by Ed Greenwood
“Dathran,” he gasped, scooping a handful of bloodstones onto the nose-ledge from his smaller purse, “I must consult with you—urgently!”
“So soon? Years steal memories and leave grayer men forgetting things and having to return. To see this in one so young and bold …”
Fortunately, the teeth-stones were moving during these mocking words. Beldar flung himself into the widening way and tumbled onto the rune-bedecked rugs of the witch’s hearth-chamber. “Close the portal!”
The Dathran, imp alert on her shoulder, was staring past Beldar at his three onrushing pursuers.
“You bring these?” the crone snapped.
“Not by invitation,” Beldar gasped. “I—”
As the three slayers dived into the room, rolling up into fighters’ crouches, the Dathran calmly turned to touch a tapestry with a single murmured word. It promptly melted away into nothingness, revealing a shelf of human skulls.
Beldar snatched off his eyepatch and backed away as the three slayers advanced menacingly. The half-dragon thrust one of its swords through a belt loop and fumbled something small out of a belt-pouch, reaching back as if to slap it against the skull-wall.
The Dathran turned a cold smile upon the half-wyrm and folded her arms across her breast. Three skulls soared off the shelf behind her and raced across the room at the intruders. Flinching back, the dragonblood threw whatever it held at them.
Beldar dropped to the ground just before three bright, ear-splitting blasts rocked the room and flung him upright again, stumbling unsteadily amid swirling dust.
There were hoarse shouts of pain, a shriek, and the imp’s shrill laughter. Then warmer light was blossoming somewhere in front of him, as the Dathran called, “Follow the light, Lord Roaringhorn. That way lies your safety. Go!”
Beldar staggered forward into fresh dustfalls, small stones stinging him as they plunged and bounced all around. He could see nothing but glowing dust, tapestries, and … a door.
Opening it, he stepped into quieter, damper darkness, and the faint privy-reek and stronger mold-stench that proclaimed “sewer” to any Waterdhavian.
An eerie chiming rose behind him, and with it came a blue-green radiance that swirled, clung to Beldar numbingly, and thrust him forward in a fell tide, shoving him along dark stone walls.
It released him suddenly, retreating to hang in a singing, seething cloud. Beldar whirled around to behold a blue-green mist that seemed studded with half-seen, gently drifting spikes and chains. A narrow face began to form in its roilings.
The half-dragon. Beldar drew his sword and thrust hard between those golden eyes, hoping to slay the dragonblood before it could fully regain solidity.
Frigid pain slammed up his arm into his chest, so sharp and searing that he fell. Beldar rolled away, fighting for breath—gods, the cold!—but his collapse had thankfully torn him free of the killing frost.
The strange mist drifted nearer. Floating in the glowing blue-green haze were three skulls, empty eyesockets glimmering in warning as their bony jaws moved in unison, and the Dathran’s voice hissed, “Go fight your battles elsewhere, Lord Roaringhorn. When next you come, come alone!”
Beldar groaned at his own stupidity. No attack by the half-dragon, this, but one of the Dathran’s wardspells.
He staggered to his feet and stumbled away into deeper darkness. Fumbling for his eyepatch, he found with relief that it still hung about his neck, but he didn’t don it, for only his beholder eye could see in this gloom.
To its gaze, the pulsing ward was almost blinding, but even as he fought to clear his sight, Beldar saw something moving beyond its bright curve—something silver and scaled.
When the half-dragon came into clear view, one of its hands was empty. At least one dark bulk was bobbing along behind it. Beldar hissed a curse and turned away, seeking—
The first bright flash and roar almost lifted him off his feet, but he got turned around again in time to see the snarling half-wyrm swing the smoking, twisted stub of its sword at the second hurtling skull.
Steel shards clanged and sang off stone in all directions in the roiling heart of the blast that followed, and Beldar winced and shrank away as the third skull came flying out of the mist. The half-dragon hurled a dagger at it and flung itself back, crashing into the bladesman behind it. Beldar found himself seeking the floor, too, as—
The skull exploded.
The roar of its rending echoed strangely, making his ears ring, but nothing tore at Beldar this time, and he heard no cries of pain.
