The Chaos Curse

by R. A. Salvatore

  “We will be there today?” Dorigen asked, and for the first time, Danica noted a slight tremor in the determined woman’s voice.

  “Today,” Danica answered as she walked off down the southern trail.

  Dorigen paused a moment, mustering her courage. She knew she was doing the right thing, that she owed a debt, at least, to the library and the elves. Still, the wizard’s first step along the final trail came hard, as did the second, the third, and all the rest.

  Back a short distance down the western trail, Shayleigh watched Dorigen’s every move. She didn’t doubt the wizard’s sincerity, that she honestly meant to follow through, but Shayleigh knew the journey would be more difficult for Dorigen than she let show. It was quite possible Dorigen might be walking to her death. Somewhere along the way, Shayleigh understood, Dorigen would have to battle her survival instinct, the most basic and powerful force in any human.

  Shayleigh waited a moment longer then slipped into the underbrush alongside the southern trail. If Dorigen lost that battle, she would be ready.

  For the time being, Shayleigh called Dorigen a friend, but the elf maiden could not forget the scars still left on Shilmista. If Dorigen could not bring herself to face the rightful judgment of the victors, Shayleigh would enact the judgment of Shilmista … in the form of a single, well-placed arrow.

  “Where is Bron Turman?” one of the younger priests asked. Nervous, he leaned against a low railing surrounding the altar in one of the library’s first-floor chapels.

  “Or Dean Thobicus?” added another.

  Romus Scaladi, a short, dark-complexioned Oghmanyte whose shoulders seemed nearly as wide as the man was tall, tried to calm his five brother priests of both orders, patting his hands in the empty air and shushing them as though the priests were young children.

  “And surely Cadderly will return,” a third priest, kneeling before the altar, said hopefully. “Cadderly will set things right.”

  Two of the other young priests, the only Deneirraths in the group, who had listened to Thobicus’s warning concerning Cadderly, looked at each other and shrugged, sharing a common fear that Cadderly might actually be the one behind all of the strange things that were going on around them. None of the leaders—of either order—had been seen all day, and both Thobicus and Bron Turman had been missing for two full days.

  It was rumored, though none present could confirm it, that half a dozen lesser priests had been found dead in their rooms that very morning, lying peacefully—but under their beds. The priest who’d told the group that startling news was not the best of sources, though. He was the newest member of the Oghmanyte order, a small, weak man who’d snapped his collarbone in his very first wrestling match. It was common knowledge that the man had no wish to remain in the order, and his appeals to join the Deneirraths had not been warmly received. So when they had encountered him early that day, his belongings in a sack slung over one shoulder and his eyes squarely on the front door, the six did not panic.

  Still, there was no denying that the library was strangely quiet—except in one corner of the second floor, where Brother Chanticleer was holed up in his room, singing to his gods. Not a soul stirred in the headmasters’ area. It was strangely quiet and dark, even for the perpetually gloomy place. Barriers had been constructed over nearly every window. Normally the library housed nearly eighty priests—before the disaster of the chaos curse, well over a hundred—and at any given time, at least five and as many as thirty visitors. The guest list was small, with winter just giving way, but so was the list of priests who’d gone to Carradoon, or Shilmista.

  So where was everybody?

  Another troubling sensation that the six priests could not ignore was the subtle but definite feeling that the Edificant Library had changed, as though the gloom was more than a trick of the light. It was as if Deneir and Oghma had moved away from the place. Even the midday ritual, in which Brother Chanticleer sang to both gods in the presence of all the priests, had not been performed in two days.

  Romus himself had gone to the singing priest’s room, fearing that Chanticleer had taken ill. He found the door locked, and only after several moments of pounding had Chanticleer called out, telling him to go away.

  “I feel as if someone has built a ceiling above me,” one of the Glyphscribes remarked, following the suspicions that Dean Thobicus had implanted. “A ceiling that separates me from Deneir.”

  The other Deneirrath nodded his agreement, while the Oghmanytes looked to each other then to Romus, who was the strongest Lorekeeper among them.

