[The Cleric Quintet 01] - Canticle

by R. A. Salvatore

  Newander recognized these creatures as su-monsters, but he had no direct knowledge of them and had never encountered them before. It was widely agreed that they were vicious and bloodthirsty, but the druids had taken no formal stance concerning them. Wire they an intelligent, evil group, or just a superbly adapted predator, feared because of their prowess? Animal or monster?

  To many, the distinction would mean nothing, but to a druid, that question concerned the very tenets of his or her religion. If the su-monsters were animal, then terms such as "evil" did not apply to them and Newander could play no role in aiding the pitiful eagle. Watching their eager climb, saliva dripping from their toothy maws, Newander knew that he must do something. He called out a few of the more common natural warning cries, and the su-monsters stopped suddenly and looked at him, apparently noticing him for the first time. They hooted and spat and waved their claws threateningly, then resumed their climb.

  Newander called out again. The su-monsters ignored him.

  "Guide me, Silvanus," Newander begged, closing his eyes. He knew that the greatest druids of his order had held council about these rare but nightmarish creatures, and that they had come to no definite conclusions. Thus, the common practice among the order, though no edict had been issued, was to interfere with su-monsters only if threatened directly.

  In his heart, though, Newander knew that the scene before him was unnatural.

  He called again to Silvanus, the Oak Father, and, to his utter amazement, he believed that he was answered. He looked to the nearest thunderhead, gauging the distance, then back to the su-monsters.

  "Halt!" Newander cried out. "Go no farther!"

  The su-monsters turned at once, startled perhaps by the urgency, the power, in the druid's voice. One found a loose stone and heaved it Newander's way, but the ravine was wide as well as deep and the missile fell harmlessly.

  "I warn you again," the druid cried, sincerely desiring no battle. "I have no fight with you, but you'll not get to the aerie."

  The monsters spat again and clawed ferociously at the empty air.

  "Be gone from here!" Newander cried. Their reply came in the form of spittle and they turned and started up again.

  Newander had seen enough; the su-monsters were too close to the aerie for him to waste any more time screaming warnings. He closed his eyes, clutched the oak leaf holy symbol hanging on a leather cord about his neck, and called out to the thunderstorm.

  The su-monsters paid him no heed, intent on the egg-filled nest just a few dozen yards above them.

  Druids considered themselves the guardians of nature and the natural order. Unlike wizards and priests of many other sects, druids accepted that they were the watchdogs of the world and that the powers they brought were more a call for help to nature than any manifestation of their own internal power. So it was as Newander called again to the heavy black cloud, directing its fury.

  The thunderstroke shook the mountains for many miles around, sent the surprised eagle spinning away blindly, and nearly knocked Newander from his feet. When his sight returned, the druid saw that the cliff face was clear, the aerie was safe. The su-monsters were nowhere to be seen, and the only evidence that they had ever been there was a long scorch mark, a dripping crimson stain along the mountain wall, and a small tuft of fur, a severed tail perhaps, burning on a shallow ledge.

  The eagle flew to its nest, squawked happily, and soared down to thank the druid.

  "You are very welcome," the druid assured the bird. In conversing with the eagle, he felt much better about his own destructive actions. Like most druids, Newander was a gentle sort, and he was always uncomfortable when called to battle. The fact that the cloud had answered his summons, a calling power that he believed came from Silvanus, also gave him confidence that he had acted correctly, that the su-monsters were indeed monsters and no natural predators.

  Newander interpreted the next series of the eagle's caws as an invitation to join the bird at its aerie. The druid would have loved that, but the cliff across the way was too formidable a barrier with night fast approaching.

  "Another day," he replied.

  The eagle cackled a few more thanks, then, explaining that many preparations were still needed for the coming brood, bade the druid farewell and soared off. Newander watched the bird fly away with sincere lament. He wished that he was more skilled at his religion; druids of higher rank, including both Arcite and Cleo, could actually assume the form of animals. If Newander were as skilled as either of them, he could simply shed his light robes and transform himself into an eagle, joining his new friend on the high, shallow ledge. Even more enticing, as an eagle Newander could explore these majestic mountains from a much improved viewpoint, with the wind breaking over his wings and eyes sharp enough to sort out the movements of a field mouse from a mile up.

