City of Torment

by Bruce R Cordell

  Japheth didn’t have time to listen to their entreaties. He had too much to do already. Plus, based on what he’d seen of the Dreamheart’s previous two wielders, the secrets of power offered by the relic came with a price of corruption. If he could come up with some way to protect his mind from that effect while at the same time accessing the relic’s powers, well, that would be something else. When he had more time, he’d think on that.

  With Anusha’s hand still in his own, Japheth addressed the Dreamheart rather than the woman beside him. “Anusha? If you can hear me in there, stay strong! I’ll get you out of there, love. Soon!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Green Siren on the Sea of Fallen Stars

  Raidon Kane stood on the forecastle of Green Siren. Beyond the ship’s railing, the sea stretched away, dappled with aquamarine rollers.

  A sandbag suspended at waist height claimed Raidon’s attention. He checked the ropes one last time to make sure it was secure.

  Good.

  The monk set his shoulders, then twisted in the opposite direction. His elbow snapped around and hit the bag. Sand puffed with the stinging blow.

  “That should do,” he said.

  Raidon jabbed the bag with his left fist, rotating his arm so the top of his clenched hand was horizontal to the target as it struck. As his fist snapped back to guard his face, he leaned away, bringing his right hip over. His leg followed, smashing into the bag like an iron ball on a swinging flail.

  The half-elf assaulted the defenseless bag with a flurry of kicks, knees, flying elbows, and straight punches. Though his kicks seemed lazy and his punches almost casual, the makeshift target popped with each strike.

  The simplest forms were most illusive, requiring the greatest subtlety of muscle coordination to achieve surprising power; it was a truism he always strove to keep in mind.

  Sweat ran across the stylized tree inked across his chest, but the drops glittered and steamed away. Raidon relaxed wholly to his forms, his body moving in ever smoother, more circular movements. His mind followed, dissolving into the exertion. His focus was nearly complete, yet a sliver of anxiety persisted.

  He couldn’t forget the fiasco a tenday earlier.

  He recalled, for the hundredth time, how the warlock Japheth had stepped backward into the darkness of his cloak and vanished, taking the Dreamheart with him.

  The monk gritted his teeth. His focus wavered.

  Raidon tried to blink away the image of the warlock’s thievery. But frustration and anger claimed him. His concentration broke.

  He lashed the sand-filled rucksack with a kick so vicious both hemp tethers snapped. The bag arced out over the sea. It struck the water, and in less than a heartbeat, the sack was pulled under. Gone.

  Just like Japheth and the Dreamheart.

  Raidon’s hands clenched tighter. An urge to break something vital to the ship’s integrity overwhelmed him.

  As he sized up the mainmast as a potential target, his upper chest prickled. He looked down at the Cerulean Sign.

  The half-elf ran a hand across the scar’s face. The barest of tugs pulled him around until he faced starboard. The miniscule pull wasn’t entirely unfamiliar; he realized he’d felt it for some time. Prior to that moment, however, the sensation had been too slight for him to mark.

  He knew what it signified.

  “The Dreamheart lies that way.” The Cerulean Sign did not speak to him as Cynosure had, or as Angul sometimes did when he wielded it. The Sign had no mind. But it could impart knowledge, at least when he took the time to pay attention.

  His anger burned out. Behind it lay the placid, accepting calm he had once cultivated and relied on for his every need. His focus felt like a shadow compared to wrath’s passions.

  Raidon returned to the cabin the Green Siren’s captain had set aside for him. Japheth’s old room.

  He entered and drew the bolt. His perspiring body was already air-drying. He took a moment to dampen a cloth from the water basin to freshen up, then slipped into a clean silk shirt.

  He made to leave, then paused to regard his cot. He flipped the blanket aside, revealing Angul. It hissed at him.

  Blue-tinged smoke curled from the blade’s span as the sword seared the coverlet beneath it.

