City of Torment

by Bruce R Cordell

  Behroun paused, not really seeing the chamber. He wondered, not for the first time, if Malyanna wanted the Dreamheart. She’d never said so, but …

  He murmured, “I wonder if every word from her mouth is a lie?”

  “Talking to yourself again, Lord Marhana?”

  Behroun gasped.

  A woman reclined on a narrow balcony above the vestibule. Her slender limbs and graceful poise transcended mere humanity. Her white skin glowed like moonlight, and her eyes were coal.

  She was an eladrin noble, an entity who surpassed the powers of humans and mortal fey alike. One thing was sure—she was old. By her stray words and stories, he’d learned she had lived hundreds of years at least. She had piled on more winters than her kin in Faerûn managed, despite her youthful skin.

  “Did you hear my question?” she said, gazing down at him as a sated cat might eye a skittering mouse.

  “Ahem,” coughed Behroun. He’d been staring at her. “I was considering our problem—”

  “Hold!” she interrupted, her voice dagger sharp. “My entertainment is drawing to a close. Do not distract me!”

  A scream of hunger splintered Behroun’s facade of confidence. It was the sound of a hunting beast, but not one born in the mortal world. Comprehension dawned. “Is that thing loose in here?” he choked out.

  Malyanna snorted. “Of course, what else?”

  Lord Marhana stumbled to the wall beneath the balcony. He scrabbled for a grip, finding purchase in dusty crevices for fingertips only. He levered himself up half a foot. His left boot discovered a toehold, but his right scratched ineffectually at the smooth stone.

  The hungry bay echoed through the chamber again, its volume redoubled.

  Behroun pulled himself higher, but a tremble in his left thigh grew quickly into a full-scale shake. He was unused to such effort.

  “Pull me up!” he gasped.

  The eladrin spared him a glance, her expression unreadable. She didn’t move.

  Behroun moaned. He was to be the entertainment! “Malyanna, please—”

  The woman leaned down and extended a pale hand. Behroun grasped it. Her fingers were icicles, but he didn’t let go. She pulled him up with little effort or attention. Her eyes were back on the three lightless exits. She was breathing harder, but he guessed it was from excitement, not exertion. When he pulled free of her grasp, his hand tingled as if waking from frostbite.

  A man burst from one of the dark archways. The fellow’s eyes rolled in his head like a fire-maddened stallion. He was panting something, over and over—a prayer perhaps. If Lord Marhana hadn’t known the man well, he doubted he would have recognized the crying, scratched, terrified man as Councilor Yenech, the second most feared and hated administrator in New Sarshel.

  That could be me, Behroun thought. Before all was said and done, it might be. A sliver of pity flared in Lord Marhana’s chest for Yenech.

  The councilor ceased his headlong flight through the darkness. Though the light must have hurt his eyes, having come so recently out of unrelieved darkness, the man stared up at them as if they were his salvation.

  “I knew the light would draw him here,” murmured Malyanna. “Perfect.”

  Yenech flinched. His gaze slid off the woman and focused on Behroun.

  “Lord Marhana!” yelled the councilor. “Help me!” Behroun looked away.

  Yenech’s scream of terror pulled his eyes back a heartbeat later.

  Something else was in the room. A shadow with the outline of a large dog. Its coat was smooth as oil and just as black. But its teeth were white. A growl rent the air. The mastiff’s prey soiled himself.

  The eladrin had earlier described her pet to Behroun. She said it was a beast that could pursue its quarry no matter how far it fled, even should that quarry cross into realms apart from the mortal world. As long as that realm contained some bit of shadow, the mastiff would find a way in, and from there a path to its target.

  Councilor Yenech didn’t manage another ten steps before the mastiff was on him, bearing the man down to the stone floor. Its jaws seized onto the back of the wailing man’s head. It shook Yenech like a rag doll. The wailing scream cut off the moment the administrator’s neck snapped.

  Malyanna drew in a sharp breath. An uncharacteristic flush warmed her skin. Her eyes didn’t leave her pet as it began to feast on the fruits of its kill, but she said, “One less obstruction to your rule in Impiltur, Lord Marhana. Isn’t it grand?”

