by Edward Bolme
In the Old Empires
“Thief! She killed him!”
Kehrsyn turned and fled blindly as the false witness broke into another fit of coughing.
She ran down the twisting back alleys, dodging barrels of refuse and ducking under laundry lines, puffs of steamy breath peeling from the sides of her panicked face. When she’d been pursued as a child, she’d used her small size, fast feet, and knowledge of the terrain to evade pursuit, but she had none of that left to her. She was an adult, somewhat the weaker for chronic hunger, and had only been in Messemprar a few months. Worst of all, she was outnumbered far worse than she’d ever been as a kid; an entire city’s worth of guards and deputized mercenaries had become her foes.
Her only hope was that they hadn’t seen her face.
From the mean streets of Faerûn.
From the edge of civilized society.
From the darkest shadows.
The Rogues
The Rogues
The Alabaster Staff
Edward Bolme
The Black Bouquet
Richard Lee Byers
The Crimson Gold
Voronica Whitney-Robinson
The Yellow Silk
Don Bassingthwaite
Novels by Edward Bolme
The Steel Throne
Legend of the Five Rings™
Paranoia™
Title Deleted for Security Reasons
The Baby Bible Board Books™ series
(with Sarah Bolme)
THE ALABASTER STAFF
The Rogues
©2003 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
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Cover art by: Mark Zug
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6390-4
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v3.1
DEDICATION
For the dedicated volunteers of the International Alliance of Guardian Angels, Inc. I gave them two and a half years and my front teeth. What they gave me was priceless.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks and applause go to: Peter Archer for giving me a new challenge; Phil Athans for telling me it wasn’t good enough; Sean K Reynolds for being a bottomless pit of resources; Heather Easterling for tutoring me in High Untheric; Glenn Oliver and Sharon Blackford for looking things over; Jessica Kristine for being such an amazing perfectionist; Dad for raising me right; and Mom for removing my boundaries.
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
Prologue: The Time of Troubles
Fifteen years later …
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
THE TIME OF TROUBLES
Zimrilim felt his heart thudding in his chest, beating out what might prove to be the last moments of his life. All his experience, his tenure as a war priest, his pogroms against heretics, his repression of the other churches of the Untheri pantheon, his officiating at the execution of hundreds if not thousands of citizens, his aggressive climb to power in one of the most ruthless religious organizations known, his entire life in a society built upon suffering and hardship, all of that had still left him woefully unprepared for what was happening in this remote field.
They faced a goddess.
Tiamat herself, the Dragon Queen, stood across the field from them, her five scaled heads weaving in a hypnotic serpentine pattern. There was no superlative that surpassed Tiamat’s lusty, greedy evil. There was no greater threat to the god-king whom Zimrilim served.
It was true that they had a god on their side, as well: Gilgeam, Master of Wars; Father of Victory; God of the Sky and the Cities; Supreme Ruler of Unther, Chessenta, Threskel, Chondath, Turmish, the Shaar, and Yuirwood; who had ruled from his throne in Unther with an iron fist for over two thousand years.
The god-king stood tall and proud in the center of their battle line, with not a trace of fear in his handsome face. His golden hair and beard glowed in the sunlight, and for armor he wore only a skirt of bronze scales, each as large and as thick as Zimrilim’s hand. Secured by a wide belt that reached up to his ribs, the skirt protected his most vital assets, and left his awe-inspiring physique exposed to enthrall his followers and intimidate his enemies.
It was hard for Zimrilim to imagine a finer physical specimen than Gilgeam. His shoulders were so broad that a grown woman could sit on each comfortably (and, in fact, they often did so at his official debaucheries). His arms had muscles the size of watermelons, with sinews as strong as steel. In his hands he held a great war mace, with a long handle as thick as Zimrilim’s arm and topped with a spiked ball of solid bronze that weighed more than Zimrilim could lift.
Gilgeam always kept his body oiled, so that the sun’s reflection might better contrast the shadowed crevasses of his chiseled musculature.
The god-king’s forces stood arrayed at his direct orders. Nearest him were his high priests, of which Zimrilim was the senior member. Gilgeam’s bodyguard, a dozen phalanxes of handpicked troops, surrounded them. A legion of loyal troops protected each flank, their morale bolstered by the petty clergy that moved among them, incanting blessings and prayers. The sycophants, servants, and other non-combatants huddled to the rear, bleating their supplications like sheep, helpless to avoid whatever doom befell Gilgeam’s forces.
Under ordinary circumstances, the sight of Gilgeam’s force would send the enemy army into flight … but these soldiers had not only refused to flee, they had deliberately sought out the retinue, ambushed the procession as Gilgeam toured his realm.
