"My eyes are beginning to play tricks on me," the dwarf said, as quietly as he could over the roaring of the wind.
"Mine, too," Jacob said. He halted and moved a step from the wall, giving himself space to wield his two-handed sword. "Show yourselves!" he shouted in challenge. "Come on!"
Rings automatically turned and put his back to the tall warrior, guarding his flank. At the fringe of his vision he saw them now, brown and withered figures that approached in fluttering tatters of cloth and flesh. They were long dead, of course, silent phantoms with cruel talons and eyes that burned like witch fire. Rings balanced his fighting axe in his right hand and crouched, ready to strike. "How many on your side?" he asked.
"Enough," Jacob answered. "And you?"
"More than enough," Rings answered. The first mummy reached him, clubbing its knotted fists down at his head. He twisted aside and took the corpse's leg off at the knee with one swift stroke, then ducked under the swing of a rust-flaked sword that broke on the wall beside him. He hewed the ancient warrior's arm from its body, then stumbled to the ground as the first one he'd felled tripped him with its grappling talons. Cold, bony claws raked deep into the flesh of his thigh, and Rings gagged in pain and revulsion. He smashed the creature's skull with one blow of his axe and pried its talons from his leg while the next one advanced to attack. "Jacob!" he called.
There was no reply. Rings staggered back a step, drove off the next dead one with a flurry of slashes, then risked a glance over his shoulder. Half a dozen of the ancient dead lay in the sand, hacked limb from limb, and in the swirling darkness he thought he saw a gleam of white movement as the Tyrian warrior danced and spun among the relentless horde, blade flashing. "Jacob! Stay close!" Rings shouted. Then he had to turn back to defend himself from an ancient priest-thing that attacked him with a heavy bronze sceptre. When next he looked, he could see nothing of Jacob at all.
More of the dead warriors closed in on him, forcing him to turn constantly, defending his flank and back. Rings howled a challenge that was swept away by the voiceless wind, smashed a hulking warrior to the ground, then turned again to put the stone of the old wall to his shoulders. His outstretched fingers felt nothing but emptiness behind him; there was a breach in the wall, and no foes in the gloom beyond.
Rings didn't waste a moment; he turned and ran for his life, hoping that there was nothing worse in the gloom than the horror of walking dead he'd left behind him. He floundered past blank stone and hissing sand, scratched and clawed in a dozen places. "Belgin! Miltiades! Jacob!" he called, staggering through the ruins. "Belgin!"
There was no reply.
The paladin and the sharper advanced cautiously into the Netherese palace, tendrils of sand shifting and dancing around their feet as the wind howled through the doorway and clutched at their cloaks. The room beyond was a shallow portico, with tall columns carved into the image of ancient warriors supporting a low ceiling of heavy stone block. Three passageways led into the building, dark and dusty in the deepening gloom.
"Which way?" asked Belgin.
Miltiades turned his head from side to side, concentrating. "Straight ahead," he replied. They moved down a long hall decorated with ancient frescoes that still held a hint of their color, showing cryptic scenes of bronze-skinned people in cotton kilts. Some fought in great battles; others worked in broad fields of grain; a few stood above the others conjuring mighty spells out of the air. The passage came to an abrupt end at an archway framed by rough-dressed stone. A narrow flight of steps ran down into the darkness beyond. "She's down there somewhere."
"Great," muttered Belgin. "Another dungeon, or crypt, or subterranean hall of horrors. Why don't creatures of irredeemable evil ever set up house in some pleasant, sunny spot?"
"You wouldn't take them seriously if they did," Miltiades replied.
Hammer at the ready, he advanced down the stair, crouching to avoid striking his head on the low ceiling. Belgin followed, trailing his free hand along the wall. After twenty or thirty steps, the passage opened in a broad hall lined with rows of plain stone columns. Around the perimeter of the room dozens of blank stone archways were evely spaced along the wall, each surrounded by an intricate ring of rune-etched stone. The long, low chamber extended into the darkness.
