Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  But he didn’t make it far. When he saw Havilar, he stopped dead. For a moment, Havilar was sure he had some terrible news, but then he gave her a level look.

  “Arjhani’s missing,” Mehen said. “Dumuzi’s gone to fetch something of his in the hope Zoonie can track him down.”

  “All right,” Havilar said. “I just need to do something and I’ll be ready.”

  Mehen’s teeth parted. “I think it’s best if you stay here.”

  The words failed to sink in for a moment. “That’s stupid,” Havilar said, a knot growing in her stomach. “She doesn’t listen to you. She certainly doesn’t listen to Dumuzi. I have to come.”

  “Brin could come,” Mehen said. “She listens to him.”

  Havilar felt her cheeks flush, hot and angry. “I am not,” she said, “sitting here and waiting while you use my dog.”

  “Havi, I’m just trying—”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I’m sure you think you can,” Mehen shouted. “It’s that I don’t think you should have to spend another moment worrying about Arjhani.”

  Her blood felt as if it were boiling. “Karshoj to Arjhani,” she said coldly. “I already saw him. I already spit in his eye. And karshoj to you, too, if you’re going to keep acting like I can’t be trusted not to lose my mind again. I am not a little girl anymore and you are not taking Zoonie without me.”

  Mehen seemed so startled by the outburst that he took a step back from her. Brin’s hand settled on the middle of her back. “I’m fine,” she whispered, fighting the urge to shrug him off. Fighting the urge to keep yelling at Mehen.

  She didn’t get a chance—it was then Mehen spotted Ilstan, crouched at the end of the sofa.

  He spat a slur of Draconic, crackling with lightning, even as he reached for his weapon. Ilstan put his hands atop his head, trying not to flinch. Farideh stepped between them.

  “What the karshoji Hells is he doing here?”

  “He wasn’t the killer,” Farideh said. “So they let him out.”

  “He might not have killed Shestandeliath Ravar, but he’s a karshoji monster all the same!”

  “Gods!” Havilar cried. “Do you think we’re just letting him settle in? Do you think we’re that stupid? We have a plan!”

  “So does he.” Mehen switched back to Common, shouting at Ilstan, “Do you remember that, madman? ‘Crush them now. It’s the only way.’ ” Ilstan flinched, as if he could become smaller by sheer force of will. Mehen reached back as if to grab his sword. “Maybe I should take that advice, and remove the viper in our midst.”

  “Mehen!” Farideh shouted. “Calm down!”

  “No,” Ilstan said, easing shakily to his feet. “I cannot undo what was done in madness. I cannot unsay what I said without understanding. But you have my apologies, and so do your daughters. You are my only allies in this world.”

  The anger didn’t leave Mehen’s expression—he did not forgive Ilstan, although Havilar would be shocked if any of them really forgave the war wizard. But his hand came off the falchion.

  “We need him,” Farideh said. “We need every ally we can gain.”

  “Tell me that when he does something useful.”

  Ilstan fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “I don’t know if this is useful, but if you’re missing someone, you should use your scrying surface,” he said, pointing to the axe at Farideh’s hip. “If you wish to leave … Havilar”—he stumbled at her name again, as if he didn’t know how to call her—“out of it, that could be a solution.”

  Farideh’s hand went to the axe. “The axe is a scrying surface?” Havilar rolled her eyes skyward—of course it was a scrying surface too. Farideh had all the luck.

  “Fari, he’s not well,” Mehen said. “Don’t listen.”

  “I am not well,” Ilstan agreed. “But I am a war wizard of Cormyr, and I know a scrying surface when I see it.” He peered at the axe, as if looking at some invisible surface just inches from the shining black metal. “That one has a condition. It doesn’t work all the time.”

  “What’s the condition?” Farideh demanded. Ilstan only shook his head.

  “If you give it to me, I might be able to figure it out,” he said. Then he added, ahead of her father, “But I don’t think it’s wise to give me a weapon just now.”