  “If you burn through to the sea, you’ll rust,” said Raidon. The blade was furious at the half-elf’s refusal to gird the sword to his belt. He’d separated himself from Angul rather than allow the sword to ride his hip. Then he’d locked the blade in his cabin, mainly for the safety of the scofflaw privateers crewing the ship. Angul would burn the freebooters to drifting soot regardless of consequence.

  A spit of fire leaped from the blade for Raidon’s eyes. He twisted away, but the flame dissipated before it reached his face.

  Angul, for all its airs of righteous purity, often acted like a spoiled child.

  That comparison immediately brought to mind Ailyn. A girl with dark hair and happy eyes. In his imagination, she cradled a kitten awkwardly in her tiny hands, but she was laughing. He’d been sure the girl was going to drop the kitten on its head! He felt guilty recalling it.

  Especially now that his daughter was dead.

  He shook his head. He said to the blade, “I know where to find the Dreamheart. It and Japheth are not far away. When I find them, I shall take you up again, Angul.”

  If anything, the blade burned more violently. Or more petulantly. Angul preferred to be in control.

  The monk sighed, covered the blade, and left.

  On the quarterdeck, Raidon spied Captain Thoster in earnest conversation with the wizard Seren. He could guess their topic. The woman was determined to leave the pirate ship and its troubles far behind.

  The monk stepped forward, catching only the last half of the shipmaster’s words.

  “… strangest dream last night,” said Thoster. “That ghost girl who haunted the ship tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear her. Spooky.”

  Seren said, “Don’t change the subject with your dreams from indigestion. Just hand over what you owe me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “On your way where? We’re at sea, and I ain’t turning the Siren toward whatever port you fancy. I’ve a ship to run and schedules to keep.”

  The wizard smirked. “What port are you making for, Captain? Do you even know? I’ll get off there. I don’t care if it’s Lyrabar, Urmlaspyr, or Laothkund the Drowned.”

  The captain noticed the monk.

  “Raidon!” said Thoster. “I saw you beating the tar out of a sandbag. Did you teach it some manners?”

  “Captain Thoster, I have a fix on the Dreamheart.”

  The captain said, “Hah! I knew you’d find that gods-forsaken rock.”

  “Are you ready to fulfill your promise?”

  “To help you destroy it? Of course! Didn’t I already say so?”

  Raidon studied the captain’s eyelids, the muscles in his upper lip, and the tension between his eyes. Either the captain was pulling off a particularly masterful lie, or he spoke the truth.

  Of course, Thoster was a pirate. Lying likely came as easily as swearing to the man.

  “I’m glad,” Raidon said.

  “So, where to?”

  “Japheth lies to the east. We’ll find him in one of Aglarond’s port cities. Velprintalar …”

  Seren said, “Most call that port Veltalar now.”

  Raidon paused, sensing the influence from his Sign resonating with the shorter word. “Veltalar. That sounds right. Yes, let’s make for that port, Captain.”

  Seren continued, “But how could you possibly know that? Have you been doing rituals in your cabin? I doubt you’ve suddenly mastered the arts of magecraft.”

  Raidon tapped his chest. He said, “The Cerulean Sign suffices.”

  “Veltalar,” mused the wizard. “How fortuitous; I know a little something of the city. I’ll disembark there.”

  Raidon looked at the woman. He rememb
ered how efficacious her spells proved when they faced Gethshemeth and its kuo-toa. He didn’t want to lose her.

  “Seren,” he said, “as I told the captain, I would welcome any and all aid.”

  She sneered. “That’s not my style. Pay me enough, and maybe I’ll consider it. Otherwise you’re on your own.”

  The captain laughed and clapped Raidon on the shoulder. “She’s out of my employ. Good riddance.”

  “Seren, if you help me find Japheth and secure what he stole, I can provide you with all the gold you could ever want,” Raidon promised.

  “How’s that?”

  “When I’ve taken care of the warlock, I will devote myself to gathering a great treasure from the plaguelands scattered across Faerûn. More than a few treasure vaults of overwhelmed nations lie undiscovered by salvagers and dragons.”

  Seren breathed out. She scowled, but Raidon saw something kindle in her eyes.

