Were they not the highest centers of culture and learning-indeed, of civilization itself-to be found among the Realms? True, the recent advances of nomadic horsemen, raging from the great central steppe, might give this smugness a short jolt. And of course the great oriental nations of Kara-Tur offered certain amenities not to be found here on the Sword Coast…
But still, the center of everything that mattered couldn’t be declared to be elsewhere, at least not by any rational individual.
The serene merchant princes of the Council of Amn considered themselves to be very rational indeed. Masters of all within their borders and influential over important matters without, the six anonymous men and women who ruled the mighty southern kingdom expected obedience and performance from those in their service.
Amn, a nation of traders, shippers, buyers, and sellers, controlled its empire not by the might of its swords nor the range of its catapults, but by the power of its gold. Governed by the six princes, all of whom kept their identities carefully concealed, Amnite trade extended across all the known Realms and worked its way toward unknown reaches as well.
These princes had invested a great deal into the expedition of Captain-General Cordell and his Golden Legion. More than a year had passed since the departure of that legion on its quest for gold over the western seas, and as yet no profits had found their way to the princely coffers.
Now the princes, each meticulously masked and robed, met in private session to discuss the disappearance of Cordell and-more significantly-the potential loss of their investment. The domed council chamber was darkened as usual, a further aid to the masquerade.
At last the golden doors opened softly and a courtier entered.
“Don Vaez is here,” said the silken-dressed attendant.
“At last,” rasped one of the princes from beneath his-or, perhaps, her-dark mask. “Send him in.”
In moments, a tall figure passed through the door, removing his broad-brimmed hat with its ostrich-feather plume in a sweeping bow. The man stood erect again, a thin smile playing about his lips. He was smooth-shaven, with long blond, almost white locks that fell about his shoulders.
“Ah, Don Vaez, you may do us a great service,” murmured another of the princes.
“As always, I exist to serve,” offered Vaez, with another courtly bow.
“Indeed.” The prince’s sexless voice dripped with irony. “You know, of course, of the Golden Legion’s expedition to the west?”
“Naturally. A great promise lay upon it. I trust there has not been… trouble?”
“For long months, we received steady messages through the Temple of Helm here in Amn. The Bishou, chief cleric of the mission, provided good reports. It seems that our expectations of gold were met, even exceeded, in this land Cordell had claimed for us.”
Don Vaez’s eyes gleamed, but he remained silent.
“Several months ago, however, these messages abruptly ceased,” offered another prince, in a higher but still subtly masked voice. “We have reason to expect the worst.”
“That explains many things,” replied the adventurer. None of the merchants made any response, so Don Vaez continued. “Two dozen carracks gathering in Murann, companies of harquebus, crossbow, and horse. Even some of the veterans of Cordell’s legion, those that did not sail with him to the west. The rumors that Amn has decided it needs an army…”
One of the princes raised a cautious hand. “We do not need an army, not here. But quite possibly such a force will be required in order to see a proper and deserved return on our investment.”
“Do you suspect that Cordell has betrayed you?” inquired Don Vaez sympathetically. He now knew why he had been summoned to appear before the council. He knew, and he was well pleased.
“We do not know. Perhaps he ran into greater difficulties than he anticipated; he took but five hundred men. Now we will send nearly three times that number on his trail. We know, through the temple, what course he sailed, even where he made landfall.”
The air seemed to grow heavy in the room for the space of a brief pause. Don Vaez waited.
“We want you to lead the expedition after him,” a prince finally offered. “We send you after our gold, and to learn Cordell’s fate. If he lives, you are to bring him back-in chains, if necessary.”
Another of the princes raised a golden bell, shaking it slightly to elicit a musical tinkling. In moments, the golden doors opened to reveal the courtier who had admitted Don Vaez.
“Summon Pryat Devane,” ordered the prince curtly.