And while Gilgeam was tall, he was nowhere near
as towering as the draconic monster that had challenged him.
Legends said that Tiamat’s five heads could spew forth death, each in a different form. Fire, lightning, acid … with such a mighty arsenal, Zimrilim knew that mere mortals such as him would not last long in battle with her. They would do their part, of course, fighting with each other in an attempt to sweep away the worship and adoration that supported the two deities, but in the end the outcome would be decided between the two immortals.
The sun reflected off the sweat that beaded Zimrilim’s shaved scalp. He wiped his hand across his forehead, smearing the three rings of blue that adorned the front of his brow. The rings were a traditional symbol that identified him as a member of the priesthood and a user of great magic—and a user of magic he would remain, so long as Gilgeam lived. Just as Zimrilim’s worship supported Gilgeam, so did Gilgeam’s divinity empower Zimrilim’s supernatural abilities.
The priest looked across at Tiamat’s forces, just beginning their advance. Arrows flew from Gilgeam’s troops, striking the first casualties of the day.
He was glad that he was not a soldier, fighting for three meals and a copper a day. They did not comprehend the grave import of the day. He knew that somewhere among the enemy forces was a high priest like himself, and that, like him, the other knew that doom would crush the one or the other. By the end of the day, one of them would be broken, his god dead, his power stripped. At worst he would be dead with no deity to lead him to the afterlife; at best he would survive to flee into hiding and assume a new identity to escape the wrath of the victor’s people.
The yoke of destiny weighed on Zimrilim’s shoulders. As with all his people, it was a burden he bore gladly, and he knew that whichever side better bore the burden would, in the end, prove victorious.
“There,” rumbled Tukulti, the high priest of the City of Firetrees. He gestured with one arm. “I see Furifax. Gilgeam grant that I might crush his skull.”
Zimrilim looked, and he saw the banner of the famous outlaw on the other side of the field, and next to it a tall elfin figure mounted astride a swift horse. As they had suspected, then, Tiamat had an alliance with Furifax, at least temporarily. Doubtless Furifax had used his woodsman’s skills to lead the Tiamatan forces to the battlefield and arranged to surprise Gilgeam as he journeyed to visit the City of Shussel, where Ekur the Cruel ruled as high priest.
Tiamat’s forces closed. Though waiting to receive the charge was agonizing, the melee started all too soon. Zimrilim called down the power of Gilgeam upon his foes, channeling the god-king’s divine might through his own body. Tiamat unleashed her terrible weapons upon the assembled troops, felling friend and foe alike. With a mighty roar, Gilgeam leaped to the attack, his mace reaping death as easily as a farmer’s sickle hews grain. Blood and limbs, the chaff of battle, flew around wherever the god-king strode.
The noise was unbelievable. Thousands of soldiers pounded upon each other. The clash of bronze, steel, wood, and flesh resounded again and again. The press of the melee threatened to crush Zimrilim. Warriors on both sides pushed forward with their shields, churning the ground, attempting to break the enemy line.
The grunts and screams of the soldiers, the smell of sweat, blood, fear, and death, the gravity of the battle, the chaos at all hands, and the threat of imminent harm all turned each soldier’s grand battle into a personal struggle for survival where the horizon stood no more than fifty feet in any direction. Arrows rained indiscriminately. Lightning struck from the cloudless sky, and great gouts of flame erupted from spellcasters’ fingers. In the midst of it all, Tiamat towered over the grand melee, her massive heads protecting her great flanks while also trying to strike down her immortal foe.
Zimrilim and Tukulti worked together to keep Tiamat’s flank exposed, using their great magic to smite those who sought to protect their vile draconic goddess. Brave Untherite soldiers charged into the gaps rent by the priests’ spells and, as Zimrilim and Tukulti prayed for their strength and prowess, tried to pierce the Dragon Queen’s hide with spear and sword.
Zimrilim saw one of the sergeants thrust his spear deep into Tiamat’s side, then bury it almost entirely in her flesh with another strong heave. Zimrilim cast a glance toward the god-king and saw the golden man break the jaw of one of Tiamat’s heads with a fell stroke of his great mace. Zimrilim’s lip curled in anticipation of victory; the great beast was faltering!
Just then, Zimrilim heard a thundering noise break into his own private war. He looked up and saw a group of chariots bearing down on their position, intent on striking down the high priests.
“Tukulti!” he cried, and the storm broke upon them.
A long lance wielded by a soldier in the lead chariot impaled Tukulti through the chest, slaying him in an instant. The soldier let the spear drag along the ground behind him until Tukulti’s limp body tumbled off.
Zimrilim dodged the spear presented by the second chariot, but the chest of the horse struck him and knocked him senseless. He was dragged by the horses’ harness, until he, too, fell off, rolling along the ground to a painful stop.