  The smell of blood mixed with the odor of excrement turned Behroun’s stomach. More than anything else, he wanted to gag. He closed his eyes instead and tried to gain control of his breathing and thundering heart.

  “Yes,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse. “When I do so, and you become my, um, queen … then you’ll fulfill the requirement of your exile. You’ll be able return to the Feywild kingdom and rule once more. Perhaps we do not even need the relic.”

  The eladrin’s laughter was like hail on tile roofing.

  “You amuse me, Behroun. I will remember that, when everything is through. But enough with your jokes. Tell me, where is the Dreamheart?”

  “Thoster has communicated with me—he’s still loyal, at least. I think … Anyhow, the captain says the warlock stole it.”

  “And where is Japheth? Isn’t he under your thumb?”

  “Yes. Well. He hasn’t responded to my last few messages. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time—”

  “Destroy the pact stone,” interrupted Malyanna. “Then the Lord of Bats will lead us to the traitor, and thus to the Dreamheart.”

  Behroun said, “I could do that, yes. But consider! If we do what you say, we risk Neifion gaining your trinket. Do you trust him not to take it for himself, once he is freed of all constraint?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed with calculation. She didn’t respond.

  He said, “I remain in contact with Captain Thoster. His last communiqué indicates the monk from Telflamm, named Raidon Kane, will lead us to Japheth.”

  Malyanna remained quiet a moment longer, then said, “We shall try your way, Lord Marhana. But I swear by the Citadel of the Outer Void, if you can’t locate the warlock soon, I will break the pact stone myself.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Veltalar, Aglarond

  Japheth stood in a shadowed, many-roomed space slicked with glowing slime. Shadows flowed as if oil in dank hollows. The rancid odor of rotting fish stung his eyes and nostrils.

  He couldn’t recall how he’d come to be there.

  A shuffling step scraped behind him. Japheth spun around, or tried to. He felt clumsy and disoriented. His foot caught on a rock spur, and he sprawled onto the rough floor.

  He craned his neck around and saw a woman. A woman he knew—

  “Anusha!” he called.

  She stood in a vast, misty space. But she wasn’t alone. Shapes made indistinct by the roiling fog shuddered and crept across the floor.

  He stumbled to his feet. Before he could run to Anusha, one of the shapes behind the woman moved close enough that Japheth was able to see it.

  A fine haze of mucus haloed a gelatinous bulk. He squinted, his mind trying to fit some previously encountered shape to it. It was a gruesome slug grown monstrously large—a slug with tentacles.

  It slid closer, and Japheth saw it regarded him with three scarlet eyes. A tooth-studded tongue coiled forth from its lipless mouth and rasped along the floor. Nausea stirred in his gut.

  He returned his regard to Anusha. Her eyes had never left him. They were desperate with some need. Her hands reached out. Her lips moved, though Japheth heard nothing.

  “What?” He held out his hands. “Tell me what’s wrong!”

  She shook her head and looked up, above and behind him. Tears traced lines down her cheeks. Her lips moved once more, but it was as if she were trapped behind crystal.

  “Tell me!” Japheth yelled. He stepped closer, but his feet seemed frozen i
n mud. He leaned, trying to touch her outstretched fingers, but she was too far.

  The vapor behind Anusha churned. An eye the size of a house blinked open. Then five more. Their reddish glow pierced the fog like bonfires. All of them stared at Anusha with unmasked hunger.

  Japheth startled awake, one flailing hand knocking the pile of tomes next to his bed crashing to the floor.

  He sat up and looked at the vault door. Lucky lay before it. The dog whined and raised his head from folded paws. His ears twitched forward with nervous curiosity.

  The door to the vault was ajar!

  The warlock rolled from his bed and charged into the vault, sending another stack of books tumbling.

  Anusha lay sleeping in her travel chest. She hadn’t moved. As Japheth’s breathing slowed, he recalled leaving the vault door open on purpose so he could keep watch over her as she slept. He’d fallen asleep before closing it again.

