Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

  Caledan and Mari traded desperate looks.

  “These are enchanted beasts,” he shouted. “I don’t think mundane weapons can harm them.”

  “Now you tell me,” Mari said disgustedly, thrusting her sabre back into its sheath. “May I be so bold as to suggest we turn tail and run?”

  “We’ll never be able to outrun them.”

  “Well, maybe we can outclimb them.”

  Caledan nodded. He made a running leap onto the alley’s wall and began scrambling up the crumbling, uneven stone surface. The Harper did likewise on the opposite wall. Just as Caledan was heaving himself over the top, the flaming mastiffs were upon them. One of the beasts let out a feral snarl as it leaped upward, its jaws snapping. Caledan felt its hot, scorching breath even through his boots.

  Somehow he managed to heave himself onto the sooty rooftop. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and his breath came in searing, ragged gasps. “What in the Abyss did I ever see in this battling evil business?” he groaned as he dragged himself to his feet. He saw that the Harper had reached the rooftop across the narrow alley, no more than ten feet away. The three magical hounds circled below, snarling and growling. Hot, sizzling spittle drooled from their maws, pitting the cobblestones where it dripped.

  “What now, scoundrel?” Mari called across the gap, hands on her hips.

  Caledan saw a large oaken barrel perched on the rooftop a few feet away from him. It was a rain barrel, filled to the brim with cool, dark water. An idea struck him. “Harper, is there anything over there that holds water?”

  Mari frowned in confusion, but she looked around the rooftop all the same. “There’s a trough here with some sort of swill in it,” she called across the alley. “But I wouldn’t recommend it if you’re thirsty. I think more than a few pigeons have been using it as their personal bath.”

  “It’ll do. Drag it to the edge of the rooftop, and when I tell you, dump it into the alley.”

  Mari glared at him. “You want to give the dogs a bath?”

  “Just do it, Harper,” Caledan growled.

  She muttered something under her breath but did as he asked all the same. The fiery mastiffs were scrabbling at the walls, getting higher with each jump. It was only a matter of moments before one of them successfully made the leap.

  “Now, Harper!”

  Caledan pushed over the heavy rain barrel. At the same moment Mari grunted, heaving the wooden trough onto its side. Cold water rained down on the three mastiffs. There was a deafening hissing sound as a thick cloud of steam billowed up from the alley. The hounds yelped as their flaming auras were doused and extinguished.

  Caledan readied himself for a dash along the rooftops. He hoped the trick with the water would give him and the Harper a few moments’ head start before they were forced to climb back down and take to the streets. Suddenly Caledan halted. He watched the magical beasts in fascination.

  The mastiffs were continuing to yelp and whine, but their movements were growing slower, stiff and jerky. Steam ceased to rise from their sodden pelts. Abruptly the hounds froze in their tracks. They stood motionless for a heartbeat, and then, with a sound like breaking glass, the beasts collapsed into three heaps of jagged black shards.

  Caledan shook his head in amazement. The magical beasts were dead, shattered like hot crockery immersed in cold water.

  The Harper arched an eyebrow. “Not bad, scoundrel. Did you know that was going to happen?”

  “Of course,” he lied.

  The two climbed back down into the alley. With his boot Caledan kicked apart the piles of broken shards. They rang like chimes as they skittered across the cobbles. He found his dagger and stuffed it back into its sheath in his boot.

  “Well, it looks like this time it’s farewell for good, Harper,” Caledan said thankfully. He had forgotten how much trouble Harpers could be.

  “And good riddance, scoundrel,” Mari replied, her eyes blazing. “Let’s make certain we never—”

  The Harper didn’t get the chance to finish. She cried out as a crackling bolt of crimson brilliance streaked out of a shadowed doorway and struck her in the shoulder. The force of the blow threw her hard against the opposite stone wall. Her eyes fluttered shut as she slumped, motionless, to the ground.

  Without hesitating, Caledan reached down, grabbed his dagger, and threw it spinning into the darkened doorway. There was a soft moan, and then a sharp-faced man clad in red robes stumbled out of the doorway and sank to the cobbles, the dagger buried deep in his chest.

