by Troy Denning
Halah tore a leg off her kill’s carcass and began to gnaw at the thighbone, trying to get at the bone marrow. I turned away from the gruesome sight and studied my backtrail, as I had grown accustomed to doing. The River Tun snaked along the base of the mountains, as brown and murky as the plain beyond, and in the distance the sky was as blue as steel. When I still saw none of the brushfires or tornadoes or raging floods that always seemed to accompany the witch, I leaned over to knock on the gate.
The portal swung open before my hand touched it. An old priest in the silver skull-bracers of a True Believer peered out at me. His eyes were as vacant as a ruin, his flesh as gray and fixed as clay. If he noticed the flies swarming his ears and eyes and nostrils, he did not disturb them by twitching or blinking—nor even, so far as I could tell, by breathing upon them.
“Yes?”
“I am on a mission for the One and All.” I had to shout to make myself heard above the roaring of the great fly above. “I need food and shelter and perhaps protection from my enemies.”
He glanced at the bloody mess my horse had laid before the gate, then back at me. “Can you pay?”
“No, but you will if you refuse me.”
I kicked Halah, and she grabbed her meal and pushed through the opening. The gatekeeper stumbled back with the stiff-legged gait of a sleepwalker, and it was then I saw I had been talking to a corpse. This did not amaze me much; it seemed but one more novelty of my draining journey through barbarian lands.
I dismounted. “What happened to you, old man?”
He shrugged the shrug of the weary, then glanced up at the great fly. “The Troubles,” he said, as though that explained why he was not in the grave. He closed the gate and lowered the drawbar, then turned back to me. “Ours has been pestilence.”
I glanced around the courtyard and noted how empty and unkempt it seemed, with flies swarming in the corners and crickets as large as cats chirping on the warm cobblestones. Though I was much amazed by what I saw, I had no wish to appear naive. And in any case, I was too weary to ask questions.
“I trust you can feed me.”
The priest pointed toward a pair of rats fighting in an open doorway. “They are serving lunch, if you care to risk it.”
“It is no risk for me,” I answered, wondering what the old man was talking about. I passed Halah’s reins to him. “See to it that she’s combed and rubbed down. Feed her two goats and whatever else she wants, and let no children you like near her.”
The walking corpse took the reins and started toward the stable, and he made no further mention of payment. His dead face did not betray whether this was because of my bearing or another reason; I only knew that my sacred pilgrimage and the god’s heart slushing blood through my veins made me the most important person in the entire Faith. Now I understood how the Caliph’s son felt when he rode his prancing stallion through the City of Brilliance, and why he did this so often. I crossed the courtyard and kicked the rats from the rectory doorway and went inside.
The room was customarily dim, lit only by a four-candled candelabra suspended beneath a vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of ale and meat, and in the center of the chamber sat a dozen murky figures, spread along a table that could have held three times their number. They made no sound except to smack their lips and clatter their mugs, and if any of them raised his eyes to see who stood in the doorway, I failed to notice.
I took a seat near the middle of the table. Seeing that none of my companions knew the use of silverware, I used my fingers to put a slice of musty-smelling meat upon a slab of stony bread and began to eat. The food was as foul as the company, but to one who had tasted only the dust of the road for two days, anything was delicious. I devoured the barbarous fare as though it were a honeyed partridge and helped myself to more.
As I began to sate my appetite, my thirst demanded its own attention. Seeing no empty mugs upon the table, I said to the figure across the table, “I have nothing to drink from.”
A woman with hair as coarse as straw pushed her head close enough to scowl at me. “What you want me to do about it?”
I looked back at her. “Get me something.” When she did not rise, I added, “I am on a mission for the One and All.”
Her scowl deepened. Then she seemed to sense the One’s presence in me, and her brow rose. She stood and went into a dark corner and returned with a wooden mug, which she filled from the pitcher on the table. The ale was sour and gritty with the dust she neglected to rinse from the cup, but after two days of drinking only my waterskin’s foul contents, it was as refreshing as the elixir of life—and all the sweeter for having been poured by someone else.
I helped myself to a third serving of food, less to assuage my hunger than to enjoy my newfound prestige, and that is when something thumped onto the table.
“Pass some dog.”
The airy voice startled the woman and all the other murky diners from their seats, and I looked down the table to see a circlet of yellow orbs glimmering in the candlelight. The globes were each the size of a man’s eye, and they all sparkled like diamonds and swiveled in their sockets.
“Dog?” I asked. Behind the glittering eyes, I saw dimly eight hairy legs and a bulbous shape as large as Halah’s rump. I glanced at the greasy meat on my bread. “This?”
“Do you expect me to eat rat?”
“Of course not.” I carried the platter down the table and set the entire thing before the spider. I also slid a mug of ale over in front of it, then stooped down to peer into its eyes. “Is that you, Mighty One?”
“Congratulations, Malik.” Now the spider spoke in the thousand voices of the One. “You shall soon be a father.”
“What?”
“A father, Malik!” The spider curled one of its legs into a hoop, then used another to make a lewd gesture inside the circle. “You do know how a man becomes a father, do not you?”
