by Mark Anthony
“Let’s get out of here,” Caledan said, stuffing the priest’s robes into a sack.
* * * * *
The sun stood high overhead in the azure sky. It was time for the execution.
Caledan lay low against the stones of a weathered, lichen-covered bridge that spanned from tower to tower high above an open plaza. Thirty feet directly below him stood the gallows, a tall platform reached by a set of narrow wooden steps. A half-dozen nooses dangled from the stout crossbeam. It was to be a multiple hanging. Ferret was just one of the unlucky ones.
Seven years ago the plaza had been called the Fountain Square, but it had been unofficially renamed under Cutter’s rule. Now it was called the Scarlet Square, for all too often the gutters ran, not with water, but with blood.
Two gigantic statues carved of ancient gray stone stood facing each other at opposite ends of the square. These, too, were Ravendas’s additions. Each of the statues stood at least fifteen feet high on a basalt throne. The Gray Watchers, Caledan had heard them called. One was carved in the image of a stern-looking man, the other a regal woman. The king and queen of cruelty, both wore circlets of stone upon their brows. Rumor had it Ravendas had discovered them in the ruins of an ancient keep in the Sunset Mountains to the west and had them transported here to keep watch over her executions.
Caledan turned his gaze away from the forbidding statues. They chilled his blood just to look at them.
A crowd was beginning to gather in the square. Eight guards led by a Zhentarim captain stood before the gibbet, keeping the folk away. The crowd’s mood was hostile, and it was clear they would have torn the gallows down but for Cutter’s guards standing there, hands on the hilts of their swords.
Caledan squinted up at the sun. It was almost time. Cormik had made his promised arrangements. Even now, a man—one of Cormik’s agents—stood by one of the three archways leading into the square, hawking ale for the hanging. Several wooden casks were stacked around him, though he did not seem to be doing a very good business. Perhaps it was because he was closer to the guards than to the cityfolk.
An angry murmur rose up from the crowd as four heavily armed guards led a half-dozen shackled prisoners into the square. One woman counted among the unfortunate prisoners, all of whom looked pale and wan. The last prisoner who came into view was Ferret.
The old rascal hadn’t changed a bit. A small, wiry man, his dark, beady eyes glittered sharply, and his thin nose almost visibly twitched as he looked from side to side—obviously searching for a means of escape. One of the guards shoved him brutally from behind. A grimace of pain crossed his face, but despite the hobbles about his ankles Ferret managed to keep himself from falling. Caledan swore under his breath.
The prisoners were pushed up the narrow steps of the platform. A monstrously obese, black-hooded executioner covered their heads with hoods of sackcloth and slipped nooses about their necks. The guards returned to the plaza to help keep the crowd away.
A startling figure strode into the square then, a massive man clad in the thick, deep purple robes of a disciple of Cyric, his face lost in the shadows of his cowl. A pall fell over the crowd. Even the guards exchanged nervous looks. Caledan bit his tongue to keep from laughing aloud. He hoped this little masquerade wasn’t going to get Tyveris in trouble with his god.
The massive figure made his way through the crowd and ascended the steps of the gallows ceremoniously. He paused before each of the prisoners in turn, weaving his hands in arcane patterns and whispering strange words.
Finally Tyveris arrived at his place next to the executioner. He turned and spread his arms out to the crowd in a gesture of benediction. “Let this be an example to you all!” he boomed to the crowd. “In the end, the gods will punish all transgressors, and there is but one punishment!” The cityfolk murmured with fear. Taking this as his signal, the executioner reached for the lever that would drop the floor of the platform out from beneath the prisoners.
Only his hand never reached it. With a swiftness impressive in one so huge, Tyveris grabbed the executioner by the belt and heaved him off the platform. The man’s scream ended in a wet, sickening thud as he hit the cobblestones fifteen feet below. Shouting, several guards clambered up the steps to the platform. Tyveris gripped the top of the steps and pulled, his straining muscles ripping through the purple ceremonial robes. Nails groaned. Tyveris wrenched the steps loose and with a grunt heaved them to the pavement. The guards fell in a tangle. The crowd erupted in screams as people tried to flee the plaza.