The high priest’s hip ached, and he could feel that several ribs had broken. He assumed he had internal injuries, as well, a presumption proven when he coughed and a fine spray of blood patterned his fist.
Another chariot passed, rolling across his ankle and breaking it. Desperate, he grabbed a shield, and, ignoring the body to which it was still attached, pulled it over his head and chest for protection. He heard a hoof strike the bronze, then was crushed again as a wheel rolled across the shield’s boss, but after that the thunder passed, and he dared peer out to see how events had transpired.
As he was not in the heat of the battle, he could take time to scan the whole field from beneath the protection of the dented shield. Great carnage had been wrought, and past the scattered remaining pockets of melee he could see, in the distance, the banners of the Shussel legions approaching quickly. Ekur had indeed received the summons from his god and had sent help.
Heartened, Zimrilim turned the other way to see how his divine leader fared.
Neither of the gods looked healthy. Tiamat bled from over a dozen wounds on her flank, two of her heads were held away from the melee, and a third seemed to be unconscious on the ground. Her tail lashed angrily, keeping away any others who might try to spear her but also striking down anyone who strayed too close while protecting her. Gilgeam staggered with exhaustion. His beautiful golden hair had been scorched in places, and his skin showed raw where acid, flame, and searing cold had eaten it away. The haft of his mace had been splintered, and he wielded the item one-handed, the other arm held close to his chest. Zimrilim could not tell if Gilgeam nursed a broken arm or several fractured ribs … perhaps both.
Tiamat reared up her right foreleg, preparing to smash her enemy flat, while baiting Gilgeam with her two remaining heads. Gilgeam charged forward, swinging his mace in a circle around his head to strike a devastating blow at the breastbone of the Dragon Queen, left exposed by her maneuver … and he fell right into her trap. With an agility that seemed impossible for a beast of her size, she hopped up with her left foreleg, and, with a swipe backed by her massive weight, smote Gilgeam on his fully exposed side. The crack of breaking bones resounded across the battlefield, and Gilgeam pinwheeled through the air. He landed on his shoulders with a crunch a few yards away from Zimrilim, tumbled end over end, and stopped as his head struck Zimrilim’s shield with a clang. Tiamat thundered to earth as well, her heads studying her foe.
In the stunned silence that followed that crucial moment, Zimrilim heard the last breath rattle its way out of Gilgeam’s divine breast.
Tiamat turned and roared her defiance at Ekur’s approaching forces, then lurched her way back onto her feet. Using two of her heads to carry the unconscious head by the scruff, she retreated from the field, limping. She managed to get airborne before she reached the edge of the forest, her flight as ungainly as that of an aged albatross.
; As the sounds of battle ceased, Zimrilim let his head fall back into the mud, coughed once, and waited as waves of despair washed over him until blessed darkness closed his eyes.
Fifteen years later …
In times of war, the gates of Messemprar closed each evening at sundown and did not open again until a sliver of the sun could be seen rising above the waves of the Alamber Sea. The guards strictly observed the rule in accordance with the city’s extensive laws—a compilation of regulations, fiat, common sense, and bureaucratic whimsy all carefully inscribed in a huge aggregation of conflicting scrolls dutifully assembled and catalogued throughout the city’s three-thousand, four-hundred-year history. Clever administrators occasionally “lost” a scroll filled with particularly troublesome requirements, but the bulk of the ancient papyrus still weighed upon the city’s populace like a well-worn yoke, providing direction and security, if not freedom.
Outside the city, however, those time-honored directives offered little consolation, especially in mid-winter. A large crowd of pitiful refugees huddled in the lee of the city walls, poorly sheltered from the cold, moist easterly wind that blew in from the sea. It was bad enough that the sun was nearing the winter solstice and thus rose nearly as late as it ever did during the year, but, even worse, slate-colored clouds covered the midwinter sky. When the city guard could not see the sun rise to the east, they delayed opening the gate, just to ensure that the sun god Horus-Re had indeed ascended.
The refugees huddled like helpless sheep, an analogy that occurred to the guards who paced atop the walls, furled in heavy cloaks. Confident in the refugees’ chill misery, they drew their chins deep within the folds of their cloaks, and, their minds turned to their own discomfort, they did not notice that one of the refugees, impatient for the gates to announce the dawn, stealthily climbed the city walls.
His name was Jaldi. He was small, but his clean and experienced movements showed that he’d put several rigorous adolescent years behind him. He scaled the wall easily, as the ancient stone offered many good holds for his strong, thin fingers. He made no more noise than a spider and climbed as rapidly as one, as well. Dressed in drab, ragged clothing and hidden in a shadowed angle of the weather-stained wall, he was nearly invisible.