  “I’m certain there’s a simple answer,” Romus said as calmly as he could, but the other five knew that he agreed with the Glyphscribe’s assessment. The library had always been among the holiest of places, where priests of any goodly faith could feel the presence of their god or goddess. Even the druids who’d visited had been surprised to find an aura of Silvanus within the walls of a manmade structure.

  And for the priests of Oghma and Deneir, there was, perhaps, no holier place in all of Faerûn. The library was their tribute to their gods, a place of learning and art, a place of study and recital—the place of Chaunticleer’s song.

  “We will wrestle!” Romus Scaladi announced.

  After a moment of shock, the Oghmanytes began to bob their heads in agreement, while the Deneirrath continued to stare, dumbfounded, at the stocky Scaladi.

  “Wrestle?” one of them asked.

  “Tribute to our god!” Scaladi answered, pulling off his black-and-gold vest and fine white shirt, revealing a chest bulging with muscles and thick with dark hair. “We will wrestle!”

  “Oooo,” came a woman’s purr from the back of the chapel. “I do so love to wrestle!”

  The six priests swung around hopefully, every one of them thinking that Danica, the woman who not only loved to wrestle, but who could defeat any priest in the library, had at last returned.

  They saw not Danica, but Histra, the alluring priestess of Sune, dressed in her customary crimson gown that was cut so low in the front that it seemed as if her navel should show, and slitted high on the thigh to show off the woman’s shapely legs. Her long, lush hair, dyed so blond as to appear almost white, flew wildly, as usual, and her makeup was thickly applied—never had the priests seen any lips so bright red! Her perfume, also poured generously, wafted across the chapel.

  Something was out of place. All six of the priests recognized that fact, though none had figured it out. Behind Histra’s generous paint, her skin was deathly pale, as was the leg sticking out from under her gown. And the perfume aroma was sickly sweet, something less than alluring.

  Romus Scaladi studied the woman intently. He had never much liked Histra, or her goddess, Sune, whose only tenet seemed to be the physical pleasures of love. Always, ever-hungry Histra had set the hairs on the back of Scaladi’s neck to tingling, as they were just then, but more than usual.

  It was uncommon to see Histra on the first floor, Scaladi knew. It was no more common for the woman to be out of her room, or out of her bed.

  “Why are you here?” the wary priest started to ask, but Histra seemed not to notice.

  “I do so love to wrestle,” she purred again, openly lewd, and she opened her mouth and laughed wildly.

  All six priests recognized the vampire’s fangs for what they were.

  Five of the six, including Scaladi and both Deneirrath, went immediately for their holy symbols.

  Histra continued to laugh. “Wrestle with these!” she cried, and several torn, rotting, stiff-walking men came into the room—men the priests knew.

  “My dear Deneir,” one of the priests muttered hopelessly.

  Romus leaped forward and boldly presented his symbol of Oghma. “Be gone from this holy place, foul undead things!” he cried, and the zombies stopped their shuffling, a couple of them even turning around.

  Histra hissed viciously at the monsters, compelling them to continue.

  “I deny you!” Romus roared at Histra, and it
seemed as if she nearly fell over backward. A zombie reached awkwardly for the Oghmanyte, and he growled and punched out with his holy symbol, slamming the monster on the side of the face. Acrid smoke rose from the wound, but the monster kept on, its companions filtering around Romus to get to the others.

  “I cannot turn them away!” one of the priests behind Romus cried. “Where is Deneir?”

  “Where is Oghma?” cried another.

  A stiff arm clubbed Romus on the shoulder. He grunted away the blow and cupped his hand under the zombie’s chin, bending the head back, then slashed at the monster’s throat with the edge of his holy symbol. Again came a puff of smoke from the wound, and the zombie’s rotting flesh opened up easily to the strong man’s blow.

  But zombies needed no air, so the wound was not serious.

  “Fight them!” Romus Scaladi screamed. “Beat them down!” To accentuate his point, the powerful Oghmanyte launched a barrage of punishment on the zombie in front of him, finally lifting the corpse over his head and hurling it into a statue against the wall. The Oghmanyte spun around to see to his friends, and found that they were not fighting but backing away, their faces horror-stricken.