Abruptly a hissing sound cut through the air. A flaming arrow sped from the window of an abandoned tower on the edge of the square, striking one of the ale seller’s wooden casks. The ale seller himself was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Caledan looked up in time to see Mari, her face hard with concentration, loose a second arrow from her perch high in the derelict tower. The Harper’s timing was as good as her aim.
The second flaming arrow struck another wooden cask. For a moment the arrows burned into the wood as the guards nearby stared in puzzlement. Then the casks exploded in a blossom of brilliant, fiery light. The towers around the square swayed on their foundations. A half-dozen guards flew through the air like strange, dark birds, and when they landed they did not rise again. The square plunged into chaos. Half of the guards were dead, the others stunned. Tyveris was cutting the prisoners free of their nooses and lowering them down to the ground, where they escaped easily in the confusion.
Caledan looked up to make a sign to Mari, but the window in the tower was empty. The Harper was already gone. Now it was time for Caledan’s part.
Quickly he tossed down a coil of rope he had securely anchored to the bridge’s balustrade. He slid down the line and landed on the platform. Tyveris, hood fallen back and robe in tatters, had just one more prisoner to free—Ferret.
“You know, this probably makes you a heretic in the Church of Cyric,” Caledan commented.
“I can live with that,” Tyveris replied. With his bare hands he snapped the rope around Ferret’s neck. The little man snatched away the sack that covered his face, then his beady eyes went wide. He stared at Tyveris, his nose twitching. “I must be dead already. Tyveris, you look like a monk!”
“I am a monk, you weasel,” Tyveris bellowed, reaching out to catch the small man in an embrace. Ferret’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.
“You’re breaking me,” he gasped. He wormed his way out of Tyveris’s grip.
“Let’s save the joyous reunions for later, all right?” Caledan told them. “We’re not out of here yet.” Some guards were regrouping and were getting ready to charge the platform. “All right, everybody, up the—” rope, he was going to say, but the pounding of hooves interrupted him.
Five iron-shod chargers thundered into the square. Astride four of them were Zhentarim warriors clad in the livery of the city guard, their short swords drawn and ready for violence. On the fifth horse rode a figure both Caledan and Tyveris recognized, a massive man with blood soaking through the large bandage covering his nose. The priest of Cyric.
“I guess I should have hit him harder,” Tyveris grumbled darkly. Ferret, who needed no further prompting, scrambled nimbly up the rope.
“I’ll bring up the rear,” Caledan said. The big Tabaxi nodded and followed the thief, swiftly pulling his bulk up the rope.
One of the square’s three exits had been blocked by rubble from the smoke powder blast. Now the four mounted Zhents moved to guard the other two arches leading from the plaza. As they did, the priest of Cyric gripped a hideously twisted amulet of dark, wrought steel that hung about his neck. He began shouting something in a harsh, foul-sounding tongue.
Ferret and Tyveris had reached the bridge above. Caledan leaped onto the rope and began hauling himself up, arm over arm.
A low groaning sound shook the air when Caledan was only halfway to the bridge. Suddenly there was a deafening crack. Caledan briefly wondered if it was another smoke powder explosion, then heard Tyveri
s shouting frantically. Caledan looked away from the rope and nearly lost his grip in his utter shock.
The Gray Watchers were moving.
The priest’s chanting had mounted to a triumphant crescendo. The two massive statues slowly, ponderously pushed themselves up from their thrones of basalt. The circlets around their brows glowed vile purple, the same color as the magical aura surrounding the priest’s amulet.
“Caledan, watch out!” Ferret called down.
The words spurred Caledan to action. He scrambled farther up the rope barely in time to avoid a startlingly swift blow from the statue of the ancient queen. For a moment he found himself gazing directly into the soulless eyes of the statue. He kept climbing.
“No offense—I mean, I appreciate this and all—but you two didn’t plan this escape all that well, did you?” Ferret asked.
