It was good, Xathwik thought, that Arquestan was the one who rode the ether. Xath knew that there were dangers and discomforts galore lurking beyond the Valley of Law, and he was content to remain here and offer judgements on the dangers of chaos without being forced to confront those challenges firsthand. He shuddered again at the thought of the outcast's lonely and disordered existence.
"But what of Bayar?" Farrial questioned, looking toward the place where the wendeam's chariot had landed. "Was she not already with you?"
"Aye. I have stationed my most faithful hound on the crossroads of chaos beyond the queen's palace," Arquestan declared. "Should she send her tanar'ri on another mission of attack, Bayar will precede them through the gate. It is my hope that she might be able to warn the next target."
"Good. We must make every effort to see that the pieces of the rod stay out of the queen's hands. I need not remind you of the costs...." Balka's voice was hard, his eyes glinting like steel as he raised his head.
The others, unbidden, followed the direction of his gaze. The Valley of Law was dotted with many grand pavilions, mighty houses of dukes and captains that rose into the foothills standing at the bases of the thirty-two summits. Glimpses of marble facades, of obsidian walls and roofs of gray slate, showed everywhere among the verdant greenery.
But many of those pavilions were empty, their former masters slain on the plains of Oerth, never returning from a battle that should have attained ultimate victory. The legends of that bloody day, millennia ago, were vivid memories to the long-lived vaati. All four of them had fought on that gory field, had tasted the imminence of near-victory and seen the bitter frustration of an incomplete triumph.
More than half of the wind dukes had died on that plain, slain during the Battle of Pesh, sacrificed in order to banish the menace of Miska, the Wolf-Spider. They had died in victory, their enemy pierced with the potent Rod of Law, and that powerful artifact had driven Miska into his fortress prison.
Even so, chaos had exacted a price upon the sacred rod: The artifact had shattered in its ultimate victory. The vaati keenly recalled the bitter taste of that moment, as Miska had been banished into a Fortress of Law, yet still lived. The Rod of Law, tainted by the essence of its enemy, had been scattered to the far planes. It remained a potent tool for good or evil, hard to wield and dangerous to master. Perhaps more importantly, it was the only key to parting the barrier that imprisoned Miska, and the only tool that might have hope of killing the wolf-spider permanently.
The Queen of Chaos, Miska's mistress and lover, would not rest, they knew, until she gained the rod. Therefore, it was incumbent upon the wind dukes to gather the pieces of the artifact first.
"And now, fellow dukes, allow me one night of comfort and fellowship, of food and good conversation," Arquestan suggested, gently breaking the pensive mood. "For tomorrow, once again I ride among the realms of chaos."
The three hosts shuddered at Arquestan's words, regarding the wendeam with sympathy and more than a little awe. Then, in unison, they turned and escorted their guest into the well-ordered hospitality of the pavilion.
CHAPTER 6
MELANCHOLY FLIGHT
Somehow my boots had gotten wet. In fact, all my clothes were soaked. When I finally sat down and tried to reconstruct the last few hours, I recalled that I had fled right through the stream when I departed Oakvale. A big log had extended halfway across the water, giving me a start, and when I reached the end of the makeshift bridge, I simply threw myself into the river and paddled the rest of the way, ultimately crawling like a drowned rat into the underbrush on the far side.
The hound been there, on the far side of the stream, and she quickly regained her strength, apparently content to follow me. Ripples of her loose skin flopped as she plodded quietly at my heel, waiting patiently whenever I stopped to rest. Soon I was up again, blundering through thickets, blindly driving forward.
I had with me only my short sword, Goldfinder, which I dried off as best I could by using the large fern leaves that grew in these shadowy depths, and the little piece of black stick that offered the power of healing. That ability seemed like a cruel mockery now—power enough to cure Saysi's sprained wrist, but useless against voracious monsters that had charged from nowhere to shatter the predawn peace of a quiet town.
