Howling Delve

by Jaleigh Johnson

  He’d never known Dhairr, not truly, Kall admitted. As a boy, he’d craved the man’s attention, but eventually he’d accepted the fact that Dhairr was content only when building his jewel empire and plotting against invisible assassins. Kall knew nothing about the man’s past or how he’d met Kall’s mother, Alytia.

  He had to believe there was more to what he felt than a sense of neglect. His and Chadossa’s stories were common enough among the merchant families. There were certainly worse fates than being born to an uncaring father.

  Kall thought of Aazen, and wondered if his friend truly had managed to escape his father, or if he was still trapped in Balram’s unyielding grip.

  Wingbeats sounded behind Kall, and the scrape of talons on stone as a hawk landed in the open window. A moment later, Cesira stood beside him. Her familiar presence bolstered him.

  What is he doing? Cesira asked, nodding at Dantane.

  “Either divining the secrets of an ancient magic or preparing to blow the tower apart,” Kall answered, as the light brightened to a blinding intensity.

  Cesira’s eyes narrowed. What is the second magic originating from?

  “The second—what?” Kall swung toward her sharply.

  Cesira pointed, but Kall saw it—the second blue glow reflected in her eyes. Twin rectangles of light outlined Dantane’s cupboard on the far side of the tower.

  “Dantane!” Kall shouted. He started forward, but Cesira grabbed his arm.

  Do not, she said. You could injure him.

  The point quickly became moot as the light from the circle soared upward in one explosive beam, trailing shattered symbols and throwing Dantane flat on his back. The wizard stared vacantly at the tower’s ceiling as the wild magic ripped it apart. Support beams and planks flew into the empty sky. At the same time, the glow from the cupboard burst from its confines, blowing the cupboard doors off their hinges.

  In a darkness lit only by columns of ancient, glowing stone, the fire beast stirred, awakened by the brutal release of power. It came from within the Delve and without at the same time, strong enough to awaken him from his forced sleep.

  The beast sensed he had slumbered a long time, dreaming strange dreams of dark chambers filled with whispering mortals. They lived and scurried about like rats above his head, rats ripe for hunting.

  In the beast’s dream, his fire and claws were gone. He was a one-eyed wizard surrounded by bright power. He’d used the human form, and wielded magic he’d never known before to strike at someone—a woman. Where had she come from? She was a threat. She’d come too close to his secret. The beast had tried to eliminate her, but he interfered—the wizard.

  Now that the beast was awake, he started to remember. Rage burned tracks of fire in the stone beneath his feet. He remembered the one-eyed wizard who had maimed him. Was it his power that had awakened him? Had the fool undone his own spell? No—it was the dwarves. The magic clearly had their mark upon it.

  The realization brought the beast fully awake. He stood, muscles flexing, and filled the narrow chamber to its ceiling. The ancient columns reacted slowly—too slowly—and the creature remembered that the columns were not columns at all. The dwarves were still here, silent watchers hoping to keep him contained by the will of their pathetic god.

  Not anymore, the beast thought. He let out a satisfied howl that shook the stone foundations. He dived at the nearest dwarf and bit it in half, his massive jaws tearing its spectral limbs.

  He remembered the taste of dwarf flesh, the sound of dwarf screams as he ate each one alive. He found the sound as pleasing now as he remembered. The wailing of the pitiful soul was lost, and the beast turned to face its comrades.

  He was free, and soon he would have living prey to hunt. He had the tools; all he needed was the opportunity.

  Kall tackled Cesira, pressing her beneath him as wood and stone rained down around them. He gritted his teeth as splinters embedded themselves in the flesh beneath his collarbone.

  He looked out of the bare hole where the ceiling had been. Debris struck the earth at least ten feet out from the tower in a destructive ring, slicing through the Morel colors flying on the opposite tower.

  Kall looked across at Dantane but couldn’t tell if the wizard still breathed. Kall started to rise but fell back again as the light from the cupboard shot across the room, seeking release in what was left of the confined space. It struck the tower wall but did no discernible damage. Kall gave silent thanks. If the light had punctured the wall, the resulting explosion would have caved in their skulls and buried them in stone. Instead, the beam thickened and began to take shape—a humanoid shape, to Kall’s eyes. He could make out little else in the dust-choked room.

