by Troy Denning
Nothing happened, save that the impact broke several bones in Tang’s foot.
“Fool!” sneered the intruder. “Leave me alone, or I—”
The rumble in the corner became a blaring howl, and a sickening reek of spoiled flesh filled the chamber. Four sets of claws clattered across the floor, and the prince knew that if he did not retrieve his chien, nothing would save him now. He feigned another kick, then slashed at his foe’s eyes and tried to slip past to grab his sword.
A murky arm swept down to block the attack, then flung the prince back toward his bed. Tang glimpsed an enormous beast loping beneath him, then crashed through a pair of sliding panels and found himself lying where he had started.
Though his body ached, the prince rolled to the edge of the bed and saw a creature as large as a horse. It was the most hideous hound imaginable, with a tail of bare bone and a haze of brown breath ringing its blocky head. The beast stopped and shook itself, spraying a cloud of wriggling maggots in every direction, then leapt at the thief. Tang gasped, for he knew the hound would turn on him as soon as it swallowed the intruder.
Seeing that Tang had robbed him of any chance of escape, the thief whirled and grabbed the sword, intending to complete the circle and attack the Chaos Hound in one smooth motion.
This was not to be.
A slender arm shot up from the chien’s supporting berth and wrapped itself around Mask’s wrist. He tried to shrink free, but the smaller he made his arm, the tighter the hand grasped him.
“Mystra!”
Even as Mask hissed the goddess’s name, the Chaos Hound tore into his leg and severed it at the thigh. A great blast of darkness shot through the room, shattering the panels of the canopied bed and smashing the furniture against the walls.
Kezef’s poison surged through the Shadowlord’s veins, filling him with a scalding weakness that seemed to consume him from the inside out. He felt his head shriveling into a wrinkled husk and his limbs withering into drooping stalks, and his spirit rushed out through his severed veins. In that moment, he knew the folly of angering the Goddess of Magic.
The Shadowlord shook his head clear and saw Kezef’s great head looming above him. The remains of his leg dangled from the dog’s slavering jaws, yet the hound made no move to attack. Instead, he kept his angry eyes fixed on the chien, for he could sense the blade’s magic as well as its purpose, and it made him cautious. Mask looked back to the arm that had sprouted from the polished wood of Tang’s stand.
“Mystra, wait!” the Shadowlord pleaded. All the swords except the blessed chien clattered to the floor. “Let me save myself, and I will tell Tempus to withdraw his charges.”
“It is too late for that.” Mystra’s avatar flowed out of the sword stand and took shape beside it. She held Mask’s wrist with one hand and Prince Tang’s chien in the other. “After what you have done, you cannot buy me off with a mere boon!”
“I thought that was what you wanted!”
“No longer.”
With a flick of her wrist, Mystra freed Prince Tang’s chien from its scabbard. At once, the bare blade filled the room with a crimson glow. Mask’s shadowy form lost all semblance to a body; it became a puddle of darkness upon the floor, and the goddess raised her arm to strike.
As the sword fell, a steel gauntlet appeared on Mystra’s wrist and stopped the blow short. The goddess screeched as a second gauntlet appeared and wrenched the chien away.
“Is this what your word means?”
The booming voice shook the chamber so terribly that the prince’s bed danced across the floor. In the next instant, even as the two gauntlets continued to hold Mystra motionless, a burly, one-handed warrior appeared before the goddess. His eyes seemed a fierce steel-gray for a moment, then faded to become black empty sockets. Never in his dreams had Prince Tang imagined such guests! Tyr the Eyeless now stood between Mystra and the Chaos Hound, pointing his stump at the goddess.
“You promised not to interfere with the trial.”
“Mask was never in the Pavilion of Cynosure,” Mystra retorted, struggling against the disembodied gauntlet that still held her arm.
“Lady Magic, I will have none of your excuses!”
So angry was Tyr’s voice that Kezef dropped Mask’s leg and looked away in submission.
“I have been watching,” Tyr continued. “Tempus told you he would call Mask as a witness, and still you did this!”