  He shook his head and shook away, too, his laments for what could not be. It was a beautiful day, with a cleansing shower close at hand, full of new-blossoming flowers, chattering birds, fresh air on a chill breeze, and clear and cold mountain spring water around every bend―all the things that the druid loved best.

  He stripped off his robes and put them under a thick bush, then sat cross-legged out on a high and open perch, awaiting the rain. It came in a torrential downpour, and Newander considered its patter on the stones the sweetest of nature's many songs.

  The storm broke in time for a wondrous sunset, scarlet fading to pink, and filling every break in the towering mountain peaks to the west.

  "I fear that I am late in returning," Newander said to himself. He gave a resigned shrug and could not prevent a boyish grin from spreading over his face. "The library will still be there on the morrow," he rationalized as he retrieved his robes, found a comfortable spot, and settled in for the night.

  * * * * *

  Barjin hung the brazier pot in place on the tripod and put in the special mixture of wood chips and incense blocks. He did not light the brazier at this time, though, uncertain of how long it would take him to find a proper catalyst for the chaos curse. Denizens of lower planes could be powerful allies, but they were usually a wearisome lot, demanding more of their summoner's time and energy than Barjin now had to give.

  Similarly, Barjin kept his necromancer's stone tightly wrapped in the shielding cloth. As with lower-plane creatures, some types of undead could prove difficult to control, and, like the gate created by the enchanted brazier, the necromancer's stone could summon an assortment of monsters, anything from the lowliest, unthinking skeletons and zombies to cunning ghosts.

  Still, for all his glyphs and wards, Barjin felt insecure about leaving the altar room, and the precious bottle, with nothing more intelligent and powerful than Mullivy to stand guard. He needed an ally, and he knew where to find it.

  "Khalif," the evil priest muttered, retrieving the ceramic flask. He had carried it for years, even before his days in Vaasa and before he had turned to Talona. He had found the ash urn among some ancient ruins while working as an apprentice to a now dead wizard. Barjin, by the terms of his apprenticeship, was not supposed to claim any discoveries as his own, but then, Barjin had never played by any rules but his own. He had kept the ceramic urn, filled with the ashes of Prince Khalif, a noble of some ancient civilization according to the accompanying parchment, private and safe through many years.

  Barjin hadn't fully come to appreciate the potential value of such a find until after he began his training in clerical magic. Now he understood what he could do with the ashes; all he needed was a proper receptacle.

  He led Mullivy out into the passageway beyond the altar room's door, a wide corridor lined with alcoves, burial vaults of the highest-ranking founders of the Edificant Library. Unlike the other vaults Barjin had seen down here, these were not open chairs, but elaborately designed caskets, sarcophagi, gem-studded and extravagant. Barjin could only hope, as he instructed Mullivy to open the closest sarcophagus, that the early scholars had spared no expenses on the contents within the cask
et as well, that they had used some embalming techniques.

  Mullivy, for all his strength, could not begin to open the first sarcophagus, its lock and hinges rusted fast. The zombie had better luck with the second, for its cover simply fell away under Mullivy's heavy tug. As soon as the door opened, a long tentacle shot out at Mullivy, followed by a second and a third. They did no real damage, but Barjin was glad that the zombie, and not he, had opened the lid.

  Inside was a carrion crawler, a monstrous wormlike beast with eight tentacles tipped with paralyzing poison. Undead Mullivy could not be affected by such an attack and, beyond the tentacles, the carrion crawler was virtually defenseless.

  "Kill it!" Barjin instructed. Mullivy waded in fearlessly, pounding away with his one good arm. The carrion crawler was no more than a lifeless lump at the bottom of the casket when Mullivy at last backed away.

  "This one will not do," Barjin mumbled, inspecting the empty husk inside the sarcophagus. There was no dismay in his voice, though, for the body, ruined by the carrion crawler, had been carefully wrapped in thick linen, a sure sign that the ancient scholars had used some embalming techniques. Barjin also found a small hole at the back of the sarcophagus, and he correctly assumed that the carrion crawler had come in there, gorged itself for months, perhaps even years, on the full corpse, then had grown too large to crawl back out.

  Barjin pulled Mullivy along eagerly, seeking another sarcophagus, one with no obvious external holes. The third time paid for all, as the saying goes, for, with help from the Screaming Maiden, Barjin and Mullivy were able to break through the locks of the next casket. Inside, wrapped in linen, lay a well-preserved corpse, the receptacle that Barjin needed.

  Barjin instructed Mullivy to carry the corpse gently into the altar room―he did not want to touch the scabrous thing himself―then to rearrange the sarcophagi so that this one's would be closest to the altar room door.

  Barjin shut the door behind his zombie, not wanting to be distracted by the noises outside. He took out his clerical spellbook, turned to the section on necromantic practices, and took out his necromancer's stone, thinking its summoning powers to be helpful in calling back the spirit of Prince Khalif.

  The priest's chanting went on for more than an hour, and all the while he dropped pinches of the ash onto the wrapped corpse. When the ceramic urn was emptied, the priest broke it apart, rubbing it clean on the receptacle body's linen. Khalif's spirit had been contained in the whole of the ash; the absence of the slightest motes could prove disastrous.

  Barjin became distracted by the necromancer's stone, for it began to glow with an eerie, purple-black light. The priest snapped his gaze back to the mummy, his attention caught by the sudden red glow as two dots of light appeared behind the linen wrappings that covered the corpse's eyes. Barjin covered his hand in clean cloth and carefully pulled away the linen.

  He fell back with a start. The mummy rose before him.

  It looked upon the priest with utter hatred, its eyes burning as bright red dots. Barjin knew that mummies, like most monsters of the netherworld, hated all living things, and Barjin, for the moment anyway, was a living thing.

  "Back, Khalif!" Barjin commanded as forcefully as he could manage. The mummy took another stiff-legged step forward.

  "Back, I say!" Barjin snarled, replacing his fear with determined anger. "It was I who retrieved your spirit, and here in my service you shall stay until I, Barjin, release you to your eternal rest!"

  He thought his words pitifully inept, but the mummy responded, sliding back to its original position.

  "Turn away!" Barjin cried, and the mummy did.

  A smile spread wide over the evil priest's face. He had dealt with denizens of the lower planes many times before and had animated simple undead monsters, like Mullivy, but this was a new and higher step for him. He had called to a powerful spirit, torn it from the grave and forced it under his control.

  Barjin moved back to the door. "Come in, Mullivy," he ordered in a mirthful tone. "Come and meet your new brother."

  Catalyst

  Pikel just shook his hairy head and continued stirring the cauldron's contents with his huge wooden spoon as Cadderly considered Ivan's grim news. "Can you finish the crossbow?" Cadderly asked. "I can," Ivan replied, "but me thinkin's that you should be more worried about yer own fate, boy. The head-mistress was not smiling much when she found her tapestry in my kitchen―not smiling a bit when she saw that Pikel had spilled gravy on one corner."

  Cadderly flinched at that remark. Headmistress Pertelope was a tolerant woman, especially of Cadderly and his inventions, but she prized her art collection above all else. The tapestry depicting the elven war was one of her favorites.

  "I am sorry if I have caused you two any problems," Cadderly said sincerely, though the honest lament did not stop him from dipping his fingers into a bowl that Ivan had recently used for cake baking. "I did not believe . . "

  Ivan waved his concerns away. "Not a problem," the dwarf grunted. "We just blamed everything on yerself."

  "Just finish the crossbow," Cadderly instructed with a halfhearted chuckle. "I will go to Headmistress Pertelope and set things right."

  "Perhaps Headmistress Pertelope will come to you," came a woman's voice from the kitchen's doorway, behind Cadderly. The young scholar turned slowly and winced even more when he saw that Headmaster Avery stood beside Pertelope.

  "So you have elevated your mischief to theft," Avery remarked. "I fear that your time in the library may be drawing to an end, Brother Cadderly, though that unfortunate conclusion was not altogether unexpected, given your heri..."

  "You must be given the opportunity to explain," Pertelope interrupted, flashing a sudden dark glare Avery's way. "I am not pleased, whatever excuse you might offer."

  "I had ..." Cadderly stuttered. "I meant to ..."

  "Enough!" Avery commanded, glowering at both Cadderly and the headmistress. "You may explain about Headmistress Pertelope's tapestry later," he said to Cadderly. "First, do tell me why are you here. Have you no work to do? I thought that I had given you enough to keep you busy, but if I thought wrong, I can surely correct the situation!"

  "I am busy," Cadderly insisted. "I only wanted to check on the kitchen, to make certain that I had not missed anything in my cleaning." As soon as Cadderly glanced around, he realized how ludicrous his claim sounded. Ivan and Pikel never kept an overly neat shop. Half the floor was covered with spilled flour, the other half with assorted herbs and sauces. Fungus-lined bowls, some empty and some half full of last week's meals―some from meals even older than that―sat on every available space, counter, or table.

  Avery's brow crinkled as he recognized the lie for what it was. "Do make certain that the task was done correctly, Brother Cadderly," the headmaster crooned with dripping sarcasm. "Then you may join Brother Rufo in his inventory of the wine cellar. You will be informed of how Dean Thobicus will proceed concerning your greater transgression." Avery turned and stalked away, but Pertelope did not immediately follow.

  "I know that you meant to return the tapestry," the stately older woman said. "Might I know why you saw the need to appropriate it at all? You might have asked."

  "We only needed it for a few days," Cadderly replied. He looked to Ivan and indicated the drawer, and the dwarf reached into it and produced the nearly completed crossbow. "For this."

  Pertelope's hazel eyes sparkled at the sight. She moved across the room and tentatively took the small weapon from the dwarf. "Exquisite," she muttered, truly awed by the reproduction.

  "My thanks," Ivan replied proudly.

  "Oo oi!" Pikel added in a triumphant tone.

  "I would have shown it to you," Cadderly explained, "but I thought the surprise would prove more pleasurable when it was completed."

  Pertelope smiled warmly at Cadderly. "Can you complete it without the tapestry?"

  Cadderly nodded.

  "I will want to see it then, when it is done," said the headmistress, suddenly busines
slike. "You should have asked for the tapestry," she scolded, then she glanced around and added under her breath, "Do not fear too much for Headmaster Avery. He is excitable, but he forgets quickly. He likes you, whatever his bluster. Go, now, to your duties."

  * * * * *

  Barjin crept from cask to cask, studying the angular man at work sorting wine bottles. The evil priest had suspected that his victim, the catalyst for the chaos curse, would come from the cellar, but he was no less delighted when he found this man unexpectedly at work here on his very first trip up the rickety stairway. The door to the lower dungeons was cleverly concealed―no doubt by the thirsty groundskeeper―in a thickly packed and remote corner of the huge chamber. The portal probably had been long forgotten by the priests of the library, allowing Barjin easy and secret access.

  Barjin's delight diminished considerably when he worked his way far enough around the room to cast some detection spells on the man. The same spells had been ambiguous on the groundskeeper―Barjin had not known for certain whether the old wretch would suffice until the warding glyphs had blown him back from the bottle, but the spells were not so ambiguous concerning Kierkan Rufo. This man was not possessed of innocence and would have no more luck with the magic bottle than did the groundskeeper.

  "Hypocrite," Barjin grumbled silently. He rested back in the shadows and wondered how he might still find some use for the angular man. Certainly visitors to the wine cellar were not commonplace and Barjin could not allow anyone to pass through without extracting some benefit.

  He was still contemplating things when a second priest unexpectedly came skipping down the stairwell. Barjin watched curiously as this smiling young man, hair bouncing about his shoulders under a wide-brimmed hat, moved to confer with the angular worker. Barjin's detection spells had not yet expired and when he focused on this newest arrival, his curiosity turned to delight.