Realms of Mystery a-6

by Elaine Cunningham

  Yet it was Drusilla who made the request, and she did ask me first, regardless of her true appearance. I had promised, even if the devil was correct about the promise not being binding. Slowly, I took the amber box from my chest and held it out to her. With a shy smile she reached out for it.

  “Master Tertius, no!” shouted Ampi, appearing suddenly at the hole in the wall. Despite myself, I jerked the box back away from Drusilla’s fingertips. The sound of Ampi’s voice was ingrained in my bones, and a sharp command was enough to change my mind.

  Drusilla spun on her heels toward the genie and the snarl returned to her face. “What do you want, servant of the ring?”

  “I want a resolution,” said Ampi calmly, and produced a small scroll. “A just resolution. Do you know what this is, Drusilla Vermeer?”

  Drusilla’s face turned ash white. It seemed to me to be the natural color for her. Her hair, once golden, was bleached out as well, the ringlets looking like smoke instead. “No,” she said simply. “No.”

  “May I?” said the Collector, and Ampi turned the scroll over to the devil. The infernal creature scanned the scroll quickly. “Yes, its what I thought it was. The original agreement between you, Drusilla Vermeer, and the Infernal Court. Power in exchange for your immortal soul. Power enough to destroy the rest of your family, if I remember right. And you’ve almost gotten your soul back. Not bad work, for a ghost.”

  A ghost, I thought. Yes, that was what Drusilla was looking like at the moment. She had turned almost immaterial, fading almost entirely from view as the devil spoke. Her face had become bone white and skeletal. With one last cry she launched herself against the devil and genie. The pair ducked, but they were not the targets of her attack. She floated over the top of both and out into the town, bellowing like a banshee as she fled into the night.

  “Hmmm,” said the Collector. “I believe that takes care of that. Now for the last matter. The box, if you please.”

  I looked at the box, then at Ampi.

  “It is his legally,” said the genie with a resigned tone. “The right thing is to return him his property.”

  “There is another way, of course,” said the devil. “I could see fit to let Drusilla’s soul go, if one was able to find a replacement.” The devil took a step forward, continuing, “Another soul, noble and innocent this time, in return for hers. Perhaps if you would care to offer your own immortal spirit…?“ The devil reached out to me and Ampi’s hand closed tightly on the devil’s ann.

  “You have your deal,” said the djinni sharply. “Ask for no more, or you will have to deal with me.”

  The devil hesitated for a moment, and I saw a feral gleam in its bespectacled eyes. Then it retreated and Ampi let go of its arm. The devil rubbed the arm and said, “Well put. No need to get greedy here.”

  I looked at the box, then at the Collector, then I held the box out “Take it, then,” I told the devil. “But know that this truly sticks in my craw. I don’t like dealing with devils, even if they are in the right.”

  The devil smiled and took the amber box, “I know,” he said, “That’s what makes it so wonderful doing business with you.”

  And with that the infernal creature laughed and disappeared in a puff of pungent smoke. In the distance there were the signs that our battle had roused the city, and there was already in the distance a hue and cry of the town guard.

  I looked around. We were the only ones left in the Burrows, and it seemed like a bad idea to be present when the guards finally arrived. “I think its time to leave,” I noted.

  “Agreed, sir,” replied Ampi. “I took the liberty to have a horse stocked and provisioned at a stables not more than two blocks from here.”

  “Always thinking, aren’t you?” said I. “Well, one thing you should not pack is those dratted mystoricals. Completely unrealistic, as it turns out, and a danger as well to follow them. We’ll toss them down the first well we reach.”

  “Already taken care of,” said the genie with a straight face.

  I looked at Ainpratines with an amazed look.

  “I told you Prespos charged dear for his aid,” said the genie, “It turns out he is a fan of those mystoricals as well, and was extremely interested in finding out who put the galoshes in Madame Milani’s stew. He is now the proud owner of your entire collection.”

  H

  Richard Lee Byers

  The stars shone brightly through the thin, cold mountain air. Basking in their beauty, lulled by the crackling of the campfire and the drone of his comrades’ snoring, Halladon Moonglade reflected that this adventuring life was passing tolerable, even when a fellow pulled watch duty in the middle of the night.

