“So what befalls below, gentles?” Laraelra’s voice drew their attention up toward her. She descended, a lit lantern floating alongside her while she slid down. Faxhal found himself dashing over to help her down, his hands at her very skinny waist before he even thought about it.
“What exactly are you doing, Faxhal?” Laraelra flinched from his touch and swung slightly to the side on the rope to drop to the ground. She looked irritated and suspicious—reactions with which Faxhal was very familiar.
What wasn’t common to him was the nervous feeling of disappointment in his gut. He looked at her arched eyebrows and muttered, “I meant no—nothing. Just, nothing.” He stomped toward an unexamined corner.
The three of them diligently and carefully pulled back more and more dust and webs to find the room had once stored old food crates and wine barrels, all since emptied by rats. Faxhal sighed in relief when his probes with his sword finally revealed a door.
Faxhal pressed his ear to the door and listened, but he heard very little.
“Is it safe to drop the rope?” Meloon said. “Are we going to need to climb back up?”
“Unless you found somewhere to anchor it, we’ll have to trust in luck that these other corridors can lead us out of here again,” Renaer said.
“Could be worse,” Meloon said. He tied the rope around himself as Vharem shrugged it off, then braced his feet, and said, “You first, Vharem. I’ll jump after you’re down.”
“You sure? It’s a long fall,” he said. Meloon answered with a nod. “Very well, friend.”
Vharem held the rope on both sides of the loop around his trunk. He slowly played out the rope, sliding down into the chamber, and let himself fall the final few feet to land near what seemed to be a long-dry cistern, its back corner rearing up like a stone wave. He moved forward and waved up to Meloon, who let the rope drop to the floor. As soon as Vharem had gathered the rope, Meloon jumped, landing hard but rolling forward to save his legs from injury. “Whew! There’s a jump! You sure we’re not in Undermountain, Renaer?” Renaer smiled and offered him an arm to help him up.
“I’ve scouted a little ways ahead,” Faxhal said. “Once beyond these first rooms, there’s lots of ways to choose from. Most have no noise behind them, but I didn’t open any of them yet. Renaer probably knows what they are, so let’s go and let him show us his great brains.” He winked at Renaer as the five of them moved through another door and into a very tall but slim door-lined corridor. Renaer took out a small chapbook and flipped pages, nodding as he read and counted out sixteen various doors, eight on each side of the corridor.
The high ceiling echoed their steps back to them. Renaer tried his keys on each of the doors. While some opened into long-empty storehouse chambers, a few opened to reveal melted walls and contortions merging with sewer lines. Laraela shook her head, and muttered, “Either there’s older sewer lines we don’t know about, or there are breaks in the system we haven’t found.”
More than half the doors would not budge though, their locks either rusted or the doors jammed by the shifts in the corridor. Faxhal nodded toward one and Meloon and said, “Care to help me knock?” The two men shouldered the door in, and it splintered, falling off its hinge. All they revealed was another warped room with sewage bubbling up in a back corner. After the second of such discoveries, Faxhal gave up helping and just waited on Renaer to open a door with his keys.
The group reached the end of the corridor, which was covered by a carved stone demonic face taller than any of them, its mouth snarling to reveal large fangs the length of Faxhal’s forearm. Far above, they could see a light coming through at the ceiling, a vent helping the airflow among the subterranean chambers.
Renaer walked forward, consulted his notes, and reached out to push the demon’s head horns closer together on its forehead. An audible click followed, and the demon’s face moved slightly. Faxhal could feel a draft rushing out the gap, but when he put his hand on the stone to open it, Renaer cleared his throat and shook his head. Faxhal and Vharem exchanged looks and both of them rolled their eyes. Faxhal whispered, “Ren, either let us help or show us what your precious books tell you.”
Renaer moved past the others to the nearest door on the right side of the corridor. He reached up, pushed hard on the doorframe, and the stone lintel there slid upward and clicked. Renaer then opened that door and walked through it. “One of the builders had a dwarf’s help in some of the stonework. Good distractions and good traps. If we’d used the corridor behind that demon’s head, there’s at least four pit traps beneath weighted tip-floors. This is the safe way.”