The Eyeless One waved at the quivering pool of darkness on the floor. In this moment of distraction, Kezef picked up the leg and skulked into the shadows, disappearing from the room.
“But Mask killed my patriarch!”
“I know what Mask did, and better than you.” Tyr fixed his eyeless gaze on the empty space beside her, then commanded, “Hold the goddess until the trial. No one is to see her or speak to her, or to communicate with her in any way.”
As the Eyeless One spoke, the gauntlet on Mystra’s wrist jerked her arm rudely backward. The second gauntlet dropped the chien, then seized her other wrist and pinned both her arms behind her back. Only then did the goddess’s captor reveal himself; he could have been an empty suit of plate mail, since that was the only form Helm the Vigilant ever assumed.
Although not as mighty as some other deities, the God of Guardians was as constant as he was heartless, and on this account he was the jailer of the immortals. After being placed under his charge, no deity could escape his care, or persuade him to forsake his duty, or overpower him in any manner.
Helm acknowledged Tyr’s order with a nod, then pushed Mystra toward the shattered bed, where Prince Tang still cowered in fear. Lady Magic knew better than to struggle. With her own eyes, she had seen the Great Guard destroy the previous Goddess of Magic during the Time of Troubles, and she knew he would not hesitate to kill her now.
She turned to make one last appeal. “Tyr, how can you allow this? Mask is more guilty of interfering with the trial than I!”
“That is for me to decide.”
“But the Weave—”
“You brought this on yourself,” Tyr said. “And whatever happens to the Weave is your own fault as well.”
Helm shoved the goddess onto Tang’s bed, barely leaving the awe-stricken prince time enough to scramble off. At once, four fathomless walls replaced the shattered panels. The canopy changed into a ceiling of darkness, and the mattress became a void of soft emptiness, and Mystra found herself trapped in a cage of inescapable nothingness.
Helm removed the purple cord from the throat of Tang’s servant and tied it to the leg of the bed. Then he took the line in his hand and vanished from the chamber, pulling Mystra’s prison along behind him.
Tyr turned his eyeless gaze upon the quivering puddle that was Mask. “Quit your trembling, Shadowlord. The hound is gone.”
The dark blob assumed the shape of a one-legged man. “What took you so long? Kezef nearly had me!”
Tyr shook his head. “You are lucky I came at all. If Mystra had not attacked, I would have let Kezef finish his meal.”
So saying, the Eyeless One faded from sight, leaving Mask to reassemble his form as best he could. The Shadowlord melted again into a shapeless mass and writhed about on the floor. First he became an orc with three arms and no legs, then a gnome with three legs and no arms, then a spider with tentacles instead of legs.
Tang rose from behind an overturned couch and saw his red-glowing chien on the floor, next to the shifting blob of shadow. He rushed across the room to snatch the weapon up.
As soon as he touched the bejeweled hilt, a tendril of cold shadow shot from the puddle and caught his wrist.
“Not on your life, Prince!” hissed Mask. “I lost a leg for that sword!”
Thirty-Three
Every spy fears one place above all others, and for Ruha that place was Voonlar. The town sat just north of the Dales, where the Shind Road forked off toward Zhentil Keep and the North-ride continued to Teshwave, and it was here the witch had first meddled in the affairs of ot
hers. The Harpers had sent her to take a position in the Swords Meet tavern, where she was to serve as a messenger for another agent and spy upon the Zhentilar who met there. This role demanded that she dress in the immodest fashion of a serving wench, which is to say without veiling her face or much of her bosom, and she was pretty enough to attract a man’s eye. It was not long before a slave smuggler crossed her palm with a silver coin, and she accepted the coin with thanks.
Now it was true that Ruha was fresh from the desert and did not comprehend the meaning of the exchange, yet a bargain is a bargain, and she had no right to refuse the expected services. The smuggler grew angry and drew his dagger, and he would have slain her if his own man—who happened to be the very spy Ruha had been sent to aid—had not leapt to her defense. The two were forced to fight their way out of town, leaving the smuggler free to sell a hundred wretched souls into slavery. Since then, the Harpers have called this incident the Voonlar Debacle.