  Caledan swore under his breath. It seemed he had grown stupid as well as rusty with the years. After an attack by enchanted beasts, he should have known the wizard who had conjured them would not be far behind. He put a boot on the dead wizard’s chest and pulled the dagger free. Blood flowed forth, spreading its dark stain across the ground.

  “So who sent you, sorcerer?” Caledan spat, but the dead man could not reply. Caledan was about to search the body for some clues as to the wizard’s identity, but immediately the corpse began to steam and bubble. The wizard’s body burst into flame, and in moments there was nothing left but ashes. Caledan muttered an oath, turning his attention to the Harper.

  She was alive, but just barely. Her skin had a deathly pallor to it; her breathing was rapid and shallow. He could barely detect her pulse. He heard the clatter of hooves behind him and turned to see Mista trotting down the alley.

  “I don’t suppose I could just leave her,” he said hopefully. The mare snorted in agitation, laying her ears back. He sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

  He lifted the Harper as gently as he could onto the gray’s back and climbed into the saddle. She needed a healer, and there was only one place in the city he knew where he could take her. He spurred the mare into a brisk walk. “If I never have dealings with Harpers again, Mista,” he growled as he rode, “it’ll be much, much too soon.”

  * * * * *

  Caledan took a deep breath of relief when he saw the old three-story inn at the end of the small lane. He had half expected to find it gone, what with the rest of the changes that had transformed the city. However, the half-timbered, gable-roofed inn still stood at the very western edge of the Tor. Half of the building actually jutted precariously out over the precipice, hanging in thin air where it was supported by a mazework of stout oaken beams anchored deep in the sheer rock of the cliff-face. A brightly painted sign hung above the intricately carved door, depicting an emerald green dragon dozing peacefully on a mountain of golden treasure. Caledan smiled despite himself. It was good to lay eyes on the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon again.

  He dismounted and carefully lifted the Harper from Mista’s back. The gray mare flared her nostrils and shifted nervously from hoof to hoof. Caledan bent his ear to the Harper’s chest, then grinned at the horse.

  “Fear not, friend. She still lives.” Caledan carried the Harper to the stout, iron-banded door. He pushed through the doorway and into the inn.

  His heart sank.

  Everything was different inside. In his memories, the common room of the Dreaming Dragon was a warm place filled with firelight and the clinking of mugs, reverberating with garrulous voices, laughter, and song. This dim, sullen room was just the opposite.

  The great fireplace was cold and dark, and only a few smoking oil lamps offered their wan illumination. The polished wooden bar that had once stood against one wall was now covered with dirty cloths. Lord Cutter’s Rules were posted in plain view.

  A handful of sour-faced cityfolk looked up from the bare tables, staring at Caledan with suspicious eyes. Grimly, he laid the limp form of the Harper down on a long bench and surveyed the scene. The longer he looked, the worse it seemed. This place had been his home once. Now it was almost as inviting as a dungeon, but not quite.

  “Listen, stranger, we don’t want any trouble here.”

  Caledan turned around and found himself looking down at a stout, curly-haired halfling. The halfling’s nut-brown eyes glittered warily,
and his broad face was drawn down in a scowl. He stood firm, raised to his full four feet, gripping a cudgel in one hand. “This is a respectable establishment. At least as respectable as you can find these days. We post the city lord’s rules for all to see. You’d best be off, ruffian. Work your mischief elsewhere.”

  Caledan winced. Ruffian? He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. He was going to have to do something about his appearance.

  “Friend,” he said wearily, “I have a lady here who’s been gravely hurt. Once there was a healer who lived here, a woman who would never have turned away one in need. Has she vanished as well, like everything else of good in this city?”

  The halfling’s gaze took in the limp form of the Harper, and his wide-spaced brown eyes softened somewhat, though they remained resolute. “Come back in the morning.”

  “Gods, man, she may not have until morning!” Caledan bellowed in exasperation. He took an angry step forward. A half-dozen chairs scraped against the floor as an equal number of burly men stood, glaring at Caledan. He froze. It looked as if this was about to turn nasty. He crouched, ready to give his best before he was dragged down.