  Cesira raised a hand and clasped his shoulder. Dantane, she said, and Kall nodded, keeping his eyes on the shape.

  Kneeling beside the wizard, the druid probed his wounds with careful fingers. At her touch, Dantane blinked his eyes open, focusing on her blearily. He seemed beyond speech.

  Kall positioned himself in front of the pair as a dwarf figure stepped out of the dust and into the sunlight that now poured through the roofless tower. He was half Kall’s height but easily his equal in girth and stride-length. The dwarf carried a broken battle-axe and a visage completely devoid of expression. His body passed through furniture and debris as easily as if he walked through dust. His boots made no sound, and left no footprints on the stone.

  “Greetings, Kall.”

  Kall startled so badly at the sound of the voice he nearly dropped his blade. The ghost’s lips formed the greeting, but the voice that came from the dwarf’s throat was not the deep grating of the mountain folk, not at all like Garavin’s steady rumble.

  The voice was female.

  The voice was Meisha’s.

  Kall turned, daring to take his eyes off the spirit to look at the cupboard. Cesira followed his gaze, and her eyes widened.

  The magical light had incinerated his mother’s pouch. It had also consumed any mundane items the pouch might have contained. All that remained was Alytia’s silver Harper badge, standing up on end. The light emanating from it shone straight out to the dwarf’s form like a banner in a high breeze.

  Kall looked back at the specter. “Meisha?” he asked. He couldn’t believe it. “What is this?”

  There was a long pause, but just as Kall started to ask another question, the dwarf spoke again. “I don’t have long, and I can’t answer the questions crowding your tongue, so listen well to what I can tell you.

  “I need your aid, Kall,” the ghost continued with Meisha’s voice. “I’m trapped in the Howling Delve with a group of Esmeltaran refugees. They escaped the siege, the same one that drove your father out of the city those years ago.

  “The Delve is a stronghold long inhabited by my master, Varan Ivshar. Its location is underground roughly twenty miles southwest of Keczulla, but that information will do you little good. The entrance to the Delve has been hidden and sealed magically, by agents of the Shadow Thieves.”

  Cesira caught her breath in surprise, and Kall muttered a curse.

  “The only way in or out now is a portal used by the Shadow Thieves, a portal that leads to somewhere within Amn. I’m asking you to find the door in, if you can, and come to get me. The Shadow Thieves are after magical items. There’s a warehouse worth stored in the Delve, and they’re putting considerable manpower behind removing and selling them on the black market.”

  The message paused. “There’s something else down here, a beast of fire. I haven’t seen it, except in nightmares, but my friend the ghost says it’s worse than the Shadow Thieves. I think … I think it might have done something to Varan, as well—changed him. I can’t be sure.

  “The only thing I can tell you about the portal is that the dwarves probably used it when they were still alive. Varan’s markings aren’t on it. The dwarves used the Delve as a stronghold, so they must have had the portal connect to a major city, a place to sell what treasure they collected. Kecz
ulla is closest, but it could just as easily be Athkatla or Murann, gods forbid.” There was another short pause. “If you receive this message, come soon, Kall. I need eyes, and blades, and whatever else you’ve got. It’s not just the Shadow Thieves, old friend. When the Shadow Thieves come, Balram and his son come with them.”

  The dwarf fell silent. Kall took an unsteady breath. Indeed a thousand questions swirled in his thoughts, but he forced his lungs to work instead. He addressed the messenger. “Can you speak? ”

  The ghost seemed to focus on him for the first time, but he said nothing.

  “Who are you?” Kall asked.

  The ghost lowered his battle-axe. Kall got a good look at his hands and realized the dwarf had lost parts of multiple fingers. They flexed against the wooden handle.

  “I have given my warning,” the dwarf said simply. “By Dumathoin’s command.”

  “Wait!” Kall cried, but the ghost had already gone. With him went the brilliant light, and as the clouds of swirling dust began to settle, the full extent of the damage to the tower was revealed.

  The ceiling was obliterated. Boards and blocks of broken stone littered the floor. Most of Dantane’s equipment was destroyed.