"These look familiar," breathed Belgin quietly.
"Aye. More portals," Miltiades agreed. "Where do they all go?"
The sharper moved closer to the nearest portal and carefully brushed the dust from its circle of runes. He traced the inscription with one finger, whispering under his breath, then stepped back. "This one goes to Chessenta, I think. Or an old Mulhorese ruin that I've heard of that lies in that land." He moved over to the next one, scrutinizing it carefully. "Here's one that goes to a place called Myth Drannor. Ever hear of it?"
"Don't open it!" Miltiades barked quickly. "It wouldn't make things any better."
I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to. Gates such as these often need very specific keys to open. Unless the builders of these archways were kind enough to hide the activating phrase in these inscriptions…" The sharper turned back to study the archway.
Miltiades watched Belgin for a long moment. The ancient hieroglyphs meant nothing to him, preceding the ancient days in which he'd led his first life by thousands of years. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as Belgin moved to the next archway and softly traced the stone carving. "Hold, scoundrel!" he cried, darting forward to catch the sharper by the wrist. "You worked magic to comprehend these runes!"
"Tyr has no problem with the practice of magic, does he?" Belgin answered angrily, pulling his hand from Miltiades's grasp. "How could I read this gibberish otherwise?"
"Tyr takes no offense at the working of magic, but he does have a problem with deception," grated the paladin. "Who are you, pirate? What are you doing here? Explain yourself!"
Belgin straightened and drew back his shoulders, a scowl settling over his round face. "What do you care?" he said sharply. "I'm exactly what you see-a pirate, a cutthroat, a dandy and a sharp. I take from those too weak or too stupid to defend themselves. I've stolen from kings and from beggars. I've killed good men and bad. I've reneged on my bargains, lied to those who trusted me, turned my back on those in need. Sometimes I've dared a deed worthy of a song, and more often I've murdered a song before it was born. That's who I am, paladin. If you don't like it, keep your judgments to yourself."
"You have led an unjust life," said Miltiades.
"Well, life's been unjust to me."
"You feel remorse," the paladin said.
"What does it matter if I do? It's a vanity of mine."
"No, it's not vanity. I know evil when I see it, Belgin. That's the weight and the gift of paladinhood. And whatever you think, evil isn't in your heart."
You've got to be kidding me. Belgin almost laughed, but his damaged lungs could only manage a shallow wheeze. "It's a bit late to save me, paladin, although I'm sure my mother'd thank you for trying."
Miltiades laughed quietly. "Fine. So how much do you know of magic?"
"Only a smattering. I've knowledge of about a dozen spells, none suitable for battling a creature such as Eidola. Most of my magic is in illusion and charms."
"How did a pirate come to learn the wizard's art?"
Belgin straightened, a grimace of pain flitting across his face. "You'd be surprised at how far a little illusion magic goes at the card table, or at what a swindler can do with a simple charm." How's that for irony? he thought. I can't even take a shill without cheating somehow. He laughed again, his strength returning. "Besides, I wasn't always a pirate. I learned what I know years before I came aboard the Kissing Shark." Suddenly the pirate straightened, looking back toward the passage they'd descended. Something dragged softly on the stone steps above.
The paladin opened his mouth, but Belgin silenced him with an upraised hand. The air grew cold, and the bitter chill threatened to start him coughing again. "We're not alone," he whispered.
"I
feel it, Belgin." Biting his lip, the paladin stepped away from the door. He glanced around, then nodded across the dark hall. "I still sense Eidola in that direction. Come on." Leaving the stair behind, they crossed the hall of pillars, only to find another stair leading up.
Bounding up the steps, they emerged into the shrieking chaos of the sandstorm. They stood in the ruins of a small shrine or stone patio, its roof long since gone. Belgin could feel something climbing steadily up the dark steps behind them, deliberate and unhurried. "Where's the doppelganger?" he shouted at Miltiades.
I’m not sure. She's moving again!"