In a few moments, the cleric entered, bowing first to the
princes and then to Don Vaez. The adventurer studied the short pryat. The clean-shaven priest wore a close-fitting cap of steel and a loose robe of fine silk. His hands were cloaked in the silver gauntlets of Helm.
“Pryat Devane was Bishou Domincus’s closest aide,” explained the prince.
“You’re the one who maintained contact with Domincus?” asked Don Vaez.
“Indeed, my lord. Every few weeks, through the conduit of our faith, the Bishou informed me of the progress of the mission. They made good progress for a time. They penetrated to the heart of the continent, to a city that was overflowing with gold. Then… silence.”
“That’s a mystery we’ll soon solve,” the captain said heartily, “You’ll be making the journey with me, I presume?”
“With my lord’s pleasure,” explained the pryat, with another bow.
“Of course!”
“I am sure you will find the pryat a useful addition to your expedition,” remarked one of the princes. “We have provided him with a small gift, that he may aid you more effectively-a flying carpet.”
Don Vaez nodded to the cleric and then bowed, more deeply than ever, to the council. Indeed, he could think of many uses for a cleric that could fly. As he turned from the masked princes, a sly smile toyed with his lips. The task pleased him-pleased him greatly-for Cordell had long eclipsed the Don’s own reputation as a loyal mercenary.
And to use Cordell’s own men against him! The irony did not escape Don Vaez. The Council of Six had granted him the opportunity of a lifetime! When he finished with it, he determined that his name would hold a high place in the annals of the Sword Coast.
Cordell shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He had always been a hard campaigner, but never had he pushed himself as hard as in the last months, since the escape from Nexal. Now there was no part of his body that did not ache, throb, or cry out from fatigue, hunger, or thirst.
He looked across the vast encampment. His own legionnaires, the hundred and fifty that still survived, spread in a ring around him. working at polishing and sharpening weapons, oiling tattered boots, or sewing plates of armor together where the desert heat had rotted worn straps.
Six of the men, led by young Captain Grimes, rode patrol in the desert They needed more scouts, but only fifteen horses remained to the legion-fifteen horses in all the True World-and the unfortunate steeds all were near total exhaustion.
So were the men, for that matter, he realized. Now his legionnaires the remnants of his once valiant force, fled alongside their former enemies, the Nexala. The greater enemy of the monstrous horde menaced both groups equally He realized with bitter irony that the gold of Nexal had also been lost There was no longer any reason to make war with the Mazticans.
One bright spot in the months of flight and disaster had been the loyalty of the Maztican warriors from the nation of Kultaka. when he had first entered that nation on his march inland Kultaka had resisted his legion furiously Following Cordell’s victory, however, the young Kultakan chief, Tokol, had become his most staunch ally Now some six thousand Kultaka warriors marched alongside the Nexalans and the legionnaires. The ancient rivalry-hatred, in reality-between Kultaka and Nexal had been temporarily subordinated to the pressing need to escape the monstrous horde that threatened them all.
Nearby Cordell saw Captain Daggrande, the doughty dwarven captain of the crossbow, tal
king with a small cluster of Maztican archers. Daggrande was one of three dozen dwarves to live through the Night of Wailing. Unlike most of his comrades Daggrande had learned to speak the Nexalan tongue.
For a moment, the general’s mind drifted as he thought of other men-Captain Garrant, Bishou Domincus, many faithful soldiers-who had met their ends in the dying city. He
thought of the mountainous trove of gold there, now buried beneath tons of rubble and guarded by tusked and taloned beasts. Once the loss of that gold had seemed the end of the world to him. Now it seemed but one more thread in the doom that still threatened him and his men.
Still, there remained the gold buried within the walls of Helmsport. This, the trove he had claimed from the conquest of Ulatos, had been left behind when the legion marched to Nexal. All of the men who knew the exact location of the treasure had accompanied him to Nexal; among the small garrison left at the port were none who knew where the gold was buried.
The general dismounted and walked over to Daggrande as the dwarven veteran looked up from his discussion of weaponry. Cordell winced inwardly at the look of guarded suspicion in his old comrade’s eyes. Even Daggrande loses faith in me!
