City of Torment

by Bruce R Cordell

  The captain stood, leaving his mug behind. He said, “I’ll be across the way. I’ve got a hankering for some cards.”

  Raidon and Seren watched Thoster leave.

  The wizard snorted. “Don’t let him fool you, Raidon. He’s not mad. He’s been itching to lose his coins in a game of chance since we came down here; now he has an excuse.”

  The monk returned his gaze to the dried fish and said, “So how does this help us, specifically? Can you use it in one of your workings?”

  “All things find a use in time,” she replied, then said, “Yes. With a little research, and with this specimen in hand, I should be able to modify a summoning ritual and commandeer a school of gleamtail jacks.”

  “Then we can travel to the aboleth city. I can use my Cerulean Sign to navigate.”

  “Yes, down to Xxiphu. At least we’ll have the comfort of our cabins on Green Siren. Until we arrive at our destination and are promptly killed and eaten by monsters.”

  “I have Angul and this,” said Raidon. He touched his chest. “Two weapons forged to fight aberrations. We are not the ones who will die.”

  She studied him a few more moments. Raidon met her scrutiny with a serene expression. He wondered if she was having second thoughts.

  Seren shrugged and said, “Come on, let’s go see about purchasing the ritual I need. Someone in Veltalar sold Japheth all his books. They should have what I’m looking for.”

  Thoster was absorbed in his cards. Raidon and Seren left him to it while they questioned Lorious patrons. They asked who in Veltalar sold potions and old tomes, and they learned such wares could be had at Rose Keep, a trade enclave on the edge of town.

  A Red Wizard enclave. Raidon frowned. He’d been attacked by Red Wizards in the Dragonjaw Mountains years earlier.

  Seren was taken aback too. She said, “I should have guessed.”

  “Guessed what?”

  The wizard only shook her head.

  Raidon wondered if the trade compound operated beneath the law, but the patrons of the Lorious described the place in an open and nonconspiratorial fashion. Their tones didn’t suggest they were passing on illicit information. The monk would have detected otherwise.

  The two of them circled back to Thoster.

  “You ready?” Seren said.

  “Not hardly! I’m winning. I’m holding on to this hand,” said the captain. His eyes didn’t leave the fan of cards he clutched.

  The monk said, “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  The captain grunted.

  Raidon and Seren walked out of the Lorious into the streets of the city. Clouds drizzled light rain.

  As they strolled, Raidon said, “I thought Red Wizards were enemies of Aglarond and anyone not loyal to Thay.”

  Seren frowned and said, “That was before Szass Tam seized power. Don’t you pay any attention to politics?”

  “I was frozen in amber for a decade,” Raidon said.

  “You were insensible for a decade after the Spellplague, right? Szass Tam launched his treachery before the Year of Blue Fire, when you still wandered Faerûn killing monsters.”

  A word stirred in the recesses of Raidon’s mind. Something … zulkirs? Yes, the zulkirs—what the lords of Thay were called. They had turned on each other. One claimed the power all had once shared. Or something like that. He hadn’t paid such news much attention, as it hadn’t had anything to do with his own situation.

  Since he had awakened in the Spellplague’s wake and learned about Ailyn’s fate, his curiosity had grown even more circumscribed. Passions and interests that once drew him seemed pointless. Normally his focus was enough to sustain him.

  He sighed and said, “Let’s pretend I know nothing, as you suggest. How is it Red Wizards sell magical wares openly in Veltalar?”

  Seren’s lips thinned. “Before the troubles, Thay sponsored embassies all around the Sea of Fallen Stars. Each one supported itself by bribing local officials and by providing enchanted wares at just below market prices. Then Szass Tam declared himself the lone sovereign of Thay. Red Wizards who failed to proclaim their loyalty were deemed traitors. They were marked for death should they, or even their descendents, come within Thay’s reach again.” Lines of worry wrinkled Seren’s brow as she said this last.

  Raidon wondered what the woman wasn’t telling him, but he decided she’d tell him if it proved important. Instead he asked, “And the outcast Red Wizards—they still sell magic?”

  “Some do,” she said. Then she pointed.

