholden to Bhaal, whom Our Lord Cyric slew during the Time of Troubles,” answered Jabbar. “Whether she thanks him or curses him for that, who can say?”

  “But, Your Deadliness, Loviatar would never aid the likes of Oghma!”

  Jabbar’s face reddened, and I realized my mistake even before the onlookers gasped. Only a fool or a caliph could suggest a Dark Lord was mistaken, and since I was no caliph … even my ‘special arrangements’ would not spare me the wrath of His Deadliness. I let my legs go limp, that I might prostrate myself and plead for mercy.

  My knees never touched the ground. Most High Haroun seized my arm, and for a moment I hung as limp as a puppet.

  Haroun said, “If the Finder does not fathom the intricacies of divine politics, Jabbar, we must forgive him. Do not forget that el Sami has, of necessity, been blind to the progress of the One Church over the last few years.” The Most High jerked me to my feet, then turned to study the column coming down the road. “Nevertheless, we should assume that he is right.”

  “What?” Jabbar glared at me as though I had put the words into Haroun’s mouth. “You have gone as mad as the spy!”

  The Most High lifted his chin. “You speak as though that would be a bad thing, Jabbar.”

  His Deadliness glared at Haroun, grinding his teeth as he thought how to disguise his mistake. Cyric had claimed the mantle of God of Madness, and now no pious man would speak of lunacy
as anything but a divine gift. This was one of many reforms that had occurred during my long sojourn outside Candlekeep, and while I was wise enough not to say so—or even to think it very often—my duty as a faithful chronicler compels me to admit that I regarded the change as dubiously as did Jabbar.

  After a long silence, His Deadliness fixed a cobra’s smile upon me. “We all revere Madness. That is clear by our respect for Malik. But the battlefield is no place for whimsy. If Loviatar sends her monks against us, we will be trapped against the tor—”

  “Which will drive our men up the road all the faster.” The Most High waved his scepter’s iron starburst toward the east, where the sun now sat the full span of a hand above the horizon. “In the meantime, the morning is passing. We agreed to attack at dawn so the sun would be in our enemy’s eyes. If we await the arrival of Loviatar’s disciples, the time will be gone.”

  “Then we will attack tomorrow,” said Jabbar.

  “And call it off again when another column arrives?”

  Seeing that the Dark Lords were falling into another of their arguments, I retreated into the throng and slipped away, as was my custom. I had not been away from court so long that I failed to see my position in these matters, or why the Caliph had asked me to stand in his place instead of one of his many sons. The moment I showed favor toward Haroun, Jabbar would slay me out of hand, and the moment I favored Jabbar, Haroun would do the same. I had lived this long only because no one else had seen the Cyrinishad or its bearers—and also because of the special arrangements I had made, secretly promising each Dark Lord to help him recover the book before the other.

  That I had sworn these things in Cyric’s name bothered me not at all. As God of Strife, the One and All would applaud my resourcefulness. And the truth was this: that I thought neither Dark Lord worthy of the Cyrinishad.

  I had returned from my years of spying to find the One Church splintered into many factions—just as the Ebon Spur was split into the factions of Haroun’s Black Helms and Jabbar’s Purple Lancers—and this filled me with a terrible disgust. I saw how this strife weakened the church and its men of stature, and I feared that all my suffering had been in vain, that I would never have it in my power to repay the kindness of the prince.

  Then a vision came to me.

  I saw myself standing beneath a roiling sky. Spread before me was a vast host of True Believers, the number of which far exceeded all the grains of sand in the Desert of Calim. The sacred Cyrinishad floated before me, opened to the first page, and I read from it in a voice like thunder. All who heard my words understood that I spoke in the name of Cyric, that I was the One True Prophet, and that the Fates themselves had chosen me, Malik el Sami yn Nasser, to bring all True Believers together beneath a single dark mantle!

  Then the vision faded, and I perceived that my destiny lay in my own hands. All I wanted could be mine: to be lord of a hundred kingdoms, master of caravans beyond number, captain of all the fleets in the sea, to repay the prince’s kindness a thousand times over. I had only to recover the Cyrinishad and spread its truth across the lands.

  My thoughts still reeling with this vision, I emerged from the throng of Haroun’s guards and stepped to the front of the knoll. On the plain below, the fire giants of the Scarlet Fellowhood had dropped their iron ram. The shock riders of the Ebon Spur stood beside their impatient mounts, struggling to calm them. The Cloak Wood orcs milled about, gnashing tusks and picking lice from their scalps. The wizards of Tunland’s Ravagers stood behind the Sable Daggers, amusing themselves with will-o’-the-wisps and clouds of dancing smoke. The hour of attack had come and gone. A fan of golden light hung low over Candlekeep’s copper-roofed towers, shooting out across the Sea of Swords to illuminate a flock of birds flying in from the bay.

  As I watched, the flock wheeled and spiraled down toward Candlekeep, their wings flashing silver in the morning light The descent seemed too slow; then I saw that they were much higher than I had realized, and so much larger—nearly the size of horses. Their bodies were square, and when their profiles were silhouetted against the darker sky of the west, some appeared to have two heads.

  My stomach grew cold and full, for I knew of only one kind of bird that had two heads—the kind that carried a rider.