“How can you speak that Helm-cursed tongue?” the commander asked, joking.
Daggrande ignored the humorous intent. “It only makes sense, since it seems as though we might have to spend the rest of our lives here.”
“Nonsense! We’ve got good men left. As soon as we get out of this desert, I see no reason why we won’t be able to reach the coast and make ourselves some ships.”
Daggrande grunted, and Cordell sensed blame in the sound. His own conscience growled at him daily. If only I had been satisfied with the gold we had already gained! Why did I march on Nexal? Now an expedition that had, at one point, owned a tenfold profit was reduced to struggling for escape for the fortunate survivors.
“We’re leaving today,” Daggrande said. He gestured across the camp, and Cordell saw that many of the Mazticans had already begun to trudge wearily from the valley heading southward in search of more food and water.
“So I heard. I don’t know why though. There’s still enough provisions here for a few days.”
“We march to follow a bird. That’s what these warriors tell me, anyway” Daggrande added. “It seems some eagle came to camp, and Halloran’s woman decided we all should follow it south.” His tone as he spoke of “Halloran’s woman” remained carefully neutral.
Cordell turned away, suddenly irritated with the dwarf. Daggrande started to pack up his weapons, preparing to march.
Among the warriors, Cordell saw Chical, proud chief of the Eagle Knights. Chical wore his cloak of black and white feathers and his wooden helmet with its curved-beak visor extending over his rugged face. The man had been a stalwart enemy, leading the attacks against Cordell’s legion during the struggle to escape Nexal, but then quickly realizing the greater threat when the world had come to pieces around them all.
Now Chical had become the accepted war chief of all the Nexalans, though there had never been any formal acknowledgment of such status. Cordell had found him to be a proud, brave warrior who understood perhaps better than any of his people that his world was never again going to be the same.
He looked across the valley, spotting Erixitl easily by the brightness of her cloak. She stood beside the trail as a wide column of Mazticans marched past. Beside her, tiny in the distance, he recognized Halloran.
How had that man reached inside these people the way he had? How, indeed, had Daggrande been able to understand and converse with them? The general felt a sharp jolt of envy for these soldiers, both of his legion but now his no longer. They might even be able to make a home hereTo Cordell, Maztica remained a great, faceless void. But where once it had been a space beckoning to adventure, promising reward, now it was a nightmare, threatening extinction, promising only constant flight and terror.
His reverie of self-pity suddenly broke as he sensed someone approaching behind him and saw the pudgy figure of Kardann, the Assessor of Amn, hurrying toward him. Appointed by the council of the merchant princes, the accountant had been an annoyance and a bother throughout the expedition. Now the mere sight of him aroused Cordell’s
ire. Why did the useless assessor live when so many good men had perished?
“Hello, general,” gasped the red-faced accountant, mopping his brow.
“Yes?” inquired Cordell coldly.
“I’ve been thinking,” began Kardann, speaking carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest and met the commander’s gaze. “Perhaps we can go back to Nexal. That gold can’t be too hard to find. And with this group as an army, we could surely drive those monsters away from there!”
“We?” Cordell asked angrily. He well knew that Kardann’s taste for battle grew in direct proportion to the distance between the accountant and the prospective combat. “I’ve had enough of your mad schemes, Kardann!” he snapped. “Look around you. Do these people look like an army? Even the warriors can think of nothing more than protecting their families!”
Kardann’s eyes glowered, but finally he turned and stalked away from the Captain-General. Cordell watched him go, feeling his own frustration rise again. Pushed by the circumstances of their surroundings, he saw no prospect other than flight. Yet this fact burned painfully inside of him. He didn’t like to yield to destiny.
Instead, Cordell liked to sweep fate before him.
From the chronicles of Coton:
In flight before the ranks of chaos.