She's gone! The knowledge kept surging, unbidden, into my mind. I couldn't, I wouldn't, believe it, but despite my firm intentions, rational memory inevitably intruded, bearing my spirits again into a miasma of hopeless despair. Pushing hard, I tried to exhaust myself, craving only numbness. Perniciously, my mind refused to stop thinking, remembering, feeling.
Through the years, I had lost many companions to sudden and violent misfortune; it was a constant risk in my chosen field of endeavor. Yet the peculiar sense of devastation I felt right now was a new and violently unpleasant experience for me. Grief rose from the pit of my stomach, grabbed my heart and lungs in a vise of enveloping pain, stabbing into my brain to beat against the inside of my skull like some dwarven miner striving to dig himself out of a cave-in.
I stumbled onward, pushing through the woods in a straight line, not bothering to seek a trail or mask my tracks. Pressing ahead, I was directed by some mysterious instinct that lurked below the surface of my awareness. I was vaguely aware of the fact that my course took me well away from the direction of Scarnose's lair. Still, I didn't stop to wonder why I made my path through trackless wilderness, rather than to follow one of the good roads leading out of Oakvale to the east or south.
Rough, craggy foothills rose to block my path, but I was reluctant to avoid the obstacles. By midday, I found myself scaling cliffs of loose, rotting rock, just so that I could continue to travel in a straight line. While I had no idea of what lay ahead of me, I never questioned that I was going the right way.
Numbly plodding, I barely noticed the coming of night. I tried to sleep beneath a bush in the trackless wood, but tossed and turned uncomfortably, thoroughly soaked by a heavy dew. This gave me a good deal of time for reflection, something I usually try to avoid. On this miserable night, however, there was nothing else to do.
At first, I forcibly resisted memories of Saysi, though this only encouraged my mind to drift to even earlier memories. For the first time in many months, I thought of Colbytown, the peaceful little halfling village that was my original home. Surrounded by green and fertile pastures, centered around a placid millpond, the snug community had been eternally peaceful, quiet, and pleasant—deadly dull traits to a halfling who longed for adventure. As a youth, I couldn't wait to make my escape.
Of course, I tried to get back there every now and then. My two sisters, Hallie and Berdeen, missed me and welcomed me gladly on every visit. They were bright and vivacious maids who had married well, and each had given birth to innumerable nieces and nephews. Seeing the little ones again was a bright point of my return visits, for they never tired of listening to my tales of danger and excitement on the road. Once I had thought of taking Saysi there, introducing her...
No! I had to think of other things! With wrenching force, I moved my memories along, found myself recalling good times with Barzyn and Dallzar. Of my previous companions, I had known these two brothers the longest. As a trio, we had lived well for all of a decade. Their brawn and courage, coupled with my own knack for stealth and, if I say so myself, keen intellect, had enabled us to reap rewards wherever we traveled. Often we'd done good work, like the rescuing of a helpless prisoner for a substantial reward, or the slaying of a bullying monster in return for its plundered wealth.
But these deeds weren't like a religion with us. Just as often we had plundered the mansion of some rural warlord or robber baron. We had swindled from the foolish rich and spent our gains freely for the benefit of the poor—namely, ourselves.
My mind drifted to our first meeting with the redoubtable Benton. The dwarves and I had watched him dismantle a patrol of guards in the thriving coastal city of Argenport. Realizing that he'd be a
real asset to our party, we aided him to escape through the gates in the guise of a beggar woman. The disguise had been my idea, though the lunkhead of a barbarian hadn't grasped the brilliance of the scheme until some time after its success. Now I got a lump in my throat as I recalled how he had bristled every time I mentioned the episode, which I had made a point to do frequently.
Hestrill had been with us for the last three or four years, another brave soul that the dwarves and I had rescued from a life of drudgery. The magic-user had been responsible for the security of one of our robber baron targets, and his magical traps almost snared Dallzar and Benton when we at last broke into the treasure rooms. We were impressed by his spells, and he was depressed by his failure—not to mention the prospect of inevitable execution when the lord found out about his depleted cash reserves. A few simple arguments had convinced him that the life of an adventuring mage was certain to improve his spirits.