  I spun round and hurried toward the rear of the hill, shoving through Haroun’s guards with no regard for their curses. We had to attack that very moment, while the flying beasts were still exhausted by the long journey from whence they had come—Waterdeep, perhaps, or some place even more distant. The gods of our enemies were calling forces from all across Faerûn, for they were not idiots; while Oghma’s magic denied them any knowledge of the Cyrinishad’s location, they had guessed the battle stakes as soon as the Ebon Spur rode north to siege Candlekeep.

  I returned to find the Dark Lords still arguing.

  “They mean to attack us!” boomed Jabbar. He pointed at the Loviatar’s company, which had stopped ten arrowflights up the road. “Why else do they not send a messenger?”

  “Because they are proud warriors who await an invitation!” Haroun growled. I made to interrupt the argument, but stopped when the Most High exploded, “What I do not understand is your reluctance to do as we are charged! Did the Dark Sun not bid us destroy that Citadel of Lies and recover his sacred book?”

  “He bade us bring Candlekeep low, not let ourselves be smashed against its walls.”

  “As I thought!” Haroun sneered. “You would wait for Candlekeep to fall of old age and call that obedience! Once again, you use the letter of the charge to ignore the spirit!”

  “The spirit is not to get ourselves destroyed!” Jabbar huffed out his breath, signaling his unyielding resolve.

  With no thought to the ire I was sure to raise in His Deadliness, I boldly stepped up to the Dark Lords. “If I may—”

  “I’ll order the attack without you!” exclaimed Haroun, drowning me out.

  I waved my hand, but the pair failed to notice.

  “Without me?” Jabbar scoffed. “Without me, youll be lucky if your own Black Helms take up the charge!”

  Again I stepped forward, and now I stood between the pair. My head came barely to their shoulders, yet so bold was the intrusion that both men fell to glaring at me. I turned to Jabbar and addressed him in a manner both firm and inoffensive.

  “Your Most Lethal Deadliness, pray excuse my interruption, but as the Finder of the Book and he who stands in the Caliph’s place, I must agree with Most High Haroun. The Monks of the White Rod pose no danger to us.” I did not mention the flying cavalry; far be it from me to suggest I knew something the Dark Lords did not. “We must attack now.”

  Jabbar’s eyes grew as empty as a fish’s, and his brow wrinkled as though he could not understand why I thought my opinion mattered. My knees began to tremble, but I gave no thought to recanting my words. To let him delay the attack would be worse than death—it would be to lose the Cyrinishad.

  Jabbar’s voice turned as cold as a crypt. “Did you say something, Sly One?”

  “I d-did.” My tongue, never as brave as my heart, stumbled over the words. “Most P-P-Potent Deadliness, we must attack now.”

  Jabbar’s mouth fell open, then he began to assail me with many insults, the worst of which are too terrible to recount here. “You fat little lunatic! You bug-eyed insect! You filthy, unwashed groveler of pig sties! Betray me, will you?”

  I heard the swish of Jabbar’s silken robe and glimpsed the rise of his scepter. Knowing I would not live to see my vision come true, I fell to my knees and began to pray. Time raced on, and yet it also seemed to slow, and all that happened next occurred in the space of a single instant: A streak of feathered darkness shot from the mouth of the iron skull on Jabbar’s scepter, and Most High Haroun bent forward to seize my arm.

  “Stand up, you—”

  The Most High’s command ended in a gasp, then he raised his hand to touch a small puncture in his neck. A ribbon of smoke was curling from the tiny hole, and
the skin around the wound had already grown dark and puffy with poison. I grew queasy and weak at the sight, for I knew that Jabbar had meant his needle for me.

  Haroun’s anger poured forth in an incoherent rasp, then he flung himself past me, scepter raised to strike. A dozen of Jabbar’s bodyguards leapt forward to intercept him, but they were too slow. The Most High’s holy starburst found its mark, driving an iron point clear through the skull of His Deadliness Jabbar.

  The starburst flashed crimson. Jabbar’s mouth fell open and poured forth a cloud of vile-smelling smoke, all that remained of the matter that had once filled his head.

  Then the Dark Lords came together, each as lifeless as the other, and before their bodies hit the ground, a wall of Haroun’s bodyguards swept past me to crash into Jabbar’s men. The hilltop erupted in a frenzy of clanging steel and screaming warriors. From all around came the slash of ripping flesh and the crackle of splintering bones and the thud of falling bodies. I covered my ears and pressed my head tight to the ground, trying to escape the terrible sounds—not because they sickened me or made me fear for my life, but on account of what they meant. With each death rattle, each prayer that died upon a warrior’s lips, each drop of blood that trickled into the ground, the Cyrinishad grew more distant. This knowledge filled me with such an anger that I feared I would leap up and get myself killed!

  Fortunately, a pair of armored bodies fell across my back and held me down. For a time, I lay half-crushed beneath them, wheezing for breath and waging battle with my angry heart. Haroun and Jabbar lay less than two paces away, the Most High still sprawled over His Deadliness, all but hidden beneath a mound of dead and dying bodyguards. I called a thousand curses upon their names, and prayed their spirits would simmer in the Boiling Sea a thousand years. Their rivalry had cost me the Cyrinishad, and in my ire I could not see why Cyric had suffered either one to command his Faithful, much less the pair together!