  Farideh blew out a breath. “No, that’s true.” She pursed her mouth. “The axe can be the backup. I’ll try and figure it out, but if we can’t find Arjhani, maybe that’s a use for it. Maybe we can use it to find the maurezhi.” To Ilstan she said, “How long will you be all right?”

  Ilstan shook his head. “Maybe a day? I can tell you when it’s starting.”

  “Can you make scrolls in the meantime?”

  “It depends upon the spell you want.”

  “A magic circle. One that can bind the demon. If more of us have it, ready to cast, then we have a better chance of stopping the maurezhi when we find it.”

  Ilstan’s nervous gaze darted from Farideh to Mehen to Brin, and Havilar found herself thinking of the smug war wizard he had been, the one who’d greeted her with just enough effusiveness to make her distrust him. Gone? Or only hiding?

  “It will be expensive. The components won’t come cheaply—I suspect they will be dearer still in this place.”

  “How dear?” Mehen asked Farideh in Draconic.

  Farideh turned to him, a heartbeat delayed. “Double,” she said. “Maybe not so bad if a Vayemniri bargains for it?”

  The door opened for Uadjit and Dumuzi carrying a dark red wad of cloth. He nodded stiffly at Havilar, as if they were now comrades-in-arms, and she fought the urge to sigh. If she had the slightest idea how to shake Dumuzi loose of his properness, she would.

  Considering his mother, though, it might do no good. Uadjit’s gaze fell on her and there was no shaking the sensation the dragonborn woman was judging Havilar, and no telling what for.

  “A shirt,” Dumuzi said, holding out the cloth.

  “He wore it a few days ago.” Uadjit considered Havilar grimly. “I trust that’s enough for your … animal.”

  “She can track him,” Mehen said, before Havilar could protest. “Thank you,” he added, “for setting aside all this rivalry. You didn’t tell Narghon you came, did you?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Uadjit said. “Now that I’m agreed and it’s clear this isn’t some gambit of Anala’s to claim the Vanquisher’s piercings.”

  Mehen folded his arms. “Even Pandjed wouldn’t have unleashed a fiend just to get Verthisathurgiesh in the Vanquisher’s throne.”

  Uadjit gave Mehen a skeptical look that made Havilar wish she knew the stories behind it … and made her wonder about Anala. “One thing is certain at least,” Uadjit said. “Neither of us will be Vanquisher if we can’t stop this creature.”

  A stab of panic hit Havilar in the heart—Farideh was right—but when she looked to Mehen, to gauge his response, there was nothing but shock there.

  “What did you say?”

  “Be sensible,” Uadjit went on. “You’re tied to this now. If we can’t—”

  “Who karshoji told you I was standing for Vanquisher?” Mehen bellowed. Beside Uadjit, Dumuzi tensed. Havilar traded a glance with her sister—someone was in trouble.

  But Uadjit didn’t so much as blink. “I suspect,” she said, “you’ll need to talk to Anala about that. Later, though.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “You have too much to do to waste time with clan politics, I suspect.”

  19

  25 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  Beneath the Master’s Library

  DAHL TURNED SIDEWAYS TO SQUEEZE AROUND A SHARP OUTCROP, FOCUSED on his feet against the crumbling rock beneath. Higher up the shaft, where the crack intersected with an existing pocket in the stone, the rest of the group still slept. Sessaca hadn’t been exaggerating—the crack went down miles, and they were all crammed close enough the whole way that Dahl had no space to read the scrolls he’d stolen
, to see if he’d secured their escape.

  “Get yourself out of here,” Sessaca had murmured to him while they were still waiting for the Zhentarim to shift supplies, secure ropes, whisper over messages to be sent. “Find the one we need.” But Grathson’s toughs kept a constant vigil, and Dahl could not so much as escape to take a piss before they were crawling down the shaft.

  Where the crack bent to the left, it widened enough for Dahl to sit down, back against the sharp-edged stone. Out of sight of anyone who might come looking, he thought, wedging a sunrod between his head and shoulder. He pulled his haversack open, and withdrew the first of the scrolls—a teleportation.

  Peering at the runes in the dim light, tracing the spell, the way the magic would unfold, his thoughts raced ahead to the result—where would a portal be able to take them? Where would he ask it to take them?