These thoughts led inevitably to my first meeting with Saysi. She had come along barely a year ago, and quickly proved herself to be an invaluable member of our group. Her presence had added a special spark to my life as well, a spark that I felt certain would never be rekindled. I still remembered the first time I saw her, as vividly as if it had been yesterday.
We had arrived in a city—I think it was Argenport—with plenty of money to spend and powerful thirsts in need of quenching. In a crowded inn, among musicians and splendid food, I had been flirting with one of the waitresses. She was human, but petite enough that I could hold her on my lap. In fact, an occasional waiflike daughter of man has found my guileless smile to be irresistible; several of these instances have led to some very memorable affairs. This barmaid might have been another, but I was never to find that out.
The door to the inn opened, and I looked across the crowded room to see the most beautiful face I had ever beheld, despite the fact that the poor girl had recently been crying. Her chocolate eyes were almost too big for her dainty chin, her rounded cheeks, and full mouth.
Long, silken lashes of finespun copper seemed to give her dark eyes a perfect framework. Curly hair of the same color fell in boisterous cascades over her forehead and down past her shoulders. Though the lustrous mane was tangled and sodden, her beauty remained undiminished. Even her obvious distress served only to enhance her allure, and made me want to offer her comfort and protection.
So striking was her face that it had taken me several moments to make my inspection of the rest of her figure. The loose, traveling vest could not conceal the voluptuous swell in the front, unusually prominent for a halfling maiden, but no less delightful for its rarity. Her waist was tiny, encircled by a black leather belt, and mud-stained boots and leggings showed the tight outline of delicately curved calves. The only article of jewelry she wore was a jade amulet, an eight-sided stone dangling around her neck on a leather thong. I would soon learn that this was her holy symbol, a talisman of Patrikon, the god of law she had apprenticed to in the years since her coming of age.
At first glance, however, nothing about her appearance indicated that she was a priestess. The waitress on my lap noticed my wandering eyes and rose in a huff, but I didn't even care. Instead, I started for the door, intending to flash this newcomer my most winning smile.
Before I took two steps, however, she turned and vanished into the night. Strangely agitated, I hurried after her, ducking out the door to see her disappear around a corner of the street. I followed so rapidly that my footsteps attracted her attention, and she turned with an expression of alarm, reaching for the metal-headed club she wore at her belt.
"Wait!" I said hastily, holding up my hands to show her that I meant no harm. "I—I saw you back at the inn. You looked as if you were in some kind of trouble. Can I help?"
"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously, still holding the haft of her weapon, though at least she didn't pull it out and wave it at me.
"Kip. Kip Kayle." For lack of anything else to say, I was about to announce that I was a fellow halfling, but fortunately I bit back this self-evident remark before it left my lips. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm Saysi Formillay," she said, instinctively clutching the jade amulet I had noticed earlier. "I'm... a pilgrim, part of a caravan to the Altar of the Diamond Father. We were attacked just outside of town—"
Those chocolate eyes teared up again, and I had a grim premonition. Bandits preying on religious caravans had recently performed acts of extreme brutality, and I could easily picture the tragic fate of her party. "And your companions...?"
"All dead," she sniffled. "I tried to help Patriarch Donwell. He is... was... my mentor. He—he was shot through, but not until he hid me in a ditch. I crept out again, but all my curing wasn't enough to bring him back!"
"I'm sure you did everything possible."
"But now what do I do?"
Even if I hadn't already planned an answer to that question, the plaintive note of her voice would have gone far to persuade me. As it was, I was fully prepared.
"Why don't you join me and my friends?" I suggested. "We've got rooms in town here—"
Her eyes widened in alarm, and I hastened to reassure her. "You'd have your own, of course. We've just come into some funds, and the only gold we carry is the kind that's anxious to be set free. When we're rich, we try to accommodate that desire."
"You're rich?" Her tone became openly skeptical as she looked at my patched breeches, the stains on my scuffed tunic, and the long, unkempt mane of hair spraying down to my shoulders and beyond.
"Well, this week we are," I explained—a little defensively, she later claimed. "We just came into some money, and we're kind of glad to be here alive and intact."