The horse carries me like the wind across the face of the True World, but always the places I pass are realms of darkness, destruction, and despair. We fly along the road to Cordotl and pass the smoking ruins of that town.
Here the monsters of the Viperhand have erected a great edifice atop the pyramid, like a great skull image of Zaltec. They seek to raise their bloodthirsty god to new heights, but they do not understand that it was he who cast them down among the beasts. The folk of Cordotl are gone, either fled or given to the fanged jaws of the war god in sacrifice.
Now past ruined fields of mayz, the great flat valley between Cordotl and Palul that has been trampled into mud. Palul, too, lies in ruins, though again the pyramid has been raised to new heights and crowned with its grotesque image.
Here the horse carries me up the face of the ridge, crossing back and forth along a winding trail. We see none of the beasts of the Viperhand here, for they have been summoned back to Nexal by Hoxitl.
Finally the horse crests the ridge, and we pause before a small cottage. It is a place of holiness, I sense, and strong pluma.
The man who comes to the door to greet me is old; he is also blind.
4
WARNINGS IN THE SUN
The vast circle of gleaming silver lay quiet, still dark under the fringe of morning shadow, deep within the mountain’s central crater. The chiefs of the desert dwarves sat patiently atop the rim of the volcano, opposite the rising sun. Soon the miracle of the Sunstone would begin.
Luskag felt Pullog shift uneasily beside him, and the chief of Sunhome smiled to himself. The ritual of the Sunstone held risks to the faint of spirit, and Pullog had never before experienced the revelations of the gods through the great silver lake. Doubtless he had heard tales of men driven mad, of dwarves blinded by the searing truth of their visions.
Still, Luskag felt certain his fellow chief-in fact, all the chiefs of his clan, gathered here at his request-would face the Sunstone steadfastly. He wouldn’t have brought them to the mountaintop if it were otherwise. And Luskag understood that only if all the dwarves experienced the same revelation would cooperative action be possible.
The sun crept higher, and soon its rays washed over the western shore of the silver disk. As the minutes passed, the area of brightness grew. The bright metal gleamed with a transcendent purity, perfectly smooth. As large as a huge courtyard, the metal showed no trace of wrinkle or dip.
Then slowly the surfac
e of the lake moved, like liquid. With serene grace, the lake began to spin, as if a giant vortex compelled its slow, majestic wheel. The shimmering glow increased as the sun rose.
The vortex gathered momentum as the sun spread across its surface, until finally the rays seemed to focus in the very center. There every color became one in a magnified, mirrored display of the sun’s power.
A beam of hot light lanced into the desert dwarves atop the rim of the crater. For a long time, the squatting figures remained immobile, transfixed by brilliance.
Luskag stared into the white glow. For a time, he saw nothing, but then a creeping darkness came into view in the very center of the glow. Slowly it expanded, reaching outward with smoky tendrils that grew like the limbs of a spider stretching out from a black, venomous body.
Now Luskag stared at the expanding cloud, and he felt glimmerings of deep fear seize his soul. For the first time, he felt the true, awe-inspiring might of the Sunstone, and his fear quickly blossomed into stark terror.
The smoky limbs became solid tentacles, grasping upward, threatening to seize him and drag him down into darkness. Never before had the images of the Sunstone been so tangible, so ultimately terrifying. The dark tendrils twisted into a circle, and suddenly they framed a place in the vision-a place that he knew.
The City of the Gods! He saw the great pyramid rising from the sands, impossibly beautiful. Around it sprawled the other ruins, rows and rows of columns, massive portals with no buildings, and tall mounds of sand that betokened mysterious shapes beneath,
Like smoky limbs of pure, unadulterated devastation, the tentacles wrapped around the ruins in a doleful embrace. Luskag’s chest tightened in pain as he saw the blackness creep toward the pyramid, slowing masking its piercing beauty. At the center of that bright swirl of color, Luskag saw a brilliant flower of light, a blossom so heartbreakingly beautiful that it cried out for his protection.
Feathered Dragon mt-3 Page 5