  She said, “Tell me more, Raidon.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  New Sarshel, Impiltur

  Behroun Marhana hunched over the small green jewel. The lamp burning beside his desk lent the crystal a malevolent glitter as he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. His face was a mask of indecision.

  Behroun crouched on the edge of his white leather chair. It was the least comfortable position he might have found on the luxurious seat, but it suited the moment.

  “Should I break it?” The man said, his voice hoarse. It wasn’t the first such entreaty he’d made that day. “It’d be so easy to hammer you into a thousand pieces of sand …”

  The tiny jewel was indifferent to Behroun’s threat.

  He was the sole owner of Marhana Shipping. He was one of the Grand Councilors steering New Sarshel’s destiny. Both positions lent Lord Marhana incredible privileges and power. He was used to making hard choices. Yet this one was beyond him.

  Behroun bellowed his frustration. He swept his desktop clear of its parchments, quills, and small devices useful for plotting nautical routes.

  The crash and tinkle of breaking glass calmed him.

  He got up from his chair and walked to the side of the desk opposite the lamp. He pushed aside an artfully stuffed osprey on a mounting rod. One of its wings hung broken. He bent and retrieved the jeweler’s hammer he’d just brushed off his desk.

  He straightened, hammer in one hand, emerald pact stone in the other. In the silver-framed mirror by the door, he looked like someone who’d just made an important decision.

  “I wonder what you’ll say when the Lord of Bats finds you, Japheth, whelp of a Sembian beggar!”

  He raised the hammer.

  Indecision slithered back onto Behroun’s face. His shoulders slumped.

  As satisfying as it would be to feel the green stone crack, the act wouldn’t ultimately serve him. Destroying the pact stone would rob Behroun of his last pretense of leverage. Not merely leverage over the warlock Japheth, but also with his allies, if they could be called that.

  The moment the emerald was smashed, the Lord of Bats would find and destroy Japheth. With the warlock gone, there was no way Behroun could claim the Dreamheart for himself. Only in the act of destroying the stone would Behroun wield power. In that very instant, he’d be the fulcrum.

  The next moment, he’d hold a handful of ashes.

  Behroun suspected all the extraordinary things Neifion promised in return for the jewel’s destruction were fabrications, lies meant to entice, not to be made good on.

  On the other hand, Lord Marhana controlled Japheth by threatening to destroy his pact stone. A threat that daily seemed less and less credible.

  The threat meant nothing if he could not bring himself to follow through, especially if following through left him worse off than before, never mind its effect on the warlock.

  “No. Not yet,” he whispered.

  Behroun dropped the hammer into his vest pocket.

  His reflection in the mirror no longer showed a decisive man. Instead, it showed someone caught between two tempests. The mirror contained a tiny flaw that lent a faint distortion to his features, a blur he’d learned to ignore years before. At that moment, however, his visage reminded him of a dream he’d had the previous night. He’d completely forgotten it.

  He’d dreamed of his half sister, Anusha. An unsettling dream—no wonder he’d put it from his mind.

  Anusha was standing in a shadowed space. Hints of pillars tall as mountains shadowed away into the distance behind her. The floor was pocked like a honeycomb. Every surface was slicked with a phosphorescent gleam whose color Behroun couldn’t quite recall, but which made him feel sick to his stomach nonetheless. Slimy, snail-like humps crawled here and there, some the size of men, others far larger.

  Anusha stood at the edge of the darkness, limned in greenish vapor.

  His half sister yelled to him, desperate. What was it? Her mouth moved, but Behroun heard no sound. She seemed terrified. Of what? Was she looking at him? No, she was looking beyond him, reaching for something. Tears leaked from her eyes. He couldn’t hear her voice, but her lips moved as she repeated a phrase over and over. Something about a … key?

  The vapor behind Anusha churned. He glimpsed something, a single fantastic image of some squirming bulk. The uncertain shape snatched Anusha back into a void of darkness.