"Well, pick a direction! I don't want to find out what's behind us!"
Miltiades glanced over his shoulder at the dark stairway, then scanned the rubble around them. His eye fell on a drum-shaped piece of masonry, evidently once a piece of a pillar. He stumbled over to the stone and triecT to lift it. "Help me!" he cried. Belgin scrambled over and joined him. Together they flipped the stone onto its edge and hauled it to the top of the steps.
Green-glowing eyes looked up at them as something clad in ancient bronze climbed toward them, a long glaive of emerald fire burning in its yellowed hands. More eyes glinted in the darkness beneath it. The paladin and the sharper exchanged one look, then set their shoulders to the stone. It teetered for a moment on the topmost step and then tipped over, rolling down the stairs with an ear-shattering clatter. The skeletal warriors moved slowly to avoid the block, but there was no room to dodge. In a roar of dust and stone they were swept away down the stairs. "What was that?" Belgin panted as the resounding echoes died away.
"You don't want to know," Miltiades answered. He straightened, setting a hand to his back with a wince. "I'm getting too old for this. Come on. Eidola's somewhere in that direction."
Staggering against the storm's rage, they blundered out into the ancient streets.
Jacob slashed his way clear of the dessicated mummies with a burst of superhuman speed and strength, leaving a dozen or more of the ancient warriors dismembered in the sand-swept street. For the moment, no enemies stalked him. Shielding his frail human eyes with an upraised arm, he trudged back into the wind, seeking the colonnaded palace. Rings he dismissed as dead; if the creatures that had attacked them didn't get the dwarf, something else surely would. Jacob could sense the malignant sentience behind the sandstorm and the walking dead, and it seemed likely it would try to isolate and destroy them. "Well, feel free to try," he snorted into the storm. I’ve a surprise or two for you, whatever you are."
The storm didn't bother to reply. Jacob shrugged and continued, feeling his way across the open square. A dark shape loomed up out of the gloom, with another behind it, and a third dimly visible behind that-a row of columns, standing on a stone porch. "I'll be damned,"
Jacob muttered. Now, which way? He'd been wrong before and gone too far to the right, which meant that he needed to follow the portico to the left to find the doorway inside… or so he thought. He decided to turn left and slogged on through the drifting sand, keeping the columns in sight.
A prickling in the back of his neck warned him of danger. Whirling, he lashed out with his sword, just in time to meet the attack of a tall, powerful mummy with eyes of green flame. The undead thing hissed in frustration as white steel met the fall of its black scythe and pressed closer, drawing back for another strike. Jacob scrambled back for space to fight, slipped on the stone steps, and fell back into the sand. Dazed, he shook his head to clear his vision.
The ancient warrior towered over him, scythe poised for the kill. "I don't think so," Jacob said. With boneless ease he shifted his form, instantly transforming his left arm into a steel spear and punching it through the mummy's empty skull. The withered torso collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Jacob quickly resumed his original form and stood, looking around for the next attack.
"Very good," said a voice behind him, cutting through the wind like a blade of cold steel. Jacob turned slowly, a feral grin on his features. Watching from the shadows of the colonnade stood an athletic human woman in black leather, a strand of hemp hiding at her collar. "I didn't expect that."
I’ve been looking for you," Jacob said.
Interlude
… Of Monsters and Men Portals, portals everywhere. Which one do I seek?
Eidola won't do for this. She's strong, swift, and beautiful, but she doesn't know a thing about the works of ancient Netheril or the crafting of spells. The minotaur and the mastiff are useless now, the cuttlefish demon too. The great fiend? No, it was merely a shell. If I'd really conquered a balor, I'd have no need of a wizard's magic-I could walk the planes by wishing it so. It was good enough to get me past the fiends that swarmed through Aetheric's dungeons, but I'm not a balor. Not even close.
But Jarin, on the other hand… Jarin has served me well on many occasions. His knowledge of sorcery is impressive for one so young. Hell have the knowledge I seek.