  Of course, Scaladi realized. The undead monsters they faced had been their friends.

  “Do not look at their faces!” he ordered. “They are not of our order. They are mere tools, weapons!

  “Weapons of Histra,” Romus Scaladi finished, spinning to face the vampire. “Now you die,” the outraged man promised, lifting his flaring holy symbol toward the monster. “By my hands.”

  Histra wanted nothing to do with Scaladi. Like Banner and Thobicus, she had not yet come into her full power. Even if she had, she might have thought twice about facing Scaladi, for she recognized that the man was fully in his faith, that his heart could be hers, but not his soul, for he would deny any fear—and fear was perhaps the greatest of a vampire’s weapons.

  Histra defiantly spat at Scaladi’s symbol, but he saw the bluff for what it was. If he could get to her, cram his god’s symbol down her wretched throat, then the zombies would be leaderless and could be more easily driven away.

  Unexpectedly, Histra darted up the side toward the altar, deeper into the chapel, and Scaladi found two zombies between him and the vampire.

  The other priests were fighting finally. The two Deneirrath had carried weapons with them into the chapel, blessed maces, and two others had rushed to the altar table, wisely breaking off legs to use as clubs.

  The remaining Oghmanyte, the one priest who had not pulled out his holy symbol when Histra revealed herself, was off to the side of the room, trapped against the wall, shaking his head in sheer terror. And how that terror heightened when Histra pushed aside the zombies near the man and let him see her toothy smile!

  Scaladi was hard pressed by the zombies. He knew then, in his heart, that the library was no longer a house of Oghma, or of Deneir, that the desecration was nearly complete. But though the day outside was overcast, the sun peeked through enough to be their ally.

  “Fight out of the room!” Scaladi ordered. “Out of the room and out of the library!” He shifted forward, putting the two zombies’ backs to the wall, trying to give his friends an avenue of escape.

  On came the Deneirrath, their heavy maces pounding zombies aside. Suddenly the path seemed clear for them all, and the Deneirrath then Scaladi bolted for the door. The club-wielding Oghmanytes chased after them, but one, when he tried to leap the altar rail, hooked his foot and sprawled face down on the stone floor.

  Zombies swarmed over him, and his companion turned back and rushed to his aid.

  Scaladi was already at the chapel door when he looked back to see the disaster. His first instinct was to charge back in and die beside his comrades, and he took a step that way. But the two priests of Deneir caught him by the shoulders, and though they could not have held the powerful man back if he wanted to continue, the pause gave Scaladi a moment to see things more clearly.

  “You cannot help them!” one of the Deneirrath cried.

  “We must survive to warn the town!” the other added.

  Scaladi staggered out of the chapel. The zombie horde tore the two Oghmanytes apart.

  Worse still was the fate of the priest against the wall, a man who had spent many secret evenings with Histra. He was filled with too much guilt to resist the vampire. He shook his head in weak denial, whispered, begged, for her to go away.

  She smiled and came on, and the man, despite his horror, offered her his neck.

  The three fleeing priests scrambled along the corridors, meeting no resistance. The front doors were in sight, one of them open, a weak line of sun streaming into the library’s foyer.

  One of the Deneirrath cried out and grasped at his neck then pitched forward to the stone.

  “The door!” Scaladi cried, pulling the other along. The remaining Glyphscribe looked back at his brother and saw the man flailing wildly at a bat-winged imp as it hopped about his shoulders, biting at his ears and stabbing him repeatedly with a poison-tipped tail.

  Scaladi dived for the door—it moved away from him, seemingly of its own accord and slammed shut with a resounding bang. He fell headlong at its base.

  “My dear Deneir,” he heard his lone companion whisper. Scaladi turned himself over to see Thobicus standing in the shadows, and Kierkan Rufo moving quietly behind the withered dean.

  “Deneir is gone from this place,” Thobicus said, his voice calm and unthreatening, approaching the man with his arms open and to the side. “Come with me now, that I might show you the new way.”