  Cesira had her hands over a deep wound in the wizard’s throat. She murmured a prayer, and soft, yellow light spooled from her fingers. The physical manifestation of the spell covered Dantane’s bloody gash, closing and mending the tender flesh.

  “Is he going to live?” asked Kall, when she’d finished.

  A dry wheeze answered him as Dantane spat a clump of dirt and blood on the stones. He coughed again, and Kall realized the wizard was laughing. The humor looked ghastly on his bloodstained lips.

  “This house … is a tragedy—a treasure. You are cursed, Morel.” Dantane hacked more blood, shuddered, and began to breathe normally. “I’ve explored Netherese ruins and never encountered such a clash of the Art. Mystra in her humor leads me to power in the most magic-barren country in Faerûn. I shall never doubt the Lady again.”

  Cesira helped Dantane to a sitting position. It appears you’ve given him an epiphany, my lord, she said.

  “Wonderful,” said Kall. “I’m delighted someone’s enjoying this.”

  Do you think it’s genuine? Cesira asked.

  “The message? Yes. And if Balram’s involved …”

  “So you’ll be going after her?”

  These last words were from Dantane. Kall looked at the wizard, at his torn robes, and the shambles of the room. “Why should that concern you?” he asked. “I would have thought you’d be lamenting the loss of your workshop and demanding restitution from me.”

  “Oh, I’ll get to that,” Dantane assured him. “But if you’re going into the Delve, I’m coming with you.” Before Kall could protest, he said, “Consider that the beginning of your restitution.”

  “Why?” Kall wanted to know. “Is it just for the power you smell, Dantane? Pity you didn’t learn a lesson just now, when it nearly killed you.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to judge me, Morel. Kindly refrain.” Dantane wiped the blood from his mouth, but his gaze never left Kall’s. “The magic tempts me greatly. I don’t deny what I am, the power I want. But there’s something else—and this will interest you both.” He sifted through the rubble until he uncovered his ruined magic circle. “The incoming message disrupted my spell, so I could not identify young Chadossa’s magic item, but it hardly matters anymore. The Art is identical. The spells came from the same source. They collided and became wild magic. If you find your sorcerous friend, you’ll find the cause of Chadossa’s death.”

  “The Shadow Thieves,” said Kall. “Balram.” And Aazen.

  Kall remembered his friend’s words as Aazen watched the lute player sing his last song. Can you believe I may have found other companions? Kall never dreamed Aazen would number the Shadow Thieves among his friends.

  “Now we know the reason the Chadossas didn’t pursue a murder investigation,” said Dantane. “The family has been dealing in dangerous magics through the Shadow Thieves. Chadossa can’t have that information known to the general public. For myself, I want to find the source of the power I felt, and I would be more than willing to help you take it from the Shadow Thieves.”

  Kall wondered in whose hands the magic would do the most damage. “Do you have contacts in the city? Wizards?”

  When Dantane hesitated, Kall snapped, “Speak. You want power—come to the Delve and take all you want. If your speech about ancient magic is true, that should be more than fair compensation for risking your friends’ identities. I’m no threat to them, especially not after this explosion, which was likely witnessed by half of the Gold Ward. The merchant families will have taken my head long before they get around to your friends.”

  Dantane didn’t disagree. “You’ll let me choose my reward—for myself and my contact, should he agree to aid us?”

  “If Meisha allows, so do I, just set up the meeting. Find someone who knows about this portal.”

  Dantane nodded and left them. Kall waited for the echo of his footsteps to fade before rounding on Cesira. “You’re staying silent in this?”

  No, said the druid, surprised. What’s angering you, Kall? Surely not the loss of a tower or Dantane’s greed?

  Kall shook his head. “I sent her,” he said, “to her master. I sent her right into Balram’s hands.”

  Meisha is more than capable of seeing to herself, and this is larger than Balram, said Cesira. You heard Dantane. There are forces at work neither you nor Meisha could have predicted.

  “It was the same with Haig, my father, and Aazen,” said Kall, as if he had not heard her. “I couldn’t save them. Now Meisha may die. And Aazen …”

  You believe he’s involved? Cesira asked.