  He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and it was starting to show. He was getting sloppy. Forgetting things.

  Japheth walked to the chest. “Hope you slept better than me,” he said.

  The woman remained as quiescent as ever, her breath coming in slow but measured waves.

  Japheth sighed. Just a dream, it seemed, though a nasty one all the same.

  “Today’s the day,” he confided. “I’ve got everything I need. You’ll wake this time, I’m certain.”

  Actually, he wasn’t, but if any part of her could hear his words, he wanted to be reassuring.

  Which was why he’d never voiced his terrible remorse. The image of a silver vial in her slack hand haunted him. When he’d found her on the beach in her travel chest guarded by Lucky, it was obvious she’d imbibed the liquid. She’d been unable to wake up and escape the Dreamheart’s pull thanks to Japheth’s own elixir of sleep. The guilt rose up like gorge, trying to strangle him.

  The creatures he’d seen in his dream earlier were probably manifestations of his guilt.

  Doubt assailed him; was he even worthy of her?

  Events demonstrated merely being around him was dangerous. Worse, his predilection for taking forbidden substances could ensnare others besides himself—even someone like Anusha. Once she realized his part in her situation, Anusha might well come to hate him.

  It was a thought too cruel for him to ponder. The only thing he could do was try to prove himself to her. Prove that despite all his shortcomings, he would do anything for her.

  Starting with rescuing her.

  He turned away from Anusha and regarded the slender birchwood podium he’d dragged into the vault the previous evening. On it lay several arcane components: a rod, a scroll case, a tome, an iron ring, and a vial of green dust. His nautilus shell hung from its hemp cord off one side of the podium.

  Except for the shell, he would use each of the items—one way or another—in the rituals he contemplated. He began to sort through them.

  The scroll case contained a ritual of curse breaking more potent than any Japheth had previously tried.

  The tome contained a ritual similar to that penned on the scroll, but one that dealt more specifically with relieving maladies of the mind.

  The rod was carved of jade. It had been blessed by a priest of Kelemvor who’d returned to awareness after spending a full ten years in a holy trance.

  The dust in the vial was powdered dragon scales, collected from the lair of a green dragon whose ammoniac odor was so pungent some claimed it could wake the recently dead.

  The iron ring was the cheapest of the assembled items, but the most precious to him. He’d wound several strands of Anusha’s dark hair around it, which he hoped would allow him to trace her soul wherever it had fled.

  Japheth wasn’t sure which of the two rituals, the one on the scroll or the one in the tome, was the one he needed. He figured he would try both, starting with the cure for curses. The Dreamheart was like a curse made manifest.

  He glanced back at Anusha. “One other component I need too, if I’m going to have any chance of finding your dream. I’m sorry …”

  The warlock pulled a small object from the folds of his cloak. It was shaped somewhat like a clamshell, but the delicate hinges and miniature clasp revealed it to be man-made. It resembled a noblewoman’s silver compact used to hold a bit of rouge, or perhaps something an ostentatious merchant would use to keep loose pipeweed.

  For Japheth, it was a secure container for a substance whose sale was banned in most of western Faerûn. For good reason; desire for it could overmaster the minds of paupers, wizards, and kings alike. He was fortunate the Razorhides dealt in the vile substance.

  His hands trembled as he held the container.

  Japheth wondered if traveler’s dust was really necessary for a successful ritual, or if he was just using it as an excuse to indulge.

  Moisture fled his mouth as he considered. Maybe he should take just half a crystal now, before he started the ritual. It would probably be all right. In fact, it might help matters … no. He closed his eyes and drew in a calming breath.

  “Not yet,” he remonstrated, gently placing the compact on the edge of the podium.

  First the powdered dragon scales. He opened the container. The initial whiff stung his eyes and burned his nostrils. Steeling himself, he carefully dribbled the powder out in a line thin enough to completely encircle Anusha’s travel chest, using the silver circle inscribed on the floor as a guide. The smell of chlorine filled the room. Lucky whined and retreated from the chamber—the odor was too much for the dog.