  Ahead was a walled enclave. The roof of a two-story building and an attached three-story tower rose above scuffed, mortared stone walls. The gates, iron-reinforced oak, were thrown wide.

  They walked into an enclosed courtyard.

  A red tent squatted in the courtyard’s center. Rain beaded on the tent fabric. Its open sides revealed a woman in a red caftan next to a wooden table. Glass vials, scroll cases, and other oddments were laid out in even rows on the flat surface.

  “Welcome to Rose Keep,” called the woman, her voice raised over the rain’s patter. “Come, get out of the weather! Perhaps you’ll see something you like.” She gestured to her wares and smiled.

  They passed beneath the tent’s edge and regarded the display. Raidon cast a sidelong glance at the woman, looking for any sign of duplicity. His Sign remained quiescent, at least.

  “How’s business?” Seren asked.

  The woman smiled and said, “I’ve only just reopened the compound. Things are still a little slow, to be honest. But I think that as the bad years move farther and farther into the past, Rose Keep will see a resurgence in visitors interested in enchanted wares.”

  “You’re Dhenna Shavres, right?” Seren asked. “Do you think it wise to revive an outlaw enclave so close to the dark mesa?”

  Concern and a little fear jolted through the woman. She raised her hands in a warding gesture. She demanded, “Are you sent by Thay to bring me home?”

  “Hardly. I’m Seren Juramot. I was pledged to one of the northern embassies, before Szass Tam … I’m like you. I didn’t return to the homeland. I work for myself now.”

  Raidon glanced at Seren. Why hadn’t she mentioned her past allegiance before?

  Dhenna Shavres lowered her hands a fraction. She watched Seren, waiting for a false move. Then she said, “Seren … I recall that name. You were the one who secured a particularly advantageous trade opportunity in Raven’s Bluff. We were all jealous here in Rose Keep.”

  “Right. Before everything went to the Hells,” Seren said.

  “Of course! Now I remember! You disappeared with the treasury of the Raven’s Bluff enclave. You must be quite a wealthy woman.”

  “That’s a lie! I didn’t …”

  Silence grew. Dhenna studied Seren, her eyes calculating.

  Raidon moved a step forward and bowed. He said, “I am Raidon Kane, once of Telflamm. I have secured Seren’s commission, and I can assure you, I have no interest in Thayan power struggles or Red Wizards. We are looking for a ritual and perhaps some healing balms if you have any, nothing else. Be at ease.”

  Dhenna started to respond, then glanced at door of the building behind her. Raidon noticed the door was ajar, and the figure of a child peered out.

  “Mother? Your voice was raised …”

  “It’s fine, dear,” Dhenna said. “I was merely startled to discover an old acquaintance, that’s all.”

  The figure in the doorway gave a tentative nod, then withdrew.

  “You have a child?” asked Seren.

  Dhenna nodded. “My daughter’s a quick study. She’ll master the new weft of magic far better than I ever will.”

  Seren nodded. Raidon saw some of the tension fall from her shoulders. Seren offered her hand. “It is nice to meet you in person, Dhenna.”

  “Likewise,” said the Red Wizard, still tentative. Raidon saw the woman waging war in some inner conflict. Was she still scared Seren was here on Thay’s behalf? Possibly, though by the way
the woman watched Seren, he didn’t think Dhenna was frightened any longer. Her expression grew calculating, then cold, as if she’d decided something important.

  The monk shook his head, clearing away the useless thoughts. Angul was growing restive in his sheath, and his focus had slipped when he saw the little girl. Without it, he was actually in danger of feeling true emotion. Trying to guess the motives of others made him vulnerable to reliving his own losses.

  He said, “What can you offer us in elemental summoning rituals?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Darroch Castle, Feywild

  Japheth tumbled into a dark well of his own making. He lunged for the collapsing edges of his cloak, straining to hold himself in the world. He failed; his fingers were already clenched around the Dreamheart. From it, energy trickled into his flesh, and from his flesh into his cloak. A cloak whose folds held hidden corridors. The Dreamheart opened a chasm and he fell out of Faerûn and toward its fey echo.

  Without Anusha.