  Suddenly a halfling woman clad in a gray homespun dress entered the inn’s common room from the kitchen, a startled expression on her kindly face. “Jolle, what is it?”

  “Stay back, wife!” the halfling man told her, lifting his cudgel, but before he could swing it the halfling woman let out a cry and dashed forward, throwing herself at Caledan. Caledan nearly tumbled backward from the impact. Then he caught himself and returned her embrace.

  “By the Lady above, Caledan!” the halfling woman cried, caught between laughter and tears. “You’ve come home. You’ve come home!”

  Caledan cast a wry grin at the halfling man in answer to the fellow’s look of bewilderment. “It’s good to see you after all these years, Estah,” he said, hugging the halfling woman tightly. “Especially when so much has changed. But I’ve someone here who needs your attention more than I.”

  “Oh, by the Lady!” Estah said, letting go of Caledan and only just now seeing the still form of the Harper lying on the bench. Concern flooded her deep brown eyes and touched her broad, rosy-cheeked face. She laid a small hand gently on the Harper’s pale brow. “My pretty child,” she said, and then she assumed an air of briskness. “How like you, Caledan Caldorien, to drag a poor lass about when she’s hurt like this. Now don’t be in my way. I’ve work to do.”

  Estah promptly began running her hands over the unconscious Harper, expertly feeling for injury. Caledan looked at the halfling man—evidently Estah’s husband—and shrugged.

  “We’re old friends, Estah and I,” was all Caledan said.

  The halfling man whom Estah had called Jolle simply nodded and lowered his cudgel. “Then you’re welcome here, friend.”

  As if on cue, the room suddenly burst into action. “Coast’s clear!” a man keeping watch out the window called. With a swiftness and efficiency that suggested the movements were well rehearsed, the inn’s patrons proceeded to transform the common room. Bright cloths were spread across the tables, candles were lit, and a fire sprang to life on the hearth. The dirty cloths were snatched from the long wooden bar and quickly stowed away. The board bearing Lord Cutter’s Rules was turned around to reveal a notice that read: Ale, Two Silver Pieces. Stout mugs clinked together merrily as they were filled to the brim with foaming brew.

  “Welcome to the Dreaming Dragon, stranger,” a grizzled fellow said as he handed Caledan a tankard.

  The only answer Caledan could manage was an amazed smile. It looked as if some things hadn’t changed so much after all.

  * * * * *

  It was well into the morning when Caledan awoke. Pale, golden sunlight streamed through the small round window of his third-story room—the same room that had been his when he had lived in the inn, in the days when he had been a Harper, and Estah had been his oldest and truest adventuring companion. He rose, washed his face in a tin basin, and scraped the dark stubble from his chin and cheeks with a straight razor he found in a drawer. He laughed, and the reflection in the mirror laughed silently back at him, green eyes dancing.

  Last night Estah had tended to the Harper woman, Mari, in her efficient, caring manner. Mari’s shoulder had been dislocated by the wizard’s magical bolt, and the shock had jolted her into unconsciousness. However, the halfling healer had inspected the wound and announced that it was not dire. She had deftly pushed the joint back together—Caledan was rather glad the Harper was not conscious for that—and then from beneath her own blouse had drawn a small, intricately wrought silver amulet.

  It was engraved with the flowing symbol of Eldath, the Goddess of the Singing Waters. Caledan had seen the amulet on too many occasions, when he or one of his other traveling companions had been wounded in battle. It had been given to Estah by her mother, and while in most hands it would have been but a pretty, lifeless piece of metal, Caledan knew that in the hands of a true healer the amulet had impressive powers. When Estah laid it on the Harper’s shoulder Caledan thought he heard a faint musical humming. The Harper’s brow—furrowed in pain, even in unconsciousness—relaxed, and her breathing grew deep and even.

  They had carried the Harper upstairs to sleep, and then Caledan and Estah, along with her husband Jolle, had sat by the flickering fire, talking late into the night They spoke of the seven years since Caledan and his band of companions had separated and gone their different ways.