“Fine,” Faxhal said, “but let us go first.”
Renaer opened the door, and Faxhal and Vharem entered the room. After a small tunnel about three paces long, Faxhal entered a small round chamber filled with gold light from an enchanted ceiling. Inside the room was a pair of writing desks and a set of tall shelves heavy with parchments and bound books. The desks held old, desiccated parchments and the ink in the wells had long since dried. Faxhal probed ahead with light toe touches and his fingers ran along the walls, feeling slowly for any triggers or traps. He was especially careful by the only flat wall—opposite the entrance—in the chamber, as it was covered by a bas-relief carving of two trolls battling three Watchmen in antiquated garb. Once Faxhal knew the floor was clear, he examined the carvings carefully and identified one trigger to lock a hidden door from this side and a second to open the door. He left those alone for now and continued checking the chamber.
After one circuit of the room, he nodded at Vharem, who waved the others in. The room became crowded with all five inside, and Faxhal hissed everyone quiet when he heard a voice cry out, “Samurk! Samurk …”
“I hear someone crying,” Faxhal whispered. “A woman. She keeps muttering a name or something.”
A loud snore buzzed through the room, causing everyone to look at each other in surprise.
“We’re well beneath both the warehouse and Roarke House,” Renaer said. “This is a listening post built earlier for the resistance to spy on guild loyalists to whom they’d rent out the chambers beyond. Everything said, every noise made, in the two lower chambers can be heard here, where scribes used to sit and copy down everything said for use as evidence or blackmail.”
Faxhal interrupted, wanting some of the attention, “And there’s a secret door in that wall carving there, right?”
Renaer stared at him a moment, then grinned and nodded. “Yes, and it opens to a tunnel that leads back beneath Roarke House and ends in another secret door.”
“Why would anyone use those chambers if they knew they could be spied upon?” Meloon asked.
“They didn’t know anyone could hear any of that until we gave that away this morning,” Renaer said. “According to our records, all of these secret tunnels and chambers were unknown by old Volam himself when he built Roarke House over the existing cellar and foundation. Others found those chambers, linked them to the house, and converted them for their personal use, but they’ve been unused since Grandfather bought the building decades back. At least, as far as I know.” He nodded toward Laraelra and Meloon and added, “You two probably heard things coming from this chamber filtered through some of those links with the sewers.”
“Why didn’t anyone else find out about the tunnels?” Meloon asked.
“If you don’t know to look for something,” Faxhal said, “you’ll never be bothered to find it. That’s why I always keep looking—and getting accused of poking around where I shouldn’t.”
“Faxhal’s right,” Renaer said, taking care to keep his voice down, “at least the first part. We can spot the triggers that are almost invisible on the other side.”
Faxhal pointed out the lock triggers—the stonework swords wielded by the Watchmen in the battle scene. Renaer checked his journal and began moving the stone swords. Faxhal shook his head when Ren moved the second Watchman’s sword. “You just locked the door shut again, chief. Just the two
outer swords pushed outward should trigger this door.”
Renaer nodded, scribbling corrections in his notes, and he turned toward the group, who stood around a scraped arc on the floor—the door’s obvious path on this side. He said, “Everyone, get ready. They may have defenses ready in their cellars, even if they aren’t expecting any company from this direction.”
Renaer shifted the final trigger, and the door slid in toward them. They looked into a pitch black corridor, lit by the gold light spilling through the now-open door.
“Good.” Faxhal chuckled then he drew his long sword out and brandished it in the air a little before he nodded at Renaer. He hoped Laraelra was impressed, and he added, “Been itching for a fight all day.”
A sudden twang, and Faxhal snapped backward, a crossbow quarrel lodged in his throat.
“Careful what you wish for, boy,” came the hoarse chuckle from the dark.
The thief felt both the impact at his throat and the crack at the back of his head when he slammed back on the stone floor. I expected that to hurt more, Faxhal thought. His breath caught in his throat and he found it hard to breathe or move. He lost his grip on his sword and heard it rattle on the stone floor. Oh stlaern, I never got the chance to tell her how pretty her eyes were … or save her from this …
The last thing Faxhal heard beyond his own heartbeat was a plaintive gasp from Laraelra’s throat as she looked down at him. No love poem, but I’ll take it, he thought.