When he turned back to face the ward, it was pulsing as if nothing had befallen, and the portal behind it was gone. The Dathran had thrown them all out into the sewers to settle this on their own.
The half-dragon was already struggling to its—his?—feet, and Beldar strode forward and glared at the creature, closing his left eye in case this would help the beholder graft unleash its full power.
Beldar felt a strange warmth in his head, a dark stirring that flared into excitement, even hunger …
Elven magic was not alone in seeking Beldar Roaringhorn. Mrelder, Golskyn, and Hoth bent over a large scrying bowl, watching Beldar’s attempt to use his beholder eye.
“He’s a bold one, to hurl magic so soon after the graft,” the priest said approvingly.
Stupid, more like. Mrelder knew better than to say those words aloud.
“Look at that magnificent creature,” Golskyn breathed, his lone remaining human eye shining as he gazed at the half-dragon. “What a marvel. A natural melding of man and monster.”
The epitome of your insane aspirations, his son thought silently.
“A good sign,” the priest continued. “Waterdeep’s future ruler has the sense to consort with superior beings. Very good.”
And with those words Golskyn ambled away, not seeming to notice that the “magnificent creature” and “Waterdeep’s future ruler” seemed bent upon mutual destruction.
His father, Mrelder concluded grimly, was utterly insane.
Glancing up from the bowl, he found himself looking into the eyes of Hoth and saw his own opinion of Golskyn mirrored there.
Hoth held his gaze, not in challenge but inquiry. He seemed to be waiting for something.
A moment later, Mrelder realized Golskyn’s many-armed second-in-command was awaiting instructions. From him!
This had possibilities!
“This place isn’t far,” Mrelder said calmly, pointing into the bowl. “Take two men in all haste to help Lord Roaringhorn. If possible, retrieve the half-dragon alive. If we can’t convert him, I’m sure we can find another use for him.”
Hoth offered neither scorn nor argument. His nod was curt but respectful, and he turned and left the room at a run. The young sorcerer watched him go, feeling a smile slowly spreading across his own face.
The half-dragon was on its feet with another blade in its grasp now, eyes glaring angry gold at Beldar as it strode to meet him.
Roaringhorn’s new eye quivered, and the beast rocked back on its booted heels, grunting in pain. It had short, backswept silver horns instead of ears, Beldar saw, as it staggered under whatever wounding magic his eye had visited upon it.
Then it opened its jaws and spat at him—a white, frostlike roaring that sprang out, spreading swift and wide in a deadly racing chill that told Beldar all too painfully that he wasn’t the only one able to unleash magic.
He flung himself back, ducking into a side-passage that reeked chokingly of human waste. Biting cold settled over him. A warding talisman an aunt had given him long ago crumbled to worthless powder all down his chest, and a gem adorning his belt shivered into fragments with what sounded eerily like a whimper. Cold gnawed at him like a small beast with many teeth as the half-wyrm and the other two bullyblades advanced again, blades out.
Slowly and warily they came on as Beldar winced at the chill still clinging to him and retreated reluctantly into the choking stench behind. He’d rather attack and meet his death with swo
rd in hand, but wasn’t certain his numbed fingers could hold a blade.
He was going to die here in the darkness, somewhere beneath the hurrying boots and rumbling cartwheels of unwitting, uncaring Waterdhavians. He’d go down, hacked and stabbed, destiny unfulfilled, not even knowing who’d ordered his death.
This was no chance encounter. Three slayers wouldn’t simply find the alley leading to the Dathran’s lair by chance. These were assassins sent for him.
Beldar smiled grimly. It was the first indication that his graft had resulted in a rise in his status. Cold comfort indeed!
His three pursuers were in the mouth of the passage now, crouching against the walls to shield themselves against any attack from him. They knew about his wounding eye, so there’d be no more surprises.
A door swung open almost beside his nose, startling him almost into heart-stop. Beldar sprang back, giving way to a tall and very wide man with shoulders almost as broad as the doorframe—and a familiar face.
Hoth of the Amalgamation was coming through the door with a hot shuttered dark-lantern in one hand and an iron staff bristling with vicious-looking spikes in the other. Judging from the sound of hurrying boots, he’d brought others with him.