  Japheth struggled for breath, as much from the pain spiking his chest as from the realization he’d left Anusha behind. The crazed, sword-wielding monk, so desperate to destroy the stone, had her now. He groaned, trying to reverse his fall through darkness bounded by what seemed to be fluttering bat wings. The traversal was taking far longer than it ever had before.

  Why so long? Probably because he hadn’t left his cloak behind to serve as a bridge. With no clear starting point, he was adrift. Could he become lost in this nonspace among the boundaries between the planes?

  His heart took on a cadence more akin to the frantic flapping all around him. Japheth pulled more energy out of the Dreamheart and concentrated on the Feywild cavern that held Darroch Castle.

  A haze of new strength wormed up Japheth’s arms, warm and sickening. He seized that strength and tried to concentrate on his destination.

  Instead, crazed images sleeted across his consciousness.

  He saw a mountain-sized obelisk, scarred and pitted with time’s unforgiving passage, held in the deep earth’s firm grasp. But time’s scars couldn’t hide the obelisk’s awful visage, its towering size and breadth, and the dark cavities that opened into a tunneled, hollow interior. The obelisk swarmed with gobbets of living slime. One was larger than all the rest; it reclined atop the obelisk like a throne. The mere suggestion of its visage yanked a scream from his lips.

  The image blurred away but was replaced by another. It was Anusha, in a misted place. She was trying to tell him something, something very important. Her eyes were wild with the intensity of her desire to be heard.

  Japheth recognized his dream. But he wasn’t sleeping. The forlorn image assaulted his waking mind. The vision coiled up out of the Dreamheart like smoke lifting off burning incense.

  The warlock dropped the Dreamheart. “No!” he said, straining for it as he and the sphere fell into the cave of Darroch Castle.

  He tumbled into a heap, managing to save his head by throwing his arms in front of his face.

  The Dreamheart rolled a few feet, then caught up in a gully.

  Japheth got to his feet. His chest felt like it was on fire, and now his arms hurt too.

  He regarded the shadowed keep, home of the Lord of Bats. A central spire rose above the castle walls. Immense wings stretched out from each side of the castle’s spire, rapacious and dragonlike in their span. The cavern ceiling was a stalactite-toothed expanse thick with chittering bats.

  He retrieved the relic, using the folds of his cloak to insulate his skin from its touch. Probably should have done that last time, he reflected.

  When he was in the world, he stored bulky items in the cloak’s extraspatial depths. Could he do the same here? He concentrated, then passed the orb into it. The Dreamheart disappeared.

  Suddenly alarmed, he reversed the process. The sphere returned. Satisfied, he banished it again. Whatever odd space items disappeared into when he stored them, the facility remained operational in the Feywild too.

  Japheth advanced, treading on a growth of purple mushrooms—the same damned caps he’d used to brew Anusha’s elixir of sleep. He stamped once for good measure, then moved on.

  At the gates, he called, “Open!”

  Wrinkled homunculi peered at him over the walls, then ducked back. A moment later, the gate mechanism clanged and chattered. The gate slabs opened like the petals of a black dahlia. He proceeded down the entry gauntlet into the foyer lit by emerald firelight, past a shadowed pool, and up four flights of stairs guarded by silent, motionless figures in obscuring shrouds.

  Japheth burst into the grand study slightly out of breath. His eyes slid past the paintings, the sculptures, and the collected oddities of centuries. He studied the balcony overlooking the chamber. The balcony was bare but for an iron door. It was closed.

  The warlock blew his cheeks out in relief. He’d half expected to find the Lord of Bats standing there waiting for him, free of the compulsion Japheth had trapped him with.

  He ascended the stairs, pulled out a key, and unlocked the door.

  A feast was laid out in the room beyond.

  Yellow light flickered across a great oak table. Chocolates were heaped on silver platters, pale green grapes tumbled from golden urns, and violet wines sparkled in crystal decanters. Chairs lined the sides of the table, each one a tale of unique workmanship.

  A man sat in the chair at the head of the table. He was thin, bald, and pale, with narrow squinting eyes, pointed ears, and drab black clothes.