The noise, the smells, the sensations all faded. Faxhal felt lighter and lighter with each heartbeat. Until the heartbeat ended.
CHAPTER 6
Even on the slowest night, the dark is never quiet in Waterdeep.
Borthild “Steelbard,”
One Season’s Nights and Days Waterdhavian,
circa the Year of the Prince (1357 DR)
9 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Laraelra gasped as Faxhal almost flipped backward. Her signal oftrue danger was the spray of blood arcing past her own shoulder. She looked down at Faxhal’s fallen body in disbelief, the mixture of annoyance and amusement he triggered in her already shifting to horror.
“Down!” Meloon ripped his axe out of its harness, swinging it up into his hands.
Vharem grabbed Faxhal by the collar and pulled him out of the way. By the time Vharem had his friend behind the door near Renaer, Faxhal had stopped moving and his eyes were open and blank. Renaer pulled out a potion vial from his pouch and looked at Vharem, pleading. Vharem shook his head and reached down to close their friend’s eyes. Laraelra couldn’t hear everything he said, but she did catch “… farewell, little fox.”
Laraelra shouted out a spell, and blue light rippled out of her, clearing the darkness from the corridor. They faced two men in Watch garb, one kneeling and holding a spent crossbow while next to him an older man with an eye patch waited with a sword and shield. Behind them both stood Samark “Blackstaff” Dhanzscul, the gem atop his staff flaring red.
Samark waved his hand and red bolts flew from his fingers. Two slammed into Meloon’s broad chest, and he grunted but held his ground. Three more arced at Laraelra but skittered around her, feeling like lightning-charged rain on her skin, before they launched themselves back at the Blackstaff.
Laraelra focused, despite the distraction of the Blackstaff’s spell, and cast another spell of her own. She pulled up an amber energy that crackled among her fingers until she pointed at Samark and said, “Drialrokh!”
That bolt hit its target unerringly—his throat. Laraelra smiled as she watched color drain from the already-pale face of the Blackstaff when he realized he could not speak. The wizard turned and ran, to the surprise and anger of his two guards. The eye-patched one stepped forward, yelling, “Get that crossbow restrung or draw your blade, boy! They’ll not be much bother for us, e’en without hisself.”
“Meloon?” Laraelra shouted as she stepped back and to the side of the opening.
Meloon jumped into the corridor, swinging his axe wide with both hands, forcing the corridor’s two guardians to shuffle back a bit from the door. “Hope I’m bothersome enough, one-eye.”
The older man grumbled and spat in Meloon’s path, but he and his companion backed up farther from the swinging axe.
Laraelra looked down at Faxhal, caught both Vharem and Renaer’s eyes, and whispered, “Avenge him.”
Renaer’s reached into his wide sleeves and pulled a dagger from each one.
Vharem drew a short sword out of his belt and whispered to Renaer, “Didn’t think we’d need these, but thanks for the loan.”
The sorceress looked up and saw the younger guard raising his spanned crossbow. She concentrated, waved her hand, and the crossbow quarrel flipped out of the stock just as he pulled the trigger.
Renaer dived and rolled in a somersault, staying low but moving forward. Vharem stepped into the corridor’s opening after Renaer, holding a dart in one hand and a short sword in the other. Renaer stopped in a crouch before the guard, adding the momentum of his roll to his two thrown daggers. One missed, sailing past the guard’s shoulder, but the second one hit him in his hand, forcing him to drop the crossbow. The guard kicked out at Renaer with little effect. Vharem let his dart fly and hit the young guard in the thigh. He stayed back behind Renaer and Meloon, who parried the older man’s blade with his axe.
“You’ve had good teachers if you’re not taking the first swing at me, boy,” the gravel-voiced man said to Meloon. “Too bad you gave up your only advantage.” The older man stabbed his long sword forward and Meloon brought his axe up, making the blade scrape along his mail shirt instead of piercing it. Meloon countered by swinging the double-bladed axe back down toward the man’s side. The older man brought around a shield, and the loud clash of weapon and shield filled the corridor.