Hoth looked at Beldar with something in his eyes that just might have been respect, and growled, “Stand aside, Lord Roaringhorn, and leave the vermin to us.”
Beldar stumbled back to let the burly man stride past. Two men in leathers followed at his back, swords out. One of them had a wrist encircled by half a dozen coiling eels that held daggers ready in their jaws for the human hand to pluck and throw. The other had a forearm that bristled with a row of long, sharp fangs that lengthened as Beldar stared at them, sliding forward out of sheathing flesh in preparation for battle. The hand at the end of that wrist was no longer human, but a head-sized knob of bone studded with well-worn bony spurs, like a great mace.
The half-dragon stepped away from the passage wall and strode to meet Hoth, one of its hands reaching to pluck daggers from hidden sheaths as it came. The two humans moved, too, spreading wide to gain sword-room.
“Kill the humans,” Hoth told the two Amalgamation believers. A thrown dagger flashed from the half-dragon’s hand, and a swift movement of Hoth’s dark-lantern sent it clanging aside.
Then Hoth tossed his lantern behind him. Beldar’s jaw dropped in astonishment as it halted to hover in midair, casting its light over suddenly rushing men. Steel rang on steel, men snarled and grunted, and the sewer-passage was alive with blood and men seeking to spill it.
Beldar glared at the half-dragon again, seeking to harm it with his eye as he snatched out his sword, leaping high to avoid two rolling, struggling men—
Too high. Something cold and very, very hard slammed into his head, or he slammed into it, and all Faerûn went away into darkness amid a sudden, fading roar …
Beldar’s neck ached, and there was a fire in his head that made him wince and groan whenever his boots came down just a trifle too hard on uneven cobbles. He had vague memories of finding a rusting ladder, shoving aside a rotting trapdoor that had spilled squeaking rats in all directions, and staggering through a warehouse that sported more of the same, to find himself in the lamplit darkness of last twilight.
Shortly after sunset, which meant his fellow Gemcloaks would be at the clubhouse.
Well, this wasn’t going to be one of his more triumphal entries, to be sure. Setting his teeth against the pain, Beldar stumbled to the nearest street-moot and peered around, seeking landmarks. The city wall yonder meant that way was east, so the waulking-vat reek was coming from the north—which meant his destination couldn’t be more than about three streets that way.
Not even Watchmen bothered him during his painful plod to the familiar guard and stair, so Beldar supposed he looked dirty and drunken enough to be mistaken for a true Dock Warder. He was well past caring. There’d be cold ale in the clubhouse, and if Korvaun was true to form, fresh cheese and meats, too.
He almost fell on the stairs but fetched up with a relieved sigh—
And froze, staring at the unexpected tableau.
His friends were at ease in the cozy lamplight, tankards in hand and platters of food in their laps, talking earnestly to two sisters who were becoming all too familiar.
“We saw nothing untoward,” Starragar was saying with his usual sourness, “but that means little. For all we know, some of the rats might be spies for the Lords. We may all be marked right now! ’Tis not every day nobles take pleasure excursions into Dock Ward sewers!”
Which was when Naoni Dyre caught sight of Beldar, and her widening stare made every head in the room turn. Silence fell in an instant.
Naoni and her sister were cradling tankards and dining on lap-platters of cheese and fancy pickles, feet up on the footstools just like Beldar’s fellow Gemcloaks. They were co-conspirators and trusted friends now, not awkward common lasses, all prim and glaring and scandalized. Well, at least they’d left their blackmailing servant-wench behind!
“Ale for a thirsty warrior,” Beldar croaked, managing a smile and thanking Tymora to the depths of his heart that he’d remembered to put his eyepatch back on.
“Where’ve you been?” Starragar snapped.
Beldar’s heart sank. Korvaun might still trust him, but the same could not be said of the others. Starragar and Roldo were regarding him grimly, and even the face of Taeros betrayed wariness.
“I’ve been strolling through sewers, not far from here,” he replied lightly. “Can’t you smell?”
“You certainly do,” murmured Taeros.