“A father!” I dropped onto the bench. “But how? I have not seen my wife in … No! Say it is not so!”
“There has been a miracle.” The spider hissed and chuckled. “Your wife claims you have been visiting her in her dreams.”
My fist slammed into the table with such force that only Tyr’s protection kept my hand from breaking.
“Really, Malik,” said the One. “I would think you would be overjoyed. I suppose you want a son? I can arrange that—he might even look like you.”
With that, the spider plunged its fangs into the platter of meat and began to slurp out the juice, and I laid my head in my hands and started to groan. What would my friends think? They were a cynical and suspicious lot, and they would never accept the miracle of my wife’s pregnancy. No doubt, they were already calling me a cuckold and making little horns by their head when they mentioned my name.
“Stop sniveling, Malik,” hissed the One. “What reason do you have to complain? Has Mystra been despoiling your temples?”
At any other time, this would have caused me to raise my head and curse the Harlot. But now, I could think only of my wife’s good name, and of the many indignities she would suffer on account of this miracle. Not even the prince’s favor would spare her reputation—or my business, since prudent men never associate with scandal. I slammed my forehead against the table.
“The Harlot’s insolence is beyond belief!” growled the One, though of course he was speaking about Mystra and not my wife. “She ordered Kelemvor to keep my dead here on Faerûn, and then she snarled the Weave around all my temples.”
I glanced at Cyric and saw him wave a pair of spider’s legs toward the roaring fly outside.
“Now my Faithful are plagued by giant insects and cascades of boiling tar and singing rodents!” The One scuttled closer, then clacked his mandibles before my eyes. “Never involve yourself with a woman, Malik. You will be sorry every time.”
“Indeed.” I returned my gaze to the dark surface beneath my face. “Miracles are terrible things.”
Twenty-Three
Ruha and Zale
rode hard to catch up, and by dusk they were crouching in the shelter of a murky alley, peering out at Cyric’s temple in the Storm Horns. Their mount remained tethered outside the village because of the green fly circling the citadel. Silvercloud had refused to go anywhere near the ugly creature, for hippogriffs looked upon anything with wings either as something they could eat or something that could eat them.
“That is where the little man went?” Ruha whispered, asking the question of a haggard man with red-rimmed eyes. When she and Zale had entered the village and asked after a pudgy rider on a horse from hell, the oaf had volunteered at once to lead them to the temple. “You are sure he is still inside?”
The man shook his head. “Can’t be sure. There’s too many sally ports and secret tunnels.” His whisper was raspy and slow. “But no one’s seen him or his horse come out, and that’s the way he went in. You can still see my nephew’s blood.”
The peasant pointed to a patch of dark ground in front of the portal. Ruha studied the spot long enough to tell that it was covered with swarming flies, then glanced up at the gatehouse. An old priest was standing watch as motionless as a statue. Four more sentries stood watch in the corner towers.
“Do they always post so many watchmen?” Ruha asked.
The peasant shook his head. “Only the gate guard, and he usually sneaks off to sleep.”
“They’re protecting something,” hissed Zale. “And I’ll wager it’s our little friend.”
“You are friends of this murderer?”
“Only in the sense that we know him well,” Ruha said. “But you may be certain we are as eager to catch him as you are.”
“I’m not eager at all!” said the peasant. “I have a wife and three children! But I would be happy if you killed him.”
“That will be easier said than done.” Zale looked to Ruha. “What do you think, Lady Witch? Sneak Silvercloud around the village and set an ambush on the road ahead?”
“It would be better to catch him sleeping. If we can keep him away from his horse, he will have less chance to escape.”
Zale frowned. “We’d have to use magic to bypass the guards.”
He did not need to say more, for every time Ruha cast a spell, she also spawned a whirlwind or earthquake or lightning storm, and the more she used her magic, the worse these disasters grew. Her last enchantment had sparked a downpour of hailstones that had leveled half the farmhouses outside Iriaebor.
As Ruha contemplated what even a simple spell might do to the village, Zale’s visage suddenly blurred before her eyes, then grew round and pudgy, with thick fleshy lips and eyes that bulged from their sockets like a bug’s. She knew at once whom she was seeing, for she had seen this handsome face in her visions a dozen times since the deaths of Rinda and Gwydion. As she watched, the bulging eyes grew as black as coal and began to burn with a fire as cold as the void. A long tongue of night-blue flame rippled from between the fleshy lips and began to wag, flinging little drops of sizzling poison in every direction.
Ruha closed her eyes and began to tremble, for she had never suffered so many visions in such a short time. Their frequency had to be a sign of her mission’s great urgency, but in her exhaustion, the mirages were taking a toll on her nerves.
“Ruha, what’s wrong?” demanded Zale. Though he had seen her gaze grow distant many times, she had never explained to him what she was seeing, and so he could not guess at the cause of her trembling. “You go rest; I’ll keep watch.”
Ruha shook her head. “We must attack now, Zale. You heard the goddess. Nothing is more important than catching our quarry.”
Zale shook his head. “Not if there’s—”
“Whatever you do, you’d better hurry.” The peasant pointed at the gatehouse. “Look.”
The guard was gone.