So it was with an anxious heart that the witch arrived on Silvercloud and circled low over the fork in the road, wondering which way I had taken. Her usual means of solving such dilemmas was to land and ask after a hell horse, for Halah never failed to leave the locals with good reason to remember her. But the witch knew better than to ask such questions in Voonlar, where the villagers were prudent enough to mind their tongues.
What was more, the witch had slept no more than five hours in five days, nor had there been much time to study Rinda’s journal. And, despite the loss of his eye, Silvercloud had been on wing most of that time and worn himself down to feathers and bone. Ruha had no choice but to rest and make some discreet inquiries, trusting her veil to shield her identity and the strong ale of the local taverns to loosen the villagers’ tongues.
The witch removed her Harper’s pin and tucked it inside her robe, then landed at the edge of town. She led her mount past the Swords Meet, where she had failed so miserably as a serving wench, then onward to Voonlar’s only remaining inn: the Sign of the Shield. The witch paid four silvers for a goat, hoping Silvercloud still had strength enough to eat, then told the liveryman to leave the hippogriff saddled. When she entered the tavern, she carried Rinda’s journal tucked beneath her arm.
The common room was rough-hewn but clean, with panels of white daub set between open posts and beams. Nearly two dozen people sat drinking ale and awaiting the contents of the kettle bubbling upon the hearth. Ruha took a seat in a corner, where she could turn toward the wall when she lifted her veil to eat, then opened Rinda’s journal in the hope of finding some hint of my destination.
As for Cyric, now he sits alone in his shattered keep, lost in delusions of grandeur and absolute power, leaving his church on Faerûn to grow ever more fragmented and weak. Some say this is because losing the City of the Dead drove him insane, but I know better. Cyric was the first to read the Cyrinishad; his own lies drove him mad.
The witch yawned. It was one thing to remain alert while riding a cranky hippogriff hundreds of feet above the ground—and quite another to stay awake in a warm inn steeped in the aroma of barley soup. The letters grew blurry and her chin dropped toward her chest, and when the heavy leather cover thumped down upon the tabletop, she did not even hear it.
Ruha would have dozed straight through the meal, had a familiar bellow not menaced her slumber.
“Give us some tankards, girl!” The man’s voice was full of arrogance and spite, and even in her sleep the witch recognized its owner: Buorstag Hlammythyl. “And be quick about it! We’ve a thirst the size of the Moonsea.”
The witch opened her eyes to see four men taking seats at the next table. Three wore the chain mail of the city guard, and the fourth, Buorstag himself, wore red leather trimmed in silver. He was the Bron of Voonlar, the elected ruler of the village and a notorious hater of Harpers. Though his back was turned and Ruha’s face hidden safely behind her veil, the witch’s pulse raced in her ears. Buorstag had always favored the Swords Meet; he had even been there the night of her debacle. She could not imagine what he was doing in the Sign of the Shield.
No sooner had the Bron taken his seat than a fifth man entered the tavern, this one dressed in armor of black leather and steel plate. A veritable giant, he stood two heads taller than anyone present. His dark beard and eye patch gave him a roguish look that caught the gaze of every wench in the room, though he seemed to have eyes only for Ruha. He strode to her table and sat down, his torso eclipsing Buorstag and the guards.
“Well met, Ruha,” said the man. He spoke too loudly for the witch’s peace of mind, as anyone nearby would hear his words without the effort eavesdropping. “You seem to have a problem. Perhaps I arrived just in time.”
Though all the serving girls had been happy to ignore Ruha while she slept, a wench appeared unbidden, carrying the four ales for which Buorstag had called. Without taking her eyes off the newcomer’s handsome face, she placed three mugs in front of him and gave the fourth to the witch, and neither Buorstag nor any of his fellows protested.
The stranger flashed a dazzling smile. “I lack even a copper.”
The serving girl blushed. “That’s all right I’ll pay meself.”
She returned his smile, showing a mouthful of teeth as big as they were crooked, then whirled away to return to her duties. The stranger raised a tankard and began to gulp it down.