  “Yes, and I’m afraid I’ll be forced to put a blade through my best friend to accomplish what I must.” Kall had prayed, nightly, that it would not come to that. He prayed Aazen had escaped, or if he hadn’t, that he would let Kall save him from his father’s shadow. Merciful gods, shouldn’t Kall be allowed to save at least one of those closest to him?

  An image of Meisha flashed before his mind, drawing his deliberations to a close. “Dantane will find the portal,” he said.

  Yes. Cesira nodded.

  “Setting up the meeting will take time.”

  Time enough to send a message of your own? Cesira asked, crooking an eyebrow.

  Kall nodded. She knew what he was thinking. She nearly always did. “I want to know more about this Howling Delve.” And if they were going underground, who better to aid them than a digger?

  He cupped the sword’s emerald between his palms and called out in his mind. His voice traveled across miles and mountains, to reverberate with the sword’s sister stone. The gem graced a new weapon, a weapon that was not of Morel house, and yet the owner was no less than family to Kall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Earthvault

  5 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  Garavin Fallstone strode back and forth on a patch of empty air before a large expanse of cavern wall. He held up a taper that had burned down to threaten his thumb and had coated his arm in a waxy cast. He noticed neither circumstance, and continued to read the historical record etched deep into the stone.

  The runes were inscribed with the same care and precision taken by a Candlekeep scribe, and Garavin should know. He’d been such a one, though it seemed like a lifetime ago: a scribe, a digger—Deepwarden for his clan. Garavin had worn many mantles, but all of them felt at home in the Earthvault.

  The cone-shaped cavern rested far beneath the Marching Mountains. Mages of Shanatar, the ancient kingdom of the shield dwarves, had created it centuries ago. The vault was, to Garavin’s mind, the most impressive archive to be found outside Candlekeep’s doors. From the lowest point, where only worms burrowed, to the highest ridge, the history of the shield dwarves and their great realm unfolded for any of dwarf blood—an
d only those—to read.

  Far below Garavin’s boots, a tawny mastiff with stiff joints slept on the cavern floor, next to an account of the beginning of the shield dwarves’ shattering war with the duergar. Garavin’s satchel and maul rested against Borl’s haunches, but the mastiff didn’t notice when the emerald in the weapon’s handle began to glow. Only when the stone hummed with gathering power did the dog stir and leap to its feet, and that was more the fault of the huge elemental being that appeared out of the air.

  The powerful earth dao, keeper of Earthvault lore, spoke in the Dwarvish tongue.

  “What magic do you bring, Garavin Fallstone, once son of Sorn? You disturb the stones.”

  “My apologies, Diuthaizos,” Garavin said, bowing respectfully as he floated to the floor. “The Art will do no harm. I will take it above, so as not to offend.”

  Nodding regally, the dao floated away, but kept one wary eye on the dwarf and his companion.

  Garavin sighed and picked up the glowing green maul. “Well, this trip is looking to be shorter than expected.” He touched the emerald with a crooked finger. “Wonder what the boy wants now, eh?” But he smiled as he said it.

  The meager apartment had thick walls. That was the only quality Aazen could recommend about the place. Situated above the vacant storefront of Eromar’s Tailoring, the pair of rooms had frigid floors in the winter and rats scuffling in the walls in the summer. Aazen’s music drowned them out, yet did not carry to the street. He had a cot in the corner with a blanket and a sheet, a chest of drawers, and a washbasin. He had few personal effects to store, save his violin, so the tiny space suited him well.

  At peace, lost in his music, Aazen fumbled the bow in a discordant screech when the Cowled Wizard came up the stairs.

  Jubair Ardoll looked far too nervous to be a proper wizard, but perhaps it was the secretive nature of his organization that bred the look of rabbit-wariness in his eyes. He wore a large black pearl earring in his left ear and was bald but for two unattractive strips of shorn hair arching over both ears. Most folk assumed he was a former Nelanther pirate. Dressed as a pirate, obviously he must be so. Amnians were not much on imagination unless it earned them coin. They had as little notion of his real occupation as his fellow wizards. Dressed as a wizard, obviously he must be so and nothing more—certainly not an agent of the Shadow Thieves.