  The young Deneirrath wavered, and for a moment, Scaladi thought he would give himself over to Thobicus, who was no more than two paces away.

  The young priest exploded into action, cracking his mace across the dean’s wrinkled face. Thobicus’s head jerked violently to the side and he was pushed back. But only a single step—and he turned straight again, eyeing the disbelieving young Glyphscribe. There ensued a long pause, a horrible moment, the hush of a crouched predator.

  Thobicus threw his arms up, fingers bent like claws, gave an unearthly roar, and sprang over the young priest, burying the man under his flailing limbs.

  Scaladi scrambled and grabbed at the door, tugging with all his considerable strength.

  “It will not open,” Kierkan Rufo assured him.

  Scaladi tugged furiously. He heard Rufo step near, right behind him.

  “It will not open,” the confident vampire said again.

  Scaladi spun, his holy symbol thrust toward Rufo. The vampire leaned back, away from the sudden glare.

  But Rufo was not Histra. The moment of surprise passed quickly.

  “Now you die!” Scaladi promised, but by the time he finished that simple statement, all conviction had flown from his voice. He felt Rufo’s will inside his head, compelling him to surrender, imparting a sense of hopelessness.

  Romus Scaladi had always been a fighter. He had grown up an orphan on the tough streets of Sundabar, every day a challenge. And so he fought, with all his own will, against Rufo’s intrusions.

  Green bolts of searing energy burned into his hand, and his holy symbol was knocked away. Both Scaladi and Rufo looked to the side, to the smiling Druzil, still perched on the body of the Deneirrath.

  Scaladi looked back helplessly as Rufo grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, the vampire’s face only inches from his own.

  “You are strong,” Rufo said. “That’s good.”

  Scaladi spat in his face, but Rufo did not explode with anger, as had Thobicus. Something guided the vampire, kept him focused.

  “I offer you power,” Rufo whispered. “I offer you immortality. You will know pleasures beyond—”

  “You offer damnation!” Scaladi growled.

  Across the foyer, the surviving Deneirrath screamed then went silent, and Thobicus feasted.

  “What do you know?” Rufo demanded. “I live, Romus Scaladi, and I have chased Deneir and Oghma from this p
lace.”

  Scaladi held his jaw firm.

  “The library is mine!” Rufo went on. He grabbed Scaladi’s thick hair in one hand and with strength that horrified the Oghmanyte, easily tugged the man’s head back. “Carradoon shall be mine.”

  “And both are just places,” Scaladi insisted, with the simple and undeniable logic that had guided the man all his life. He knew that Rufo wanted more than the conquest of territory. He knew what the vampire desired.

  “You can join me, Romus Scaladi,” Rufo said. “You can share my strength. You like strength.”

  “You have no strength,” Scaladi said, and his sincere calm seemed to rattle Rufo. “You have only lies and false promises.”

  “I can tear your heart out!” Rufo roared at him. “And hold it up, beating before your dying eyes.”

  Histra came into the foyer then, along with a pair of her zombies.

  “Would you be like them?” Rufo asked, indicating the zombies. “Either way, you will serve me!”

  Scaladi looked at the wretched zombies, and to Rufo’s dismay, the priest smiled. They were corporeal animations and nothing more, Scaladi knew—or had to believe with all his heart. Secure in that faith, the man looked Rufo straight in the vampire’s blood-red eyes, straight in his drooling, bestial face.

  “I am more than my body,” Romus Scaladi proclaimed.

  Rufo snapped the Oghmanyte’s head back, shattering neck bones. With one hand, the outraged vampire heaved Scaladi across the foyer, where he crashed into a wall and crumpled to the floor.

  Histra hissed wickedly, and Thobicus chimed in, a horrid applause as the two circled their master. Caught up in the frenzy, Rufo dismissed Scaladi’s damning words and hissed and snarled with all his wicked heart.

  “… more than my body,” came a whisper from the side.

  The three vampires stopped their macabre dance and song and turned as one to the broken priest, propped on his elbows, his head flopping grotesquely to the side.