  Harrowdale, he told himself, even though it wasn’t the answer he wanted. If he went back, he was as stuck as before. No components, no coin, and no messenger snake. There was an argument to be made for staying with Xulfaril after all.

  Not much of one, Dahl thought. Whatever Mira found in her albeit false service to the Zhentarim, he doubted he’d find it too. The spell spiraled into a final function—it wouldn’t take them far enough, not even out of the tunnels. He rolled it back up and pulled another. He made it only a few lines before it became clear it was for summoning.

  The third … the third was more promising. A portal—a true portal—to anywhere on the plane Toril occupied. He studied the spell’s threads of magic, the way it would fall together, the way it played out in his own thoughts …

  The spell didn’t include the caster. Once they moved from the point they cast at, the portal would collapse. “Godsbedamned simbarchs,” he muttered, recognizing the handiwork of Aglarond’s ruling wizards.

  “Good morning, Dahl Peredur.”

  Dahl reached for his dagger as he looked up, the only weapon he could reasonably draw in this space. Farther down the passage, the bald devil woman stood, her wings curled close around her in the tight space.

  “Do you trust me, Dahl Peredur?” she asked.

  “Are you mad?” he returned. “Why in the world would I trust you?”

  She gave him a strangely beatific smile. “Fair. Though I assumed by now that you’d realized by comparison I am quite the ally. I brought you a gift.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Are you certain?” She held out another scroll, this one dense and capped with copper end pieces. “It’s your contract with Lorcan. I thought it might sweeten the pot.” She tapped the copper cap. “There are such a lot of ways to make certain he suffers. I have to imagine, right now, you want him to suffer.”

  Yes, Dahl thought, but also he thought of Farideh, of her asking him not to hurt Lorcan, because of what worse things might come after her and Havilar in his absence. Would she still say that, if she knew the bind Lorcan had put him in?

  Dahl wet his mouth, considered his words carefully. “How do I know you’re holding what you say you’re holding?”

  “You won’t,” she said, “until I have a little show of good faith.”

  “What’s that?”

  She held out a hand. “Come with me. Leave this place.”

  “I can’t. My family—”

  “They can manage without you, I’m sure. You come with me, we’ll get you out of the way of things. I’ll deal with it, and they can make their way home, I’m sure.”

  “Oh I’m sure,” Dahl said. “My ninety-year-old grandmother and my brothers who’ve never left the dale can manage fine. I’m not going anywhere without them.”

  “My powers have limits.”

  “As does my patience,” Dahl said. “You don’t get my imaginary child and you don’t get to haul me off to gods-know-where. But I’m guessing the other thing with limits is your luck in dealing with Lorcan, since you’re back here.”

  The woman snickered. “I haven’t even begun to make Lorcan dance. To be frank,” she said, “I do prefer you to him. His father was a nightmare to deal with and I’d rather avoid any connection I possibly could.” She smiled thinly. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider when you see what you’re up against.”

  Dahl hesitated. “What’s that?”

  She gave him a sly smile. “Do you trust me?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then you’ll have to see for yourself.”

  With that, she vanished in a gust of wind.

  A very similar gust of wind, Dahl thought, to the one that marked the portal Lorcan had used to ferry him to Harrowdale. He sipped a little whiskey from his flask. Lorcan had a sister, he knew, but then she’d said “his father” and sounded more a contemporary of that man than Lorcan’s.

  Likely it’s a trick, he thought bitterly, a little torment to make it all worse.

  Something higher up the tunnel clattered against the stone. Dahl cursed, shoved the scrolls and the flask back into his haversack, and climbed back up the narrow passage. Grathson was waiting for him, sharpening his dagger.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Do I need to wake you up and tell you I’m going to have a piss?” Dahl asked dryly.

  “You might,” Grathson said. “We’re close enough to the Underdark that strange beasties might have a mind to crawl up if they hear you moving around.” He considered the edge of the dagger, and over it, Dahl. “You need your haversack to take a piss?”

