[The Cleric Quintet 01] - Canticle

by R. A. Salvatore

  Newander nodded gravely and put his hand back into his pouch.

  Cadderly moved swiftly to the door, paused, and looked back at the druid. He didn't feel comfortable leaving Danica, even with Newander, whom he trusted despite the druid's self-doubts. Cadderly dismissed his protective urges. If he really wanted to help Danica, to help everyone in the library, he would have to find out what was going on, find the source of the infection that had apparently come over the place, and not merely bandage its symptoms. It was up to him, he decided. He nodded to Newander and headed for his room.

  Cryptic

  The tunnel was fiery and swirling, but not so long for the imp. These were summoning flames and did not burn a creature of Druzil's otherworldly constitution. Barjin had opened his interplanar gate, exactly as Dorigen had predicted, and Druzil was quick to rush to the cleric's call.

  A puff of red smoke―Druzil dropping the powder to effectively shut the gate behind him―signaled Barjin that his first summoned ally had arrived. He stared deeply into the brazier's orange flames at the grotesque face taking definite form. A batlike wing extended from the side of the brazier, then another, and a moment later Druzil hopped through. "Who has dared to call me?" the imp snorted, playing the part of an unwitting lower-planar creature caught by Barjin's magical call.

  "An imp?" the priest retorted derisively. "I have extended all my efforts for the sake of summoning a mere imp?" Druzil folded his wings around him and snarled, not appreciating Barjin's tone.

  If Barjin exhibited sarcastic disdain, Druzil knew that that, too, was part of the summoning game. As with the summoned creature, if the summoner accepted the situation without grumbles, he would be giving a definite advantage to his counterpart. Sorcery, the magic of conjuring creatures from other planes, was a contest of wills, where perceived strength was often more important than actual strength.

  Druzil knew that the priest was thrilled that his first call had been answered at all, and an imp, resourceful and clever, was no small catch. But Barjin had to seem disappointed, had to make Druzil believe he was capable of calling and controlling much larger and stronger denizens.

  Druzil didn't appear impressed. "I may go?" he replied as he turned back to the brazier.

  "Hold!" Barjin shouted at him. "Do not assume anything, I warn you. I have not dismissed you, nor shall I for many days to come. What is your name?"

  "Cueltar qui tellemar gwi," Druzil replied.

  "Lackey of the stupid one?" Barjin translated, laughing, though he did not fully understand the connotations of Druzil's words. "Surely you can concoct a better title than that for yourself!"

  Druzil rocked back on his clawed feet, hardly believing that Barjin could understand the common language of the lower planes. This priest was full of surprises.

  "Druzil," the imp replied suddenly, though he didn't quite understand why he had revealed his true name. Barjin's quiet chuckle told him that the priest might have mentally compelled such a truthful response.

  Yes, Druzil thought again, this priest was full of surprises.

  "Druzil," Barjin muttered, as though he had heard the name before, a fact that did not please the imp. "Welcome, Druzil," Barjin said sincerely, "and be glad that I have called you to my side. You are a creature of chaos, and you will not be disappointed by what you witness in your short stay here."

  "I have seen the Abyss," Druzil reminded him. "You cannot imagine the wonders there."

  Barjin conceded the point with a nod. No matter how completely the Most Fatal Horror engulfed the priests of the Edificant Library, it could not, of course, rival the unending hellish chaos of the Abyss.

  "We are in the dungeons of a bastion dedicated to order and goodness," Barjin explained.

  Druzil crinkled his bulbous nose sourly, acting as though Barjin had revealed something he did not already know.

  "That is about to change," Barjin assured him. "A curse has befallen this place, one that will bring the goodly priests to their knees. Even an imp who has witnessed the Abyss should enjoy that spectacle."

  The glimmer in Druzil's black eyes was genuine. This was the whole purpose in giving Aballister the recipe for the chaos curse. Aballister had expressed concerns, even distress over Barjin's choice of target and Barjin's apparent successes, but Druzil was not Aballister's stooge. If Barjin could indeed take down the Edificant Library, then Druzil would be much closer to realizing his hopes of throwing an entire region of the Realms into absolute disarray.

  He looked around at the altar room, impressed by Barjin's work, particularly by the setup around the precious bottle. His gaze then went to the door, and he was truly amazed.

  There stood Barjin's newest bodyguard, wrapped head to toe in graying linen. Some of the cloth had slipped, revealing part of the mummy's face, dried and hollowed skin on bone with several lesions where the skilled preservation techniques had not held up to the test of centuries.

  "Do you like him?" Barjin asked.

  Druzil did not know how to respond. A mummy! Mummies were among the most powerful of the undead, strong and disease ridden, hateful of all living things and nearly invulnerable to most attacks. Few could animate such a monster; fewer still would dare to, fearing that they could not begin to keep the monster under control.

  "The priests and scholars above soon will be helpless, lost in their own confusion," Barjin explained, "then they will meet my army. Look at him, my new friend, Druzil," the priest said triumphantly, moving over to Khalif. He started to drape an arm over the scabrous thing, then apparently reconsidered the act and prudently pulled back. "Is he not beautiful? He does love me so." To illustrate his power, Barjin turned to the mummy and commanded, "Khalif, kneel!"

  The monster stiffly dropped to its knees.

  "There are other preserved corpses that offer similar promise," Barjin bluffed. He had no other ashes, and any attempts to animate a mummified corpse without such aid would prove futile or produce nothing more powerful than a simple zombie.

  Druzil's growing admiration for Barjin did not diminish when the priest led him out on a tour of the catacombs. Cunning, explosive glyphs, both fiery and electrical, had been placed at strategic positions, and a virtual army of animated skeletons sat patiently in their open tombs, awaiting Barjin's commands or the predetermined conditions for action the priest had set upon them.

  Druzil did not need to be reminded that all of these precautions could well be unnecessary. If the chaos curse continued to work effectively in the library above, no enemies would be likely to find their way down to bother Barjin.

  "Caution," Barjin muttered as though he had read Druzil's thoughts when the two had returned to the altar room. "I always assume the worst, thus am I pleasantly surprised if anything better occurs."

  Druzil could not hide his agreement or his excitement. Barjin's thinking had been complete; the priest had taken no chances.

  "This library soon will be mine," Barjin assured the imp, and Druzil did not doubt his boasts. "With the Edificant Library, the very cornerstone of the Impresk region, defeated, all the area from Shilmista Forest to Impresk Lake will fall before me."

  Druzil liked what he heard, but Barjin's reference to "me" and not to the triumvirate was a bit unnerving. Druzil did not want any open warfare among the ruling factions of Castle Trinity, but if it did come, the imp had to make certain that he chose the winning side. He was even more glad now that Aballister had chosen to send him to Barjin, glad that he could view both sides of the coming storm.

  "It is almost done," Barjin reiterated. "The curse grabs at the sensibilities of the priests above and the library soon will fall."

  "How can you know what happens above?" Druzil asked him, for the tour had not included any windows or passages up into the library. The one stairway Barjin had shown him had been smashed into pieces, and the door it once had led to had been recently bricked off. The only apparent weakness in Barjin's setup was isolation, not knowing the exact sequence of events in the library above.


  "I have only indications," Barjin admitted. "Behind the new wall I showed you lies the library's wine cellar. I have heard many priests passing through there for more than a day now, grabbing bottles at random―some of which are extraordinarily expensive―and apparently guzzling them down. Their talk and actions speak loudly of the growing chaos, for this certainly is not within the rules of behavior in the disciplined library. Yet you are correct in your observations, friend imp. I do indeed require more details to the events above."

  "So you have summoned me," said Druzil.

  "So I have opened the gate," Barjin corrected, flashing a sly look Druzil's way. "I had hoped for a more powerful ally."

  More of the summoner's facade, Druzil thought, but he did not question Barjin's claims. Anxious to see for himself what effects the curse was having, Druzil was more than willing to serve Barjin in a scouting capacity. "Please, my master," the imp whined. "Let me go and see for you. Please, oh, please!"

  "Yes, yes," Barjin chuckled condescendingly. "You may go above while I bring more allies through the gate."

  "Does a path remain through the wine cellar?" the imp asked.

  "No," Barjin explained, grabbing Mullivy by the arm. "My good groundskeeper has sealed that door well.

  "Take my imp out the western tunnel," Barjin instructed the zombie. "Then return to me!" Mullivy's stinking, bloated corpse shuffled, stiff-legged, out of its guard position and through the altar room door. Not revolted in the least by the disgusting thing, Druzil flapped over and found a perch on Mullivy's shoulder.

  "Take care, for it is daylight above," Barjin called after him. in response, Druzil chuckled, whispered an arcane phrase, and became invisible.

  Barjin moved excitedly back to the gate, hoping for continued good fortune in his summoning. An imp was a prized catch for so small a gate, though if Barjin had known the identity of this particular imp and his wizard master, or that Druzil had sealed the gate behind his entry, he would not have been so thrilled.

  He tried for more than an hour, calling out general spells of summoning and the names of every minor denizen he knew. Flames leaped and danced, but no forms appeared within their orange glow. Barjin wasn't too concerned. The brazier would burn for many days, and the necromancer's stone, though it had not yet produced results, continued to send out its call for undead. The priest would find many opportunities to add to his force.

  * * * * *

  Cadderly wandered the hallways of the building, stunned by the emptiness, the brooding quiet. Many priests, both visitors and those of the host sects, such as Brother Chaunticleer, had left the library without explanation, and many of those who had remained apparently preferred the solitude of their rooms.

  Cadderly did find Ivan and Pikel, in the kitchen, busily cooking a variety of dishes.

  "Your fights have ended?" Cadderly asked, grabbing a biscuit as he entered. He realized then that he hadn't eaten much in nearly a day, and that Danica and Newander no doubt would be hungry also.

  "Fights?" Ivan balked. "No time for fighting, boy! Been cooking since the eve. Not a many for supper, but them that's there won't go away."

  A terrible, sick feeling washed over Cadderly. He moved through the kitchen to peek out the other door, which led to the library's large dining hall. A score of people were in there, Headmaster Avery among them, stuffing themselves hand over hand. Several had fallen to the floor, so full that they could hardly move, but still trying to shove more food into their eager mouths.

  "You are killing them, you know," Cadderly remarked to the dwarves, his tone resigned. The young scholar was beginning to get an idea of what was going on. He thought of Histra and her unending passion, of Danica's sudden obsession with lessons that were beyond her level of achievement, and of the druids, Arcite and Cleo, so fanatic to their tenets that they had lost their very identities.

  "They will eat as long as you put food before them," Cadderly explained. "They will gorge themselves until they die."

  Both Ivan and Pikel stopped their stirring and stared long and hard at the young priest.

  "Slow the meals down," Cadderly instructed them.

  For the first time in a while, Cadderly noted some measure of comprehension. Both dwarves seemed almost repulsed by their own participation in the food orgy. Together they backed away from their respective pots.

  "Slow the meals down," Cadderly asked again.

  Ivan nodded gravely.

  "Oo," added Pikel.

  Cadderly studied the brothers for a long moment, sensing that they had regained their sanity, that he could trust them as he had trusted Newander.

  "I will be back as soon as I can," he promised, then he took a couple of plates, packed a meal, and took his leave.

  Anyone watching would have noticed a profound difference in the strides of the young scholar as he left the kitchen. Cadderly had come down tentatively, afraid of something he could not understand. He still had not figured out the curse or its cause, nor could he remember his trials in the lower catacombs, but, more and more, it was becoming evident to Cadderly that fate had placed a great burden upon him, and the price of his success or failure was terrifying indeed.

  To his relief, Newander had the situation in Danica's room under control. Danica was still in her bed, conscious but unable to move, for the druid had compelled long vines of ivy to come in through the window and wrap the woman where she lay. Newander, too, seemed in better spirits, and his face brightened even more when Cadderly handed him the supper plate.

  "You have done well," Cadderly remarked.

  "Minor magic," the druid answered. "Her wounds were not so bad. What have you learned?"

  Cadderly shrugged. "Little," he answered. "Whatever is wrong in this place grows worse by the moment. I have an idea, though, a way that I might learn what is happening."

  Newander perked up, expecting some revelation.

  "I am going to go to sleep."

  The druid's fair face crinkled in confusion, but Cadderly's confident smile deflected any forthcoming questions. Newander took the plate and began eating, mumbling to himself with every bite.

  Cadderly knelt beside Danica. She seemed barely coherent, but she managed to whisper, "Iron Skull."

  "Forget Iron Skull," Cadderly replied quietly. "You must rest and heal. Something is wrong here, Danica, wrong with you and with all the library. I do not know why, but I seem to have not been affected." He paused, searching for the words.

  "I think I did something," he said. Newander shuffled uneasily behind him. "I cannot explain.... I do not understand, but I have this feeling, this vagrant thought, that I somehow caused all of this."

  "Surely you cannot blame yourself," Newander said.

  Cadderly turned on him. "I am not looking to place any blame at all," he replied evenly, "but I believe I played a part in this growing catastrophe, whatever it might be. If I did, then I must accept that fact and search, not for blame, but for a solution."

  "How do you mean to search?" the druid asked. His tone turned sarcastic. "By going to sleep?"

  "It is hard to explain," Cadderly replied to the druid's stare. "I have been dreaming―vivid dreams. I feel there is a connection. I cannot explain ..."

  Newander's visage softened. "You need not explain," he said, no longer doubting. "Dreams sometimes do have the power of prophecy, and we have no clearer trail to follow. Take your rest, then. I will watch over you."

  Cadderly kissed Danica's pale cheek.

  "Iron Skull," the woman whispered.

  More determined than ever, Cadderly pulled a blanket to the corner of the room and lay down, placing an inkwell, quill, and parchments beside him. He threw an arm across his eyes and filled his thoughts with skeletons and ghouls, beckoning the nightmare.

  * * * * *

  The skeletons were waiting for him. Cadderly could smell the rot and the thick dust, and hear the scuffle of fleshless feet on the hard stone. He ran in a red fog, his legs heavy, too heavy. He saw a door down a long hallway, a
nd there was light peeking through its cracks. His legs were too heavy; he could not get there.

  Cold beads of sweat caked Cadderly's clothing and streaked his face. His eyes popped open and there, hovering over him, stood the druid.

  "What have you seen, boy?" Newander asked. The druid quickly handed him the writing materials.

  Cadderly tried to articulate the gruesome scene, but it was fast fading from his thoughts. He snatched up the quill and began writing and sketching, capturing as many of the images as he could, forcing his thoughts back into the dimming recesses of his nightmare.

  Then it was daytime again, midafternoon, and the dream was no more. Cadderly remembered the skeletons and the smell of dust, but the details were foggy and indistinct. He looked down to the parchment and was surprised by what he saw, as if someone else had done the writing. At the top of the scroll were the words, "slow ... red fog.. . reaching for me ... too close!" and below these was a sketch of a long hallway, its sides lined by sarcophagi-filled alcoves and with a cracked door at its end.

  "I know this place," Cadderly began tentatively, then he stopped abruptly, his elation and train of thought disrupted by Barjin's insidious and incessant memory-blocking spell.

  Before Cadderly could fight back against the sudden lapse, a scream from the hallway froze him where he sat. He looked at Newander, who was equally disturbed.

  "That was not the priestess of Sune," the druid remarked. They rushed through the door and into the hallway.

  There stood a gray-capped priest, holding his entrails in his hands, an eerie, almost ecstatic expression on his face. His tunic, too, was gray, though most of it now was blood-stained, and still more blood poured out of the man's opened belly with each passing second.

  Cadderly and Newander could not immediately find the strength to go to him, knew the futility of it anyway. They watched in blank horror as the priest fell face down, a pool of blood widening around him.