Ruha turned to the peasant “Tell everyone to leave the village at once.”
The man frowned. “Leave? But it’s almost dark!”
Before Ruha could say more, Zale grabbed her arm. “Maybe the guard just went to relieve himself.”
“And maybe he saw us and went to warn Malik! We cannot take the chance. If Malik escapes now, will Silvercloud have the stamina to catch him again?”
Zale shook his head. “It’s a wonder he carried us this far.”
Ruha turned to the peasant “Go! Tell the others to leave, if they want to see the morning.”
She pushed the man down the alley, and Zale drew his sword. They watched in silence until they heard the man banging doors. The citadel guards came to the front of their towers and peered out over the village. When none of them left to report what was happening, the witch knew the gate sentry had gone to alert her quarry.
Ruha gathered a handful of pebbles. “Do not waste your effort trying to slay Malik.” She began to shake the pebbles. “Kill the hell horse if you can, and leave the rest to me.”
The witch uttered a sun spell and hurled her pebbles. The stones streaked away in a golden flash and blasted the gate into splinters, and even Ruha did not expect what followed.
A deafening blast shook the dust from the citadel walls, and then a geyser of yellow steam sprouted in the center of the courtyard. The vapor was as foul as burning brimstone and so hot it scalded the flesh of any creature it touched. In less than an instant, the courtyard was filled with blistered rats and giant toasted crickets and screaming Believers—who quickly fled into the far corners of the temple and disappeared.
Ruha and Zale rushed across the street. By the time they reached the gate, the yellow vapor was billowing out in a great cloud. One whiff of the stuff caused the witch’s throat to close and her eyes to water. A stream of rats, all bleeding from their eyes and nostrils, began to drag themselves out into the road. The giant green fly roared down out of the sky and hovered over the gate, glaring down at the witch and her companion with one of its bulging black eyes.
Zale ignored it and kicked at the fleeing rats. “Why aren’t the Cyric worshipers coming out with the rest of the vermin?” He peered into the yellow fog, then said, “They must be leaving by the sally ports—and Malik with them!”
Zale pulled his tunic over his face and, before Ruha could stop him, vanished into the burning fog. The witch slipped her hands up beneath her veil and filled them with her breath, then uttered her spell.
This time, her magic shook the entire village. The gatehouse swayed, and the cobblestones in the courtyard clattered. From the streets behind her came the muffled crash of falling crockery and the strident cries of fleeing peasants.
Ruha turned her palms toward the courtyard and blew. A ferocious wind howled through the gate to carry away the poisonous steam. On the far side of the spewing geyser kneeled Zale, perhaps five paces from the stable. The yellow vapor had turned his cloak into a tattered rag, and wherever his skin was exposed, it was covered with yellow sores. He took a long breath of fresh air, then struggled to his feet and staggered toward the stable’s open door.
Ruha started after him.
The geyser belched up a clap of thunder, and the yellow steam changed to fire, splitting the courtyard down the center. Zale glanced back; then a curtain of ash and molten rock gushed out of the fissure to separate him from the witch.
Ruha took her waterskin from around her neck and pulled the stopper, and at that moment, the green fly came over the wall and descended in front of her. The witch retreated, backing up a set of narrow stone stairs attached to the gatehouse.
And in the time it took this to occur, the fissure spewed out such a quantity of ash and fiery rock that when Halah and I burst from the stable doors, we found our way blocked by a wall of burning stone. Already the ridge stood as high as a man, with a frothing spray of molten rock spewing up behind it. I could see nothing on the other side except the wall of the citadel and the Harper witch on the gatehouse stairs.
“A pox upon that hag!”
I had been sound asleep when the gate guard roused me to report that someone was watching the temple, and I had g
athered my things in a flurry and rushed to the stable half-awake, and so I was still clutching Rinda’s journal in my hand as I turned to look for another way out of the courtyard. I did not even notice Zale until Halah reared and gave a menacing snort, and it was only out of fright that I brought Rinda’s book around to shield myself.
Zale’s sword bit halfway through the ledger.
Halah sprang forward, and the journal nearly slipped from my grasp, as it had trapped my foe’s blade the way a log sometimes traps an axe. I dropped the reins and squeezed my mount with my legs and grabbed the book with both hands, and I found myself staring down the length of Zale’s sword into his yellow-blistered face. He snarled a curse upon my father’s name and tried to jerk me from the saddle, but Halah was dragging him across the courtyard. It was all he could do to keep his feet, and all I could do to keep hold of the journal.
The side of Zale’s body suddenly turned as red as a tomato, and a searing heat stung my face. I glanced forward and saw Halah’s head rising as she galloped up the ridge toward the frothing curtain of molten rock.
Why my foe did not release his sword is a mystery to me even greater than how I kept my seat when Halah sprang across the fissure. I saw the fire rush up Zale’s legs; I smelled his charred flesh and heard his agonized scream. Then he became an orange flame and I saw the fires of Kelemvor’s worst hell boiling in the chasm below. It took only an instant to cross, but it seemed an eternity. My skin burned. My eyes stung. My head ached, and my stomach turned, and my tongue swelled in my throat.