Laraelra stood back at the corridor’s opening, harnessing her anger at letting the Blackstaff escape as she thrust quicksilver-colored missiles at the two guards. She willed one upon each of them, and the young guard fell over with a choked cry.
“You little traitors’ll pay for that,” the man grunted, as he stabbed again at the dodging Meloon. “You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.”
The man backed up the corridor, his features masked in hatred. Meloon pressed forward, and Laraelra could not see his face.
“Granek Ruskelver, I remember you,” Renaer said. “You were drummed out of the Watch last year for accepting bribes and conduct unbecoming a Watchman.”
Granek flinched, looked down briefly at Renaer, and his singular eye shot him a look of revulsion. “You got no idea how this city really is, rich boy. You’ll find out what happens when you trip over the plans of the mighty. I did my job well for Ten-Rings, and no young sellsword’s gonna drop me!” Granek swung hard and fast at Meloon, who brought his arm up. The sword scored a long, wound along his left forearm, crossing two thick white scars from some previous battles. When Meloon shoved his axe up to force the blade away, the sword’s point stabbed into the mortar in the wall.
Granek’s eyes widened as he tugged to free his weapon, and Meloon brought the axe down hard on Granek’s overextended right leg. Granek screamed as he fell to the ground, clutching the stump of his leg and groaning. After a few moments, he passed out.
Meloon whispered, “I’m still striding. How about you?”
Renaer stood, noting he and Meloon had both been sprayed with Granek’s blood from his leg wound, and blood already covered the floor. Vharem shoved his way past both of them, muttering, “Want to get that wizard before he can cast on anyone again.”
Laraelra yelled, “Vharem, no! Don’t be a fool!” I don’t think Renaer could handle another death tonight, she thought. I don’t think I could either.
Meloon reached out for him and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling Vharem short. “Don’t let Faxhal’s death make you run to your own.”
Vharem shot Meloon a look mixed with anger and grief, then shrugged off Meloon’s grip, only to
find Renaer blocking his path.
“Don’t lose your head,” Renaer said, his eyes welling with tears. “We will get that wizard, but I don’t want to lose another friend tonight. We’re here to save someone, not lose everyone.”
“Caution is good,” Laraelra said, “but we do have to hurry. That spell I hit the Blackstaff with won’t last long. I can try it again, but he may have some defenses up against it now. Our best bet is to find and save that woman. We’ll avenge Faxhal another night.”
“I’ll take point. I’m a bit tougher than the rest of you,” Meloon said. He kneeled by the fallen young Watchman and ripped off his sleeve, then wrapped his bloodied forearm in one scrap of cloth and wiped off his axe blade with the rest.
Laraelra moved closer and helped him wrap his makeshift bandage around his forearm. She whispered, “Thank you, Meloon. If he’d run on ahead …”
“I know,” he muttered. “Seen it happen before.”
“Don’t think that you won’t get paid,” Laraelra said, “just because we’re becoming friends. You’ll be compensated as agreed this morning.” She put the finishing touches on the bandage and pulled it tight, then smiled at the blond bear of a man.
He returned her smile and said, “Friendships are better currency anyway.” From his crouch, he grabbed the empty crossbow off the floor and stood. “Well, what’s the plan, Renaer?”
“All we know about the end of this corridor,” Renaer said, “is on my maps and notes—and the fact that we’ve a very angry archmage, or someone powerful enough to impersonate him. I want to get to the bottom of this, but I don’t want to die.”
“We are not leaving without killing him!” Vharem choked. “Don’t let Faxhal’s death mean nothing!”
“He meant as much to me as to you,” Renaer said, “but I’m not willing to risk our lives. We can go back and I can hire many more sellswords—”
“And he’ll have us arrested for trying to attack the Blackstaff,” Laraelra said, “the Watchful Order, or some other trumped-up charge. And he’ll have this area so well protected we’ll never get in again or find out who they were torturing or why. We have to do this now, Renaer, risks and all. Let’s find the woman we came to save—that is what Faxhal died for.”
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