  He wasn’t really a man, of course. He was an archfey named Neifion in his least form. He sat as he always sat, where Japheth had bound him, in a Feast Never Ending.

  Neifion looked up. His eyes narrowed on Japheth, but he said nothing as he chewed a portion of rare meat. Blood dribbled from his lips.

  “Lord of Bats,” Japheth said. “Greetings. I have need of your aid.”

  “You’re still alive?” Neifion asked, and sawed another slice of flank steak from his plate.

  “For the moment. Had any more visits from your friends?”

  The archfey shrugged, then quaffed a large quantity of wine from the decanter at his left, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. If anything, the decanter seemed fuller than it was before the Lord of Bats drank from it.

  Japheth could compel the creature to answer truthfully, but he decided to save his energies. Neither the interfering eladrin noble nor Anusha’s half brother Behroun were there—that was obvious. Soon Japheth would be on his way.

  “Malyanna has been here since you fled with your tail between your legs, now that you mention it,” Neifion volunteered, his voice casual. “She and her pet human are eager for the wealth I’ll deliver them when they destroy your pact stone. Me, I’m eager for a taste of your liver. I can’t decide between one big braised steak or many small slices good for frying and dipping in chocolate sauce. What do you think?”

  Japheth kept his face expressionless. He said, “If Mal-yanna and Behroun planned on breaking the pact stone, they would have already. They’re playing you, Neifion. They have no intention of ever helping you.”

  The Lord of Bats grimaced. He plunged his fork into a glistening miniature sugared pear and shoved it into his mouth. He announced, matter-of-factly, “I shall murder you in a manner so hideous that Orcus himself will grow pale to think on it.”

  “Neifion, I command you, cease with your threats for today.”

  The Lord of Bats froze in his seat, shuddered as if with the slightest of chills, then continued eating.

  The warlock studied the pale figure, wondering if his command had accidentally dislodged Neifion from the enchanted feast.

  The Lord of Bats sucked down another bloody red tomato, but his eyes never left Japheth’s. His gaze was as red as the fruit he ate. Japheth looked away.

  This was going to be difficult. He risked his life and probably even his soul in tampering with Neifion’s magical confinement. But the eladrin noble and Lo
rd Marhana would probably free the Lord of Bats soon enough. Better Japheth do so in a manner that might, if he were careful, preserve his tentative control over the Lord of Bats’s actions.

  “Neifion,” he began, “you will help me achieve an end I seek. In return for your pledged aid—aid free of any duplicity—I will release you from the Feast Never Ending. What say you?”

  “I assent,” the Lord of Bats instantly replied. Then he laughed, sending malign echoes darting around the hall.

  Japheth knew the creature was trying to rattle him—well, he hoped so. If the Lord of Bats had planned for this moment, then Japheth was probably already dead.

  The warlock squared his shoulders and pressed on. “Then make your pledge, Neifion. If I do not like it, you’ll stay seated until you devise one I do.”

  The hairless man touched his nose with a slender, bloodless finger. He looked up as if searching for inspiration in the rafters. Then he spoke. “If you release me from the Feast Never Ending, Japheth my pact-stealing prodigal, I swear to act as your ally, to treat you as I would a friend despite my hate and hunger, and to not secretly work against your goals. I swear this on the pact stone itself, the source of your power over me and the conduit by which you borrow my abilities. I swear all these things if you release me now.”

  Japheth thought through the man’s words. He’d have liked to scribe them and spend the night studying each one. He’d have liked to ask the creature to also swear on his title, the Lord of Bats, and on the cloak he wore—Neifion’s lesser skin, the Shroud of Wings. But time wasn’t his ally. He waved his hand and spoke. “Stand from the Feast Never Ending, Neifion, and keep your word lest the Feast pull you back and bind you eternally.”

  The pale man slowly pushed back from the table. He wiped his chin on his dark sleeve and stood. He screamed in a voice suddenly deeper and more resonant than before, “Free!”

  Japheth involuntarily took a half pace back.

  Neifion grinned, cocked his head to the side, and said, “What crazed effort have you in mind, my future meal, that you would risk holding me off at the end of a sworn oath?”