“Well we don’t all have your extensive experience with escaping,” Tyveris rumbled angrily. The big monk stood on the edge of the bridge and spread his arms in a mirror image of the priest of Cyric. He began chanting in a flowing, musical language, trying to drown out the evil priest’s dark prayers. The gigantic statue stepped closer to Caledan, wounded guards crushed unnoticed beneath its feet. The statue of the king was still rising from its throne, reaching toward its full height, five times that of a man.
“Andebari al Oghma, al d’bai altan!” Tyveris roared. “In the Name of the Binder, may evil’s enchantment be shattered!”
Suddenly the priest of Cyric let out a strangled cry. The circlet about the stone queen’s brow flared brilliantly, shattering into countless splinters of stone. The statue halted. Then slowly, almost gracefully, it toppled to the street, smashing the cobbles as it struck, shaking the very foundations of the city.
But the statue of the king showed no such reaction. It continued to move toward Caledan, who dangled halfway up the rope.
“Hurry, Caledan!” Tyveris shouted down. His face looked ashen and haggard. “I dispelled the magic coursing through one of the statues, but I don’t think I can break the enchantment in the other!”
Meanwhile, the priest of Cyric had regained his composure, and his chanting rippled forth once again as he gripped the steel amulet.
“Allow me,” Ferret said. He took the knife Tyveris had used to cut the prisoners’ ropes and hefted it experimentally, testing its weight. Then he let if fly with a precise, expert throw.
The priest’s chanting abruptly stopped.
The flabby disciple of Cyric slipped from the back of his horse, Ferret’s knife embedded deep in his throat. Blood flowed out to pool with the grime of the street. The purple glow of the amulet flickered, faded. The statue of the nameless king slowed to a halt.
Then a rivulet of the dead priest’s blood trickled across the steel amulet. The dark blood hissed and steamed. The purple aura strengthened and grew brilliant once again. Blood flowed more quickly toward the amulet now, defying gravity as it rose from the cobbles to the evil symbol.
The stone king began to move, once more, toward Caledan.
“Uh-oh,” was all Ferret said.
The statue of the king reached out a hand of granite to crush Caledan.
Caledan’s arms were going numb. He wasn’t going to make it.
“Break the king’s circlet, Caledan!” Tyveris bellowed. “It’s the heart of its power!”
The stony fingers, each as thick as a tree branch, began to close about Caledan. There wasn’t time to think. Holding on to the rope with one hand, he drew his sword. Just as the cold, hard fingertips brushed against his chest he swung the rope forward and brought the hilt of his sword down on the circlet resting on the statue’s brow.
His hand was thrown back painfully with the force of the blow. The sword clattered to the street far below. The stony fingers closed about his chest, tightening until he could barely breathe—before shuddering to a stop.
His blow had cracked the king’s crown. Brilliant purple sparks flared about the dark fissure, sizzling like lightning. The violet glow wavered, then vanished. The gigantic statue lurched precariously to one side. Caledan tried to free himself from its grip, but he was stuck in its grasp. The stone king started to topple.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Tyveris growled. The loremaster, his chest against the bridge, reached down, just managing to grab Caledan’s collar. Caledan felt himself pulled roughly from the stone king’s grasp as the statue fell next to its queen. With a grunt Tyveris hauled him up onto the bridge.
Caledan groaned. His shoulders and chest felt as if they were on fire. “I am really far too old for this,” he managed between gasps.
“So are we all,” Tyveris rumbled wearily, rubbing his aching temples. Breaking the priest’s enchantment had left him exhausted.
“Speak for yourself,” Ferret replied in his raspy voice, his dark eyes shining.
If Caledan could have, he would have strangled the little thief.
The trio made their way westward along a mazework of bridges far above the city streets. Some Zhentarim tried to follow, but the smokepowder blast had blocked the western exit from the plaza. The three companions quickly left the turmoil of the square behind.
Finally they descended to a quiet side street. Estah, clad in simple peasant garb, sat on the bench of a farmer’s wagon filled with straw, holding the reins to a pair of ponies. Mari was with her.
“Ferret!” Estah cried out in joy at the sight of the thief. He bowed deeply in response.
“What took you so long?” Mari asked, her eyes flashing.
Caledan and Tyveris exchanged a weary look. “I really don’t think you’d believe us, Harper.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right.”