Ruha leaned across Rinda’s journal. “Who are you?”
The man tossed the half-full tankard on the floor, where it shattered and left a dark stain. A few patrons glanced toward the corner, but as soon as they saw the big stranger, their scowls faded and they returned to their business. The fellow wiped his mouth on his sleeve and raised a hand to his eye patch.
“Come now. You know who I am.” The stranger flipped up the patch, revealing an empty socket filled with whirling stars. “I am the one who has been helping you catch Malik.”
Ruha gasped, for after Mystra’s rebuke, she had guessed the identity of her benefactor. “T-Talos?”
The stranger nodded, then drained another tankard and hurled it against the wall. Again, no one objected.
“You tricked me!” Ruha said.
“I helped you—and I am willing to help you again, if you ask very nicely.”
Ruha shook her head. “Mystra is angry enough at me.”
“Mystra is no use to you now.” Talos drained half a tankard, then looked around the room as though trying to decide where to throw it next. The inn’s other patrons simply watched, their faces betraying different mixes of bewilderment, fear, and awe. “Tyr has locked her away until the trial—you do know about the trial? And after the trial is over …”
Talos shrugged, then flung the tankard against the ceiling behind him. It exploded into a shower of ale and pottery, soaking an entire table of patrons.
Talos tugged at his beard. “Shall we just say that after the trial, you will be calling on me for your magic?”
“And touch off a new disaster every time I cast a spell?” Ruha countered. “I would rather do without”
“Truly.” Talos pointed at Ruha’s tankard. “May I?”
Ruha pushed the mug forward and said nothing.
“Even if I am wrong about the trial, you need my help now.” Talos lowered his voice. “I do believe those boys behind me know you for a Harper, and you understand what that means in this town. Without your spells …” The Destroyer sat back and raised his brow. “The odds are not in your favor.”
Ruha glanced toward the door and saw that she had chosen a poor seat, for Buorstag and his men would cut her off before she reached it. Nor was the window a convenient exit. She would have to leap over their table to reach the casement, and then it only opened into the street, so that she would have to pass by the tavern’s doorway to reach the stable. Still, hippogriffs offered some advantages to a woman in a hurry, and she knew the window was her only hope.
The witch looked back to Talos. “I see your point, but I must take my chances.”
Tiny forks of
lightning crackled in Talos’s eyes—the empty one as well as the other—and his smile froze on his face. “You refuse me?”
Ruha nodded. “I am too old to learn a new way of magic—but if you still think it important to stop Malik, you could tell me where he is going.”
“Why? You will not live long enough to catch him.”
Talos raised Ruha’s tankard over his shoulder and, without looking, poured the entire contents over Buorstag’s head. Then he left, not vanishing in a flash of lightning so much as becoming one, and only a pile of smoking ash remained in place of the bench upon which he had been sitting.
Buorstag’s deputies rose at once, blocking Ruha’s route to the door, but the Bron himself merely wiped the ale from his face and turned to gaze at the witch. Ruha tucked her lip behind her teeth as Zale had taught her, then, praying that the tavern walls were too thin to muffle a whistle, gave a mighty trill.
Buorstag rose, but did not reach for his sword. “This Malik you are trying to catch—describe him.”
Ruha’s heart caught in her throat, for she could not imagine the very man she feared most would tell her which way her quarry had gone. Yet, she stood to lose nothing by answering.
“He is a pudgy little man with swarthy skin and eyes that pop out like a bug’s. But you are most likely to recognize his horse: it is a magnificent beast with sapphire eyes and a monster’s teeth.”
Buorstag narrowed his eyes. “Your voice seems familiar.” He scowled and stepped over to her table. “Why do you want to catch this Malik?”
Ruha replied without hesitation, for attempting to disguise her voice now would only heighten the Bron’s suspicion. “He is a thief, and he has stolen something very important to me.”
She had given the same answer in a hundred places, and it had always satisfied whoever was asking, but not Buorstag. He hated Harpers as much as he loved being the Bron, and he was only looking for some pretext to arrest Ruha that would not anger the inn’s owner and cost him votes at the next election.