  He’d woken, though at first he’d been unable to distinguish the shadows of the dream from his lightless bedroom, so suddenly was he thrust into heart-thudding wakefulness. His trembling hands had relit the candle next to his bed, eager for the reassurance of the warm yellow glow.

  And then he’d fallen back to sleep and forgotten the dream entirely.

  How had such a nightmare slipped from his memory until now? Behroun shuddered.

  It was foolishness anyway. His half sister was safe. He’d bundled her off to the country house, lest some of his adversaries on the New Sarshel Grand Council try to eliminate her.

  Not that he would be sorry to see the woman gone. She was a snotty problem who’d given him nothing but trouble. But he’d mourn the loss of what she provided him. Through her, his claim to the Marhana family name had at least the hint of legitimacy. Her death was a complication he didn’t need at the moment.

  He shook off the dream. Anusha was safe, he was certain. She’d packed her travel chest as he’d ordered. That had been the last he’d seen of her. No doubt his spoiled half sister had already forgotten the reason he’d sent her away.

  He reflected on the mystery of how dreams mixed real events with imagined scenes. Horrors such as those he’d glimpsed in the dream were outside his experience … but he could guess the origin of the nightmarish images.

  Now that Malyanna had come to live at the mansion, things in New Sarshel had changed.

  Behroun left his office. He slipped the pact stone into the locket he wore like an amulet around his neck. It had a secret clasp that only he knew the trick of opening. Its star-iron body would keep any treasure safe, even from a mad eladrin noble exiled from the Feywild.

  The hunting bay of a hound echoed through the house.

  As Lord Marhana tramped down into the subterranean wine vault, the baying grew louder. The sound indicated Malyanna was at her games again. Despite how her presence strengthened Behroun’s position in New Sarshel, her methods sometimes appalled him.

  An oak door reinforced with iron bars stood ajar at the bottom of the stairs. Behroun frowned, passed through the door, and closed it behind him. He locked it with a key from his tunic. It wouldn’t do for Malyanna’s latest toy to escape back into the city. The eladrin noble might think the possibility added extra spice to her game, but the mere thought of such an escape drew an acid pang of alarm from Behroun’s gut. For a man so young, his digestion had grown painfully troublesome.

  His hand automatically reached up to feel the amulet under his shirt. He hated having to wear it concealed, but Malyanna knew he kept the warlock’s pact stone within i
t. The woman’s moods were so impenetrable … he was afraid she might simply rip it from him if the thought crossed her mind, even though he was certain she would not figure out how to open it. Mostly certain.

  Behroun tramped farther into the dank, niche-lined catacombs. Instead of moldering bones, the shelves on each side were half filled with grape vintages bottled in heavy smoked glass.

  Most of it had probably turned to vinegar years earlier, he mused. He allowed his hand to trail across a hand-lettered label, brushing off a decade of dust. What did it say? He grunted in disgust. The script was in a language he didn’t know or even recognize the name for.

  The bay of the hunting mastiff resounded through the narrow corridor, so loud that he wondered if he had become the quarry.

  “By the gods, I wish I’d never thrown in with her!” he muttered. When he’d met Malyanna, she seemed incidental to his plan, an ally of chance. And someone with strengths too potent to ignore. She’d claimed she was an exile from a Feywild kingdom who needed his aid to reclaim her rightful throne.

  Lately he wondered if it wasn’t she who had found him rather than the other way around. Malyanna had somehow known he was on the cusp of retrieving the relic. She never treated him with all that much respect, even back when he’d thought he was the one calling the shots. And she never talked about the kingdom she was supposedly trying to reclaim either.

  Sometime in the last few tendays, their roles had reversed. Behroun couldn’t put his finger on exactly when. His abilities were mostly bureaucratic, while the waves of bone-chilling winter that rolled away from her spoke of a strength more potent, one that made him afraid. He should have known what would happen the moment the eladrin noble approached him.

  He moved into a larger vestibule. It was lit by rows of candles lining catacomb shelves. A block of cracked stone sat in the center of the chamber. Besides the one he entered through, three other archways opened on darkness.