  He had met them, one by one, in his missions as a Harper agent, and each—for his or her own reasons—had chosen to throw in with him. Their journeys had taken them across the length of the Realms, fighting tyranny wherever they found it, and over time they had become more than simply friends. They were a family. They had called themselves the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, for the six of them had all resided in this very inn that Estah still owned.

  But all of that had been before Lord Ravendas, before Caledan had buried hope and music in the hard earth and had left the Harpers behind him. Seven years ago the Fellowship had disbanded, and all Caledan had tried to do since was forget the past.

  “But you didn’t forget,” Estah had said, placing her hand on Caledan’s. “And now you’ve come home.”

  Caledan sighed. Home to what? Estah married Jolle a few years after the Fellowship had disbanded. Now the two of them spent their time struggling to keep the city guards from harrowing the inn, not an easy task in these difficult times. They did their best to foster the illusion that they obeyed Cutter’s rules, all the while secretly maintaining the inn as a refuge for the cityfolk, a place where they could still find a pleasant hint of the days when Bron had ruled in the tower. “I’ll choke on her rules before I take a single word of them to heart,” Estah had said, her eyes flashing.

  Ravendas and her Zhentarim servants had taken over Iriaebor about a year ago and had been steadily sapping the life out of the city ever since. If Ravendas caught sight of Estah, the Zhentarim lord was bound to recognize the halfling healer from her encounter with the Fellowship seven years ago. That would spell the end of the Dreaming Dragon.

  “But not if I can help it,” Caledan growled to no one in particular. Then he laughed grimly at himself. That sounded like something Caledan the Harper would have said. He had always been so ready to play the hero. Fool was more like it.

  He pulled on his black leather breeches and the matching jerkin over his white shirt. He jammed his feet into his boots, checking to make sure his dagger was in its sheath. He was about to head downstairs when the door to his room burst open.

  Two very small people bounded through the doorway, laughing and giggling. They were Estah’s children, Pog and Nog. Caledan had been surprised when Estah had introduced him to them the night before.

  “It’s time for breakfast, Uncle Caledan,” said Pog. She was the elder of the two, pretty yet impish.

  “Eth, geckfebst!” echoed Nog. He was the younger, a tiny, round-cheeked boy who spoke in a lang
uage only Estah and Jolle seemed capable of deciphering.

  Caledan let Pog and Nog lead him down the back stairway that led to a private chamber situated behind the common room. Neither one of them stood higher than his knee, and he felt like a great behemoth towering above them. Deciding Estah would be angry if he stepped on one of them, he grabbed both children and stuffed one under each arm. They squirmed and squealed a great deal, but he let them go when he reached the foot of the stairs. They promptly forgot their big new friend—much to his relief—and scampered off, probably to torture each other, or whatever it was children did. This uncle business was going to take some getting used to.

  Jolle had suggested that both he and the Harper keep to the back room in the wing of the inn that jutted out over the edge of the Tor. Given yesterday’s incident, it seemed best for Caledan and Mari to keep a low profile.

  Caledan saw that the Harper was sitting in a chair pulled close to a small fireplace. She was wrapped in a patchwork quilt, and still seemed a bit pale, but otherwise looked little the worse for wear. Estah was with her, and Caledan found himself slightly perturbed to see the two talking animatedly. He ambled over and sat next to them. The Harper’s smile quickly vanished as Estah looked at him worriedly.

  “You might have told me, scoundrel,” Mari said sullenly.

  “Would you have believed me?” Caledan asked her with a wry expression. He winked at Estah. “I seem to remember someone saying I looked more like, let’s see … what was it? Ah yes, more like a Vagabond cutpurse than a hero of renown.”

  Mari frowned at this, but after a moment she began to laugh. “It’s true, you know. Though you are looking a bit more presentable today. I see you actually have a face beneath those mangy bristles.”

  Estah smiled hopefully at Caledan and then left them alone to discuss their “Harpery business” as she had always called it.

  “You still look more like a highwayman than a hero,” Mari added stingingly after the halfling was gone.