“We’d better go,” Estah warned. “The guards will be coming this way soon enough.”
No one argued with the healer. Caledan, Mari, Tyveris, and Ferret burrowed themselves deep into the concealing straw in the bed of the wagon, and Estah flicked the reins. The wagon clattered down the street.
Estah was right. Minutes later a pair of hard-faced Zhentarim warriors pounded on their chargers down the street. However, all they saw was a halfling farmer driving her wagon to market. They swore as they continued on, knowing that if they didn’t find the troublemakers Lord Cutter was going to have their heads.
Eight
Twilight crept on soft, padded feet into the garden behind the Dreaming Dragon. Mari sat on a stone bench, watching as the pale crescent of the moon rose above the city’s spires, its silken light glimmering off the moon-and-harp pin she wore on her jacket. The faint, sweet scent of the first crocuses hung upon the cool evening air, and the mourning doves that nested in the branches of an ancient oak tree sang their gentle song. She folded the piece of parchment she held and slipped it into her pocket. It was a missive from the Harpers.
She had managed to slip away to the free market in the New City that afternoon to meet the messenger, but later Caledan had nearly caught her reading the secret communication. That would not have been good. The missive came from the hand of Belhuar Thantarth, from Twilight Hall in Berdusk. Continue your close contact with Caldorien, the missive had instructed her. However, he is not to discover from you what we already know. His resentment of the Harpers runs far too deep for him to believe what we have learned. He must discover the importance of the shadow magic himself.
Mari heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching and looked up to see the big loremaster, Tyveris. He smiled broadly as he walked toward her, his teeth white in the moonlight, and Mari could not help but smile in return. There was a gentleness about the priest of Oghma despite his size, and he seemed perpetually good-natured.
“Estah would not be pleased if you caught a chill out here, Mari,” Tyveris said reprovingly, though as always there was a kindly note in his voice. He held out a midnight blue cloak and wrapped it about her shoulders. Mari tensed for a second when she realized that the cloak was Caledan’s, then she relaxed. Tyveris meant well, and besides, he was right. The air w
as chilly, and she had been shivering.
“Thank you, Tyveris,” she said, pulling the cloak tightly about herself.
“It really isn’t safe to be out here so long, you know.” Tyveris’s dark eyes were concerned behind his spectacles. “The Zhentarim are combing the city for us after our exploits yesterday. Ferret’s already … er … disposed of one guard who ventured too near the inn. You should come inside.”
“I will,” she said. “I was simply … thinking, that’s all.”
“Are you well, Mari?” Tyveris sat next to her on the bench. It groaned alarmingly beneath his bulk.
Mari smiled at the massive Tabaxi. “Oh, it’s nothing really,” she told him. “This is just a day for memories, that’s all.” She took a deep breath of the purple air, sighing. “I was raised by a Harper, you know. Master Andros was his name. When I was a child, in the city of Elturel, both of my parents died of the fever. After that, I lived on the streets for several months, finding food where I could. But then winter came. I don’t know if I would have survived. Or, if I had survived, what I might have become. That was when Master Andros found me.”
Mari thought back to that cold day, to the small, thin girl she had been, shivering in her rags in a storm drain beneath an abandoned building. She had been so afraid at first when the man had stopped and peered in at her through the grating. But his blue eyes had been so kind that finally she had reached out and taken his hand.
“He took me in, like you take in children at the abbey, Tyveris. We lived in a small, rambling cottage, filled with books, and maps, and musical instruments. He was growing older and didn’t travel for the Harpers anymore. We spent our evenings together by the fire, reading, making music, or talking about ancient days. But Master Andros was more than just my teacher. He was my father, Tyveris, and my friend.”
The loremaster laid one of his big hands gently on Mari’s own. “How long ago did his spirit move on?” he asked her softly.
“Three years ago today,” she said, surprised at the tightness in her throat and the trembling in her voice. What would Master Andros think of her? He had always taught her to be strong. “I joined the Harpers after he died,” she said, clenching her jaw and forcing her trembling to stop. “I want more than anything to make him proud of me.”