“There you have it,” Beldar said lightly, heartened by the familiarity of an acerbic Hawkwinter comment. “I took the dwarf’s medallion to my spellhurler—to no avail, I might add—and ran into a bit of trouble on the way out: Three slayers after my head, one of them half a dragon by the looks of him. Others came, swords clashed, spells were hurled.” He shrugged to indicate that it had all been a minor annoyance.
“So how,” Starragar asked his tankard, “did the valiant but lone Lord Roaringhorn escape?”
Beldar grimaced. “In truth, I know not. At some point in the battle I hit my head. I was alone in the dark when I … woke up. I blundered around until I found a way up to the streets and got myself here as fast as I could. Not my finest foray, but there ’tis.”
“Did any of the Watch see you?” Korvaun asked. “Or anyone who might be inclined to report this fray to them?” The Watch wouldn’t look kindly on Gemcloaks sword-brawling, so soon after the street fight wherein Piergeiron had been wounded.
“I don’t think so,” Beldar replied, going to the ale-keg. “I didn’t seek battle this night, and I doubt those who did are likely to air their business before magisters.”
Korvaun frowned. “Why d’you think they came after you?”
“I don’t know,” the Roaringhorn replied wearily, discovering some cheese and his own great hunger in the same instant. “Truly.” He munched, reached for the spigot, and asked, “So what befell, and what do we do next?”
The only reply he got was an uneasy silence.
“Friends,” Beldar said grimly, hefting his tankard, “you were talking of such matters when I arrived. What god’s stolen your tongues now?”
“We …” Taeros began, then fell silent again.
“We were down in the sewers, too,” Starragar said. “Great spell-blasts, you said?”
“I did.”
“We heard and felt nothing like that,” Taeros said quietly.
A short, uncomfortable silence fell.
“There was a time,” Beldar said softly, “when my friends the Gemcloaks would have unhesitatingly taken my word, a time not so long ago. Starragar, hand me your ring and let’s be done with this.”
“No,” Korvaun said firmly. “Your word is good enough.”
But the other three nobles neither nodded nor smiled.
The silence returned, and this time its weight was crushing.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Taeros sighed. “The slipshield’s gone.” Asper stiffened. He added hastily, “We think we know who has it.”
Shapely eyebrows rose. “So get it back.”
Korvaun winced. “That may be difficult. We believe it’s now in the hands of Elaith Craulnober.”
It was Asper’s turn to wince. “I see. I quite see.”
Her tone was dry and light, but her smile was wry, and concern stood in her eyes. “By and large, we leave the Serpent be. He conducts himself carefully, with an eye to not threatening governance of the city overmuch—and were we to eliminate him, the struggle to take his place would inevitably cause much bloodshed.”
“We didn’t come here to beg aid,” Korvaun said quietly. “We consider this matter our responsibility, but if Taeros and I are to have any hopes of recovering the slipshield, we’ll need help. To get it, I need you to relax my vow of silence, so I may share this secret with my lady. Naoni Dyre’s a sorceress whose gift is to spin anything into thread. She does business with a gnome weaver in the Warrens, spinning precious stones into this.” He patted his glittering cloak.
“A young woman carrying such treasures needs guarding. The halflings of the Warrens are as good as watchblades come, and have some swift fingers among them. The best hands to recover the slipshield are those of a thief. Am I right?”
“About most things, I’d wager,” Korvaun murmured.
Her grin was impish. “Been talking to Mirt, have you? Lord Helmfast, you may tell your lady about the slipshield, swearing her first to the same oaths that bind you. I leave its recovery to you. Send swift word if the Serpent does anything … significant.”
“Lady, we shall,” Taeros replied. “Assuming, of course, we’re still alive to do so.”
Korvaun and Naoni stood together in the moonlight, gazing up into the Moon Sphere with unseeing eyes.
At least a score of laughing, chattering revelers floated in its softly glowing haze. On the balcony overhanging it, a pair of well-oiled young tradesmen were playing tickle-slap with an equally inebriated lass. She bubbled false protests and delighted giggles as they tipped her over the rail, skirts flashing, into the globe. She plunged into the iridescent haze like a sea-diver, righted herself, and joined an ongoing, languorous midair dance.