  Japheth set aside the emptied container. He pulled the scroll out of its case and studied the cramped letters. The overwhelming odor tried to claw down his throat. Through it, he intoned the ritual’s arcane syllables.

  Halfway through the recitation, he opened the compact. Within nestled a bed of red crystals. He pinched a crystal no larger than a grain of rice between thumb and forefinger. He raised his gaze to the vault’s ceiling and dropped the grain directly into his right eye.

  The crystal dissolved across his perception, sheeting the chamber with a veil of blood. The outlines of the podium, Anusha, and the stand holding the Dreamheart shimmered, as if no longer certain of their boundaries. He blinked, trying to ignore the anticipation vibrating through his traitorous body. Tendrils of dust reached into his blood and his mind, penetrating to his very soul.

  Japheth laughed. Suddenly, everything made sense.

  Did gods feel this way? He threw out his arms as if to embrace the world. He wondered, not for the first time, if traveler’s dust was indeed the crystallized blood of some deity killed when magic had failed. Or perhaps the ichor of some fell demon lord. Either way it was glorious—to the Nine with the repercussions!

  The walls swam back into focus as the first rush of the dust swept past him. Fortunately, he hadn’t been whirled onto the crimson road. His eyes found Anusha’s resting form.

  “Oh!” He’d taken the dust for a reason. Not for this feeling, or at least not merely for this feeling, but also so he could conclude the ritual. He grinned so fiercely his cheeks ached.

  The warlock concentrated through the pulsing colors that tried to pull his attention down countless corridors of distraction. “Focus, you idiot,” he muttered, and picked up the jade rod. He stepped between Anusha and the Dreamheart, directly over the intersection of the two silver circles on the floor. The smell of the powdered scales bothered him less now that traveler’s dust coursed through his veins.

  He laid his left palm on Anusha’s forehead. Her skin was cold.

  Japheth extended his right arm toward the Dreamheart, pushing the jade rod through the relic’s cage so that it just brushed the orb’s mottled surface.

  He uttered the final words of the ritual. A jolt of energy transfixed him between Anusha and the Dreamheart as a connection was made. His body and dust-charged mind were the conduit. He cried out, and purple sparks played across his teeth.

  A whirlpool opened its maw beneath the warlock’s feet, and a p
sychic undertow pulled him down into the swirling abyss. He plunged through the flooring, then soil and crushed rock, then a gulf of dark water, and finally hard bedrock. Down. Japheth understood he wasn’t really falling and that his body yet stood in the vault of his suite. Despite that, his breath became labored. Great hands seemed to squeeze him tighter and tighter as he descended, as if the world itself sought to smash him between two basalt palms.

  His vantage point flashed into open space. He gasped for breath as the pressure relented. He floated in a cavern large enough to swallow Waterdeep whole. A mountain-sized obelisk filled half the space. The obelisk’s base was buried in the vault’s floor, and its summit plunged up through the cavern’s ceiling. He flashed closer and saw that even the portion not buried in stone was hundreds of feet long. Disquieting striations crawled across the obelisk’s visible face. The furrows and curling lines—were they runes of some terrible, primordial language?

  Were the lines actually crawling and moving, or was that a hallucination of the dust?

  The cyclopean structure sucked him inside.

  Gnarled walls streaked past, some dry, others slicked with phosphorescent slime. Japheth saw vast mechanisms whose function escaped his understanding. Chambers pitted with catacomb-like hollows were numerous. Some of the hollows contained pallid lumps of unmoving flesh lying in beds of slime. The thunder of distant waters throbbed in irregular cycles, tickling the back of Japheth’s throat.

  Then all sense of movement ceased. Japheth hovered before an expanse of mottled glass. His sense of orientation was lost—was the glass a sheet that formed a wall, or the curving face of a much larger sphere?

  He ran his fingers across the pitted surface. So cold! It wasn’t glass, but ice. And in its frosted depths, figures were entombed …

  The shapes were people! All shimmered with translu-cence, as though not wholly present. The warlock grunted. He recognized the cues. The figures might very well have been invisible to him if not for his traveler’s dust.