"You keep saying 'we.' Who do you mean?"
I explained about Benton and Hestrill, Barzyn and Dallzar. "They're all pretty good folks—for humans and dwarves, I mean. And I can testify that each of them is a handy ally in a fight."
"Do you fight... a lot, I mean?" she asked, somewhat nervously.
"Only when it's necessary," I answered breezily. "This last time, we had to battle a giant. He wasn't too pleased with us trying to open his treasure chest."
"You fought a giant?" she asked skeptically.
"No!" I hastened to dispel any notions she might be forming about my heroic tendencies. "The very idea terrifies me. I picked the lock on the chest after the others took care of the giant. Benton took a pretty good whack on the shoulder during the battle. That's when we could have used you, or someone like you. He was in pain all the way down from the mountains, till we could get him to the temple here in town and have a cleric patch him up."
This didn't seem like the best time to tell her about our last cleric, Patchel, and his unfortunate encounter with a basilisk. Someday, perhaps, I could show her. Patch had been turned into a stone statue and, so far as I knew, was still languishing in a very dark and unpleasant lair.
"I—I guess I don't have anywhere else to go," Saysi said, drying her eyes. "It's kind of you to invite me...."
I felt a twinge of guilt, remembering how my gaze had first latched on to those chocolate eyes and the delightful curves of her demure outfit. Reassuring her, and myself, that the offer was genuine, without conditions, I escorted her back to the inn and made the introductions. At the time, I figured I could be patient; in a few weeks, she would yield to my charms, and more weeks, perhaps even months, of bliss would be the inevitable result.
That had been just about a year ago, but the anticipated intimacy never developed. Saysi and I became friends, of course, and the little priestess had demonstrated herself on several occasions to be a cleric of faith and skill, and a courageous and loyal companion as well.
At last I drifted off to sleep, slumbering very briefly. Stiff and cold, hungry and depressed, I was nevertheless grateful at least to dream of Saysi for a while—and to forget about the fact that she was gone.
CHAPTER 7
BADSWELL LUMMOFF
Misty tendrils of a sticky dawn stroked m
y face, slowly awakening me. Sitting up to a symphony of aches and pains, I nevertheless felt a strange urgency to move. I crept out of concealment and stiffly stood, flinching as several birds fluttered away. Dusting the dried leaves and twigs from my clothes, I reflected that their flightiness meant that no immediate threat lurked in the area.
Thoughts of danger brought back the full horror of the previous dawn—the unnatural invaders of Oakvale and Saysi's horrible death. The bleak morning immediately felt more oppressive, and for a moment, I longed to return to the oblivion of sleep.
"Dog? Hound?" Remembering the loyal mutt that had followed me from Oakvale, I called aloud, turning hopefully around, looking through the surrounding underbrush.
Nothing stirred. A lump rose in my throat, and I rebuked myself angrily, thinking that, with all the losses I had suffered in the last days, this was no time to get sentimental about a stupid dog. Nevertheless, the animal's absence left an aching pain as I started through the woods. Hopping across a brook on a series of raised boulders, I pressed into the woods on the other side and started along the side of a sloping hummock of rock.
Again I felt that strange urgency, a guiding sense that led me in a straight line through the forest. Now, at least, the floor of the woods was open. The forest was generally clear of underbrush, thanks to a dense canopy far overhead, and I found the walking, if not pleasant, at least somewhat distracting.
It didn't take long for my thoughts to return to Saysi. I'd never been a religious fellow, but in that wilderness, I prayed to Patrikon long and hard, hoping that her last moments had been quick. The fact that I had slain the beast that killed her was no consolation to my wounded spirit. The memory of those hateful jaws, the bulbous and unnatural body, brought my anger to a fever pitch again, and I fantasized about meeting another of the creatures, solely for the pleasure of bringing about its painful and violent demise—as if more killing could bring my beloved companion back. Still, my fist clenched around Goldfinder's hilt and I learned that anger was a much less painful emotion than grief.
The Rod of Seven Parts Page 8