  “Easier to carry down a waterskin to wash the rock down. Like you said: don’t want to attract strange beasties.”

  “Watch your tongue, Harper,” Grathson said. “Godsbedamned Underdark doesn’t care how clever you think you are. Only gives it new and better ways to break you down.”

  Dahl frowned. “How so?”

  Grathson chuckled to himself, but did not explain.

  “Don’t stlarning listen to Grathson,” Sessaca said later, as they eased their way down the steep path. “Less sense than a ram in early spring, trying to measure horns with the godsbedamned back end of a bull.”

  “Right, I know his type,” Dahl said. Much as it pained him, he was the same way more often than he cared to admit. “I’m asking what he means about the Underdark.”

  Sessaca shook her head. “I told you. It’s all made for something that’s not you. You don’t belong in the Underdark.”

  The change was subtle at first: a fuzziness to the air; a sensation as if someone were humming tunelessly, irritating Dahl beyond measure but without any actual sound. As they descended, he found more than once as his hand reached for the rock wall, it wouldn’t be where he expected, but a finger’s breadth farther or nearer. The gloom seemed to grow thicker, smothering their sunrods.

  “You have a plan, right?” Bodhar asked, as Dahl slowed to creep around a turn in the path.

  Dahl hesitated. “Stay back,” he said. “Let them get ahead and see to their outpost. We’ll head back up the shaft when we have the chance.” And pray, he added silently, that you managed to grab the right scroll.

  They had certainly been climbing for hours, but it still surprised Dahl when the crack ended and one by one they eased free of the narrow passage into a wide cavern.

  The Underdark.

  At a glance, the cavern beyond the light of their sunrods seemed like nothing more than a cave, but the longer Dahl searched the space, the more wrong it felt. The stone seemed to have somehow oozed into place. The fluorescent fungi that smeared the rocks came in more virulent shades of purple and orange and yellow than he had ever seen. The sense that had struck him in the shaft, the sense that something was wrong, something was just two steps from how it ought to be and he couldn’t see it, had built into a powerful urge to get out right now.

  “You’re going to want to cover those sunrods,” Sessaca said. “Things down here will come toward the light. Figure you for a treat.”

  “Keep them out,” Xulfaril said, drawing her wand. “Better we fight off some monsters than fall do
wn a hole.”

  Volibar came to stand beside her, turning a map, looking for a way to match it. “We’re a little turned around,” he whispered, though the cavern made every sound ring as clear as if he had spoken much louder. “If I’ve got this right, the passage we were going to use should be … to the left, maybe three bow’s shots?” He rolled up the map. “Once we find that, we’ll have a much easier time orienting for the outpost.”

  “Excellent,” Xufaril said. “At which point, I think our business will have ended, Swordcaptain.” Her eyes flicked to Dahl. “At least, some of our businesses. This way. Weapons out.”

  “Don’t you go with her,” Sessaca muttered, as they moved through the Underdark, Grathson’s heavies on every side of them. There would be no slinking back to the passage. But, too, there would be no taking Xulfaril up on her offer—maybe Mira was right, maybe he was compromised, maybe Farideh’s allegiances weren’t so innocent as he thought. He found he didn’t care. If the Harpers rejected him, he wouldn’t turn against them. And he wouldn’t forget Farideh.

  None of which mattered in that moment, with the Underdark playing upon his nerves like a clumsy harpist.

  “Why not?” Dahl said. “You did.”

  “I worked for myself, thank you very much. It was a different time, and you’re a different person.”

  “Stop talking,” Grathson hissed between them. “ ’Less you want to be what I throw to the hook horrors.”

  “Is that what you think it is?” Sessaca asked mildly.

  Not hook horrors, thought Dahl. He’d never consider himself an expert at the bestiary of the Underdark, but he knew enough to eliminate most of what he did know. Something that could block off the access routes. Something that would scare goblins to the surface. Something strong enough to silence the Zhentarim of the outpost.

  Not hook horrors, he thought. Not kuo-toa. Not goblins.

  The Zhentarim stopped as they came around the corner to where the library had collapsed. Stopped, frozen and staring, all in a line.