  Behind him, something thumped and rustled.

  Halladon turned. Osher of Torm, the company’s priest, lay feebly flailing and writhing, while all around him, the other five members of the band slumbered on, oblivious.

  It looked as if Osher was having a nightmare. Rising nimbly, Halladon moved to wake him. After two paces, the young, slender, platinum-haired half-elf saw the wetness darkly gleaming on the cleric’s chest, and caught the coppery smell of it. He flung himself down at Osher’s side.

  Even as Halladon applied pressure to his friend’s wounds, he was horribly certain that the effort was in vain. Something had torn Osher’s throat to shreds. Only the bald, beak-nosed priest’s own healing magic might have served to preserve his life, and his injuries manifestly rendered him incapable of reciting a spell.

  Osher fumbled at Halladon’s wrists. “Don’t!” said the half-elf. “I’m trying to help you!” But the cleric wouldn’t relent. Somehow finding a strength that should have been beyond the capacity of any man so gravely wounded, he caught hold of Halladon’s forearms and forced his hands away.

  Halladon would have continued striving to minister to him, but Osher gave him an imploring stare. A look full of desperation, yet entirely lucid. Overawed by the maimed man’s resolution, the half-elf hovered helplessly beside him and allowed him to do as he would.

  Osher dabbed his fingertip in the terrible inkwell of his own blood, and, his hand shaking violently, began to write on the ground. He managed only an H before his eyes rolled up in his head and he gave a long, mournful sigh and was still.

  “What’s wrong?” rumbled Kovost of Mithril Hall. Halladon looked around. Bushy black beard, upturned mustache, and eyebrows bristling, the dwarf stood with his battle-axe clasped in his callused hands. Stray tufts of hair protruded from beneath his hastily donned steel-and-leather helmet like the petals of a withered flower. Behind him, the other members of the company were hastily but belatedly stirring themselves.

  “Something killed Osher,” Halladon said. He strode back to the place where he’d been sitting, picked up his longbow, nocked an arrow, and peered about.

  “Make more light,” said Perys, a lanky, soft-spoken ranger and former scout for the Elders of Everlund, taking up his broadsword and shield.

  Halladon opened his small pouch of spell components, fingered a wisp of phosphorescent moss, and murmured an incantation. A silvery glow flowered from the top of his bow. Everyone gazed tensely into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

  “I think it’s gone,” the half-elf said at last.

  “What was it?” demanded Moanda the Spike, a javelin in one hand and a buckler with a wickedly pointed boss- the source of her epithet-in the other.

  “I don’t know,” Halladon said, feeling, whether it was warranted or not, a pang of shame.

  The pale-eyed barbarian, who’d grown to womanhood in the trackless reaches of the frozen north, glared at him. “You were on watch. How could something sneak into camp, kill someone, and slip away without you ever seeing it?”

  “Unless you fell asleep,” said Silbastis, a stocky, tattooed former sailor from the Sword Coast. His cutlass and golden hoop earring glimmered in the magical glow.

  Halladon bit back an angry retort, knowing that, in their place, he might well have suspected the same. “I swear I
didn’t. I just…didn’t see it.”

  Stooping, studying the ground, Perys walked slowly back to Osher’s body. “Whatever it was, it didn’t leave any sign. Which is curious. The soil isn’t that hard.”

  “Osher tried to tell us what it was,” Halladon said. “Since he couldn’t speak, he was going to write it. But he only managed the first rune-H-before his heart stopped.”

  “Hobgoblin!” cried Gybik, the company’s thief. An apple-cheeked, snub-nosed little man who, though middle-aged, looked as if he were still a stripling. He possessed a positive genius for picking locks and finding hidden booty, which was offset by a certain obtuseness in other matters.

  Kovost rolled his eyes. “A hobgoblin couldn’t slip in and out of camp without being seen, Lightfingers. It likely couldn’t avoid leaving tracks, either.”