Before I crafted Eidola, Jarin was a persona I used quite often. It takes only a moment of concentration to shape the familiar features, the hawklike gaze, the handsome face. My mind takes the shape of his, and knowledge floods into my brain. I've forgotten how to disarm a swordsman with a twist of my wrist, I've forgotten how to mend damaged mail and how to kill with blows of my bare human fists-but I remember now the Art, and a dozen languages long forgotten, and the sensation of Mystra's weave gliding beneath the touch of my fingers and the force of my will. It might be the next best thing to my true self.
As Jarin, the faded hieroglyphs suddenly take on meaning. Myth Drannor. Cormanthyr. Menzoberrazan. Oh, if only I'd known of this place years ago! The Netherese must have scattered tombs across all of Faerun and perhaps even farther, to judge by these names I don't know. What cult or sect went to this trouble? Who did they inter in this fashion, and why? And how-Enough. That's the curiosity of Jarin. I need an answer, not a history lesson. The paladin and his ally will track me soon enough. I could probably defeat them now, but Miltiades has a nasty habit of surviving. Better to leave him here if I can, or to face him on familiar territory if he still follows.
Here. The Hall of Swords. A portal leading to the heart of Undermountain! Who could have guessed that even in the depths of the Mad Mage's domain a Netherese lord sleeps? It's amazing that Faerun holds together, considering how it's been riddled with gates and conduits, portals and doorways from a dozen lost peoples. If I had anything like a sense of wonder, I might be impressed.
Instead, I search for the portal's key. Jarin has spells to reveal such things. Best to move swiftly, before the paladin returns.
Raising Jarin's hands, I begin to weave a spell.
Chapter 4
Masks and Machinations
"Eidola's gone!" Miltiades halted in the lee of an old wall, dropping to one knee. Before him, lying half-buried in the sand, he saw the pale outline of Noph's lasso. In frustration the tall paladin slammed one armored fist against the wall and turned his face away from the stinging sand. "How could she have freed herself from the rope?"
Belgin crouched next to him, taking what shelter he could from the weathered stones. The sharper rubbed at bis jaw, frowning at the gritty coating of sand that came away with his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair and realized that he'd been thoroughly covered in dust and grit. How about a long holiday when this is all over, my boy? he thought ruefully. "Did you know Eidola to work magic?''
"No, as Eidola she has no such skill," Miltiades replied. "I saw her fight against Aetheric's minions when she was abducted. The sword, not the spell, was her weapon."
"Then the only thing I can think of is that she somehow found someone or something to command the lasso to release her. Damn the luck!" He paused, then added, "Can you shift the target of your seeking spell?"
"No, I can only perceive the first object that I decide to seek."
"She could be anywhere," Belgin muttered. He reached down and picked up the lasso, coiling it at his belt. "I guess I'll give this back to Noph
if-damn!"
"What? What is it?" Miltiades asked.
"We've got another problem, Miltiades," the sharper said. "Why would Eidola abandon the lasso once she'd escaped from it? Magic of this sort is too valuable and rare to leave lying about, after all."
"She left it here because we were using it to track her movements."
"And how could she have known that?" Belgin asked bitterly.
The paladin stared at the sharper blankly for a long moment, and then sighed. "Jacob or Rings. She must have defeated one or both of them." He worked his fists together, slamming metal into metal as he thought furiously.
"Which way now?" Belgin asked quietly.
"Back to the palace," Miltiades said. "If I were her, I'd double back and try to find a portal that led to someplace else. Besides, that's where Rings and Jacob are most likely to look for us, if they still live."
"It's as good a guess as any."
They pushed off into the storm again, trying to feel their way back toward the palace. Belgin found himself throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. He hadn't forgotten the undead things that followed them up out of the hall of doors, and the storm around them seemed to hiss and coil with a sentient malevolence. If I had a lick of sense, I'd leave Miltiades to his vendetta and leave this hateful old ruin miles behind me, he thought.
As if he'd stