Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 01] - The Abduction

by J Robert King (epub)

  Next moment, the warriors solidified, flame to flesh, and dropped to the floor. With their descent, a magical darkness also fell.

  “Stay behind me,” Piergeiron shouted to his bride. “I don’t want to kill you in this blackness.”

  Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another, and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.

  Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.

  They’re after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will not survive this.

  The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared, converging on the couple.

  A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron’s waist. Someone blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword overhead. In this black crush of panicked guests, he could accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide. The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the mad press. He reeled.

  “Eidola!” he shouted. “Are you still there?”

  He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but felt her pressed, back to back, against him.

  A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then another fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the people had cleared away.

  “It’s just us now, Eidola. They want one or both of us.” His blade sliced the air before them. “I wonder where Khelben has gotten off to.”

  Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill, the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, “Who are you, and what business have you here?”

  “You know our business, I’m sure, Lord Piergeiron,” came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. “As to who we are, you must find that out yourselves.”

  “You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural night, but we cannot,” Piergeiron said, angered by the pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge, “Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way.”

  “Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in this darkness?”

  “If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight and slay you, yes,” growled Piergeiron.

  “The way is clear, Open Lord,” came the reply. “My warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honorable duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your bride.”

  “I accept,” said Piergeiron.

  He closed his eyes—they were no good to him in this darkness anyway—and let his pure soul sense the presence of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. A smallish image came to his mind’s eye—the faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood the warrior’s comrades, holding back the crowd.

  In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, “Do you see them? Do you sense them—with your soul? Close your eyes. You can feel where they are—”

  She was still behind him, but only silence answered his question.

  “You can do it, Eidola,” the Open Lord insisted. “Summon the good in you.”

  “Are you ready to die, Paladinson?” interrupted the nasty voice.

  Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride. Then he turned toward the shimmering form. “Your evil betrays you, shadow man.”

  Raising his sword overhead, Piergeiron advanced on the figure. Halcyon swept downward in a deadly arc, and the shadow warrior jumped back.

  “Not so blind, after all, eh Thickskull?” taunted the voice.

  “There is blindness, and there is blindness,” replied Piergeiron, swinging the blade again. It rushed in and rang off of a metal breastplate. At last, something to fight against. He followed with a third stroke, and this time the image seemed to wince.

  “First blood to me,” Piergeiron noted calmly.

  “Last blood to me,” responded the voice.

  Piergeiron was surprised by a stinging blow to his side. He drew back, considering. This man was evil, but his sword was not; of course it did not appear in his mind’s eye. That mistake would not be made twice.

  Piergeiron darted in, quick for a man his size. He hurled a heavy blow down on his opponent. Sword rang on sword, then grated away to one side. Piergeiron followed the weight of his blade, turning its tip to drive inward. The shadow warrior was too fast, though, batting Halcyon away and sending out his own blow.

  The Open Lord ducked back, then lunged, landing a second attack.

  “I thought I would regret having to kill you,” the warrior hissed in pain. “But I will not regret it at all.”

  The cell door proved rotten around its barred window. A repeated series of kicks to the bars at last tore them free of the spongy wood. The iron dropped to the ground and rattled loudly.

  Now, Noph needed merely to wriggle through…. After a lot of shimmying, a few select curses, and one moment of panic when he was stuck halfway in and halfway out, Noph won free of the door and rolled out onto his shoulders. He let out a blast of air as he landed.

  “Better my shoulders than my head,” he muttered.

  The reborn hero stood and brushed himself off. He took a deep breath. “Time for some true valor.”

  With that thought, Noph strode to the dim, winding stairs and climbed upward, toward the screaming above.

  This dungeon is deep, he thought, breathless. The steps seem to wind forever. It didn’t take half as long to be dragged down here… of course, other legs did that work.

  After his fourth circuit of the stairs, Noph saw a light above. The roar of battle had redoubled. By his sixth circuit, he reached a round doorway. Noph darted through it into a hallway. He halted, panting.

  Which way to the sanctuary?

  After a moment of indecision, he followed the echoing cries down the hall. In no time, he had reached the narthex.

  Ahead of him, a shimmering curtain of darkness stretched across the doorway. A few nobles staggered out, their hands groping blindly forward. When they entered the light, the folk blinked in astonishment before gathering their wits and darting away from the sanctuary as quickly as they could.

  Bring them out. That’s what a hero would do here. Lead the people from the darkness into the light.

  One more deep breath, and into the crowded chaos he plunged.

  Khelben writhed beneath an agonizing weight. It had fallen upon him just when the shadow warriors appeared. It had fallen with the very weight of the palace itself.

  He had seen only the flare of candles, figures taking shape out of flames. Then, as the warriors became flesh and leapt to the floor, the terrific crushing blackness had fallen atop the Lord Mage of Waterdeep.

  He gasped, air seeping damnably slowly into and out of his lungs. He struggled to hold to consciousness, all his spells lost beneath numb fingers.

  Whatever magic had brought these warriors here, it was ancient—a sorcery that could shatter worlds.

  Noph had made numerous forays into the wheeling black chaos of the sanctuary. Because of his efforts, hundreds of guests had fled to safety. Their battered rescuer did not even waste time watching them flee but rushed bac
k for more souls.

  It was dangerous work in that unnatural darkness. Each time Noph grappled a given guest, he was paid back with a royal pummeling. In a battle at midnight, saviors and slayers are hard to distinguish. In payment for his assistance, Noph had received two black eyes and a broken nose, as well as bruises and scratches all over his body.

  Once he had wrestled a guest into the light, though, it was a different story. Some were almost penitent. A few even apologized, or kissed him on the very cheek they had previously punched. All of them, though, quickly turned about and pelted for the nearest exit.

  Noph returned to the sanctuary. Plunging back into the darkness felt much like diving into a cold sea where sailors drowned amid frenzied sharks.

  This time, though, when his hand caught hold of a woman’s arm, she shouted out with an unmistakable Calashite burr, “Let go of me!”

  “Ah,” he replied. “Music to my ears.”

  With newfound energy, Noph wrestled the woman into a headlock—he imagined her still with a lizard head—and hauled her kicking and screaming into the light.

  Instead of letting her go, he dragged her onward, and down the steps of a very deep dungeon.

  Unsure where the warrior’s blade would strike next, Piergeiron countered with a wide sweep of his own. Steel edges rang against each other. Piergeiron twisted Halcyon, entangling the man’s weapon. He struggled to fling the sword to ground, but the shadow figure held the pommel tight. Blades slid and scraped, pushing off to one side.

  Piergeiron stepped up next to the warrior and stomped on his foot. The shock and pain jarred the man’s hand loose. Piergeiron twisted his foe’s sword free and flung it to the ground. Then he kicked the warrior’s good leg out from under him and swung Halcyon to bear on the man’s throat.

  “Surrender, all of you, and I will spare this one,” Piergeiron commanded.

  Laughter came from the circle of warriors around. “Go ahead and kill him. It’s your right, and we never liked him anyway.”

  “I will fight every last one of you,” Piergeiron warned. “I will slay every last one of you.”

  More laughter. “Open Lord, if your soul can see so well, why don’t you take a look around?”

  He did, sensing the ring of warriors, twenty strong, on all sides of him. “So you have us surrounded. If you were men of honor, you would come one at a time to fight me.”

  “Maybe you can see us with those paladin eyes of yours,” jeered one of the warriors. “Maybe you can sense the presence of evil all around you, but what about the presence of good? What about your bride? Where might she be?”

  Piergeiron whirled, his hand out. “Eidola? Where are you?”

  There came no response except the guffaws of the warriors.

  “Where is she? What have you done?”

  The shadow warriors were withdrawing, their circle widening around Piergeiron. The Open Lord charged the nearest one, skewering him with his sword. As the man fell dead beneath him, Piergeiron pulled Halcyon free and rushed onward. He stumbled over a fallen bench and the bodies beneath it

  The warriors continued to retreat, picking their way through the wreckage of the sanctuary. Piergeiron thrashed forward a few steps more, but was dragged down again by smashed wood and groaning forms.

  The invaders had reached the far walls of the chamber. Each turned and stood, stationed before the ensconced candles. Their bodies suddenly leapt up, forming six-foot high flames.

  Piergeiron shielded his eyes from the sudden light, as did the remaining stragglers and dying victims in the ruined chapel. Then, with a pop, the candle flames shrank inward and disappeared. Darkness again settled over the smoldering ruins of midnight.

  Chapter 7

  For Worse

  “Anything yet?” asked Piergeiron. He leaned against a wall of Khelben’s laboratories and watched the slow dripping of the mage’s Kara-Turian water clock. Aside from requesting updates, Piergeiron could well have been a statue.

  “I said five more minutes,” Khelben noted testily. The Lord Mage was stooped over a pile of books that were sprawled open atop each other.

  “It has been four minutes thirty-eight seconds,” the Open Lord noted dully.

  “I said five minutes,” Khelben repeated.

  Piergeiron said no more, still pressed against the cold stone wall.

  In the remaining twenty-two seconds, Khelben flipped the pages of several tomes, consulting charts and tables. When ten seconds were left, he looked up irately at his friend. With an off-handed flick of his wrist, Khelben cast a slow spell upon the water clock. Its constant gurgling slowed until it was nearly stopped. There was no reason to slow Piergeiron as well. The man could not be slower and still live.

  Khelben sighed, and worked another two hours. When he was done, he dispelled his enchantment.

  Piergeiron blinked. “Ah, five minutes.”

  “Here it is,” replied Khelben. “I’ve been searching ancient texts for references to spells or artifacts characterized by their dweomer draw. What crushed me to the ground was a sorcery of great magnitude.”

  “And?” Piergeiron asked listlessly.

  “I found three possible artifacts, two of which were unlikely due to the—”

  “And, which one?” Piergeiron asked.

  “A Bloodforge. It was a Bloodforge that created that army.”

  “What is a—”

  “It’s an artifact of great antiquity, a device that can form armies out of thin air.”

  “Each candle was a Bloodforge?” asked Piergeiron.

  The mage shook his head in consideration. “No, but each was linked to a Bloodforge somehow. They allowed the forged warriors to gate into the palace and back out again.” He cleared his throat. “As far as I know, the only place where Bloodforges are found is the Utter East.”

  “The Utter East?”

  The mage nodded. “The candles confirm it. They were an engagement present sent to Eidola from an unknown benefactor, who suggested their use in the wedding. Though the giver is unknown, the crate in which the candles came is stamped with border seals that stretch from Waterdeep all the way down to the Utter East.”

  “Even if I have to travel the whole world, I will find her,” said Piergeiron wearily.

  “And what of Waterdeep when you are gone? What of the trade route and all the other programs you have worked so hard to implement?” Khelben pointed out. “Running out across half the world is a job for the young, Piergeiron. For those with nothing better to do. Send someone else.”

  “How could I?” the Open Lord muttered. “How could I trust Eidola to anyone else?”

  “Are you so arrogant as to think you are the greatest warrior in Faerûn?”

  Piergeiron looked chagrined.

  Khelben went on, “And isn’t trust something that has set you in good stead until now?”

  Piergeiron dropped his head toward his chest and slowly nodded.

  The Blackstaff stood at the door to Piergeiron’s drawing room. His knuckles rapped lightly on the frame. “Open Lord, I have brought him, as you requested.”

  From the plush darkness of woolen carpets and velvet drapes came a faint summons. “Come in.”

  The wizard silently drew back the door and, with a smooth wave of a hand, gestured the lad forward.

  Noph had looked better, certainly. Both his eyes were black, his nose had been set with sticks and torn cloth, and his lip was split in two places. He favored one leg as he came in, a crutch jammed under his arm. Though Noph had publicly abnegated his nobility and subsequently been disowned by his father, he still carried himself with the bearing of a nobleman as he bowed deeply before the Open Lord.

  No, not the bearing of a nobleman, but that of a hero.

  Piergeiron’s own wounds were in interior spaces. Though the body that slumped in the chair before Noph was the same well-dressed and athletic figure as before, Piergeiron’s eyes were as dark and empty as the burned-out Eye of Ao.

  “Ahem,” Khelben said
, standing there beside the lad. “Open Lord, remember, you wanted to see him?”

  “Yes,” replied Piergeiron. He offered no more comment

  Khelben’s black brows drew down, and he prompted, “Something about rewarding his heroism…. Beyond releasing him from the dungeon….”

  “Yes.”

  The master mage turned toward the tattered lad. “The Open Lord is in need of your service, Kastonoph. He needs men he can trust, especially now.”

  Noph nodded humbly. “I could use the work—”

  “It’s more than just trustworthiness. If it weren’t for you, the crossbow would have gone off as those rogue mariners had planned, and we would have had no idea who had done it.”

  “I can start right away—” Noph said.

  “You single-handedly foiled a guild plot against Lady Eidola. You caught the ringleader, squeezed a confession from her, and rounded up the others—not to mention the scrap of cloth that was the chief evidence against the second-in-command. If it wasn’t for you, we would have thought the assassins from the mariners guild were in league with the doppelgӓngers or the agents from the Utter East. You and you alone solved the one mystery that has been solved here—”

  Noph wore a wondering look as he studied the Lord Mage’s face. “If your concern is money, I wouldn’t need more than bed and board—”

  “Damn it, son—you’re making this only more difficult,” snapped Khelben. His eyebrows thickened like twin storm clouds. “I am not accustomed to being a messenger boy for the Open Lord, or anyone—”

  “What the Blackstaff is trying and failing to say,” interrupted Piergeiron quietly, “is that I owe you a deep apology. I placed my trust in you once, and it was well placed. I should not have doubted you.”

  Noph colored, unsure how to respond to the apology of the Open Lord of Waterdeep. He waved a dismissive hand. “Bygones.”

  “And not only do I and all Waterdeep owe you a debt of gratitude, but we have further need of your heroism. We yet do not know what the doppelgӓngers had plotted, or for whom they worked. And we have no idea yet who those shadow warriors were, where exactly they came from, and where they took Eido—” The Open Lord’s voice, until then a thready whisper, was choked away into silence.