  “Mielikki only knows what Osher meant to write,” Perys said, returning his sword to its scabbard. The blade went in with a soft metallic hiss. “I’m afraid there are simply too many possibilities for us to puzzle it out. What we can do is set double watches for the remainder of the night.”

  Moanda nodded grimly, a motion, which set her grizzled braids bobbing on her breast. “Wise idea. Somebody help me carry Osher to the edge of camp.”

  “I will,” Halladon said. “But first, everyone…“ His comrades gazed at him. “If this is my fault, if I wasn’t vigilant enough, I’m sorry.”

  For a moment, no one replied, and he wondered if henceforth they all were going to despise him. Then Kovost said, “Don’t blame yourself, lad. We’re deep in the Nether Mountains. Things happen here. Shift the body, then try to get some sleep.”

  Dawn revealed the wilderness in all its splendor. Mountains rose in every direction as far as the eye could see. Their pristine caps of perpetual snow reflected the ruddy sunlight, while gloom still veiled the gorges and valleys below. Nowhere could one discern so much as a hut, a road, a thread of smoke rising against the vast blue sky, or any other hint of civilization. On many a morning, the desolate beauty of such vistas had lifted Halladon’s heart. But not today. Not when he and his fellow adventurers faced the melancholy task of sorting through the belongings of a dead friend.

  They kept the valuable items-the rubies, fire opals, and sapphires that had been Osher’s share of the treasure-and those that were personal, like the leather headband his sister had braided for him, the slide whistle he’d played at idle moments, and the steel amulet, cast in the form of a gauntlet, which was the emblem of his faith. These they would deliver to his temple. The rest, including his heavy steel breastplate emblazoned with the gauntlet of Torm, they buried with him.

  After a cheerless breakfast, they set out on their way, trekking westward. Perhaps in tribute to Osher’s memory, Halladon found himself recalling all that had happened since the company formed.

  They’d met by chance, in a dilapidated fieldstone inn in Jalanthar. At the end of a night of carousing, Kovost had grandly proposed that they all go treasure-hunting in the craggy wasteland to the east. Everyone knew the ancient wizards of Netheril had left sacks of gold and diamonds stashed in every cave and hollow tree, and they were just the clever fellows to retrieve them.

  Less drunk than most of his companions, Halladon had accepted the proposition with equal enthusiasm. Why else had he roused his Moon elf father’s ire and his human mother’s worry by refusing to live the safe, sensible life of a wood carver like everyone else in the family? Or trained with his master of arms and, a shade less diligently, with his magic teacher, until crotchety old Hlint had declared him a crude, bumptious warrior at heart and terminated his lessons? Why else but to join a fellowship of adventurers and sally forth on bold expeditions like this?

  Although, had he known what lay in store, he might have thought twice, for it soon became apparent just what an ill-matched and contentious lot they actually were. Sober, Kovost remembered the usual dwarf prejudice against elf and half-elf alike. Moanda, like any right-thinking barbarian, distrusted mages and was inclined to scorn all her companions as prime exemplars of everything that ailed effete, decadent civilization. Silbastis vexed the others by shirking his share of the chores, Gybik by pilfering, and Perys by his phlegmatic imperturbability.

  The way they bickered, it was a marvel they lasted a week in the Nethers, and in fact, one of them didn’t. While they were still in the foothills, an ogre had slain Bax, the company’s only genuine wizard, with a well thrown rock. But the rest survived by learning to work together, and eventually, they even started to like one another. Prejudices faded, or at least ceased to apply to the fellow tramping along at one’s side, while reprehensible character flaws and odious personal habits softened into endearing foibles.

  Finally, weeks after the chilly autumn winds began to whine out of the north, the company found a ruined keep and the crypts beneath. Much to their frustration, they’d nearly run out of time to explore the place. They had to set out for Sundabar before the first blizzards sealed the passes. But on the last afternoon before the morning on which they’d agreed to depart, Gybik discovered a fortune in gems concealed behind a stag-headed bas-relief of some long-forgotten beast.

  The adventurers could have lived comfortably on such a prize for the rest of their lives, but as they swaggered, jesting and crowing along the ridges and through the vales, not a one of them had any patience for a tame, timid notion like that. They’d spend the winter roistering like lords, then return for more treasure in the spring. Nobody doubted it was there for the taking, just as no one felt daunted by the prospect of a second expedition.

  In the wake of Osher’s death their cockiness had flown. They trudged along silently, dull-eyed or peering nervously into the pines clinging to the steep, rocky slope above the trail. Around midmorning, when the sun finally rose above the lofty peaks at their backs, Perys pushed back his green woolen hood to uncover his tousled chestnut curls and turned to regard his comrades.

  “Enough of this moping,” he said. “We’ll miss Osher, but he served Torm well. The god has surely given him a high place at his table. We should be happy for him.”

  Striving to cast off their melancholy, the others nodded, smiled wanly, or murmured their agreement. “And whatever killed him,” Kovost said, “it’s far behind us now, and won’t trouble us again.”

  Halladon woke to a hard nudging in his ribs. From prior experience, he knew it was the steel toe of Kovost’s boot. “Get up, sluggard,” boomed the dwarf.

  “It’s good that a season of living rough hasn’t spoiled those exquisite manners of yours,” Halladon replied. When he pushed his covers aside, the cold pierced him like a blade. He hastily clambered to his feet and wrapped himself in his bearskin mantle, which he’d been employing as an extra blanket. “Evidently we came through the night all right.”

  “Of course,” Kovost said. “Didn’t I tell you…”

  Someone gasped.

  The half-elf turned. His face ashen, Gybik was squatting beside Silbastis. Gybik had no doubt attempted to rouse him, but Silbastis wasn’t moving.

  The other adventurers hurriedly gathered around the corpse. This time, the throat wasn’t shredded. There was only a single neat, round puncture.

  “Whatever killed Osher,” Gybik said shakily, “it followed us.”

  “And this time it apparently slew its victim in his sleep,” said Halladon, queasy with grief and dismay. “Stealthy as it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it usually kills. It was likely only a fluke that Osher awoke.”

  “Poor man,” said Moanda, gazing down at the body. “I enjoyed his tales of the sea. Even if I was sure he lied with every other word.”

  “Poor him and poor us!” said Gybik. “If the killer came twice, it’ll come again.”

  “I’m afraid you may well be correct,” Perys said, crouching. “Hmmm. Once again, the creature didn’t leave any tracks.”

  “There isn’t much blood on the ground, either,” Halladon said. “That’s odd, too, don’t you think?”<
br />
  “Everything about this is ‘odd!’ “ Gybik snapped. “Blessed Tymora, what terrible thing is stalking us?”

  “Perhaps we roused something in the catacombs,” Perys said somberly. “Some sort of guardian the mages of Netheril left behind to ward their treasure.”

  Halladon shrugged. “We didn’t notice any signs of such a thing while we were there, but you could be right.”

  “Whatever it is,” Perys mused, “how can it come, kill, and depart at will? Unseen… without leaving a trace? In my experience, even invisible creatures generally give some sign of their presence. Why did it only slay one of us, when others lay sleeping and thus at its mercy as well? And most importantly, how do we protect ourselves from such a thing?”

  “It attacks in the dark,” Kovost said. “We could travel by night and sleep by day.”

  The long-legged scout shook his head. “Not in this country. I understand that you and Halladon see better at night than we humans, but there’s still an excellent chance we’d take the wrong path or blunder over the edge of a precipice.”

  “Now that we know the killer’s tracking us,” Moanda said, “let’s lie in wait for it.”

  “That’s worth a try,” Perys said. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll simply have to try to shake the creature off our trail, set up camps that are more difficult to sneak into, and maintain the double watches with especial wariness.”- he looked at Halladon-”Unless you can do something more with your sorcery.”

  Feeling useless, the half-elf shook his head. “As I’ve told you, I’ve only mastered a few spells, and I don’t see how any of them could help.”

  Moanda made a spitting sound.

  “H,” muttered Kovost, his brow furrowed. “Damn it, what was Osher trying to tell us?”

  “I’m afraid that what Perys said still holds,” Halladon said sympathetically. “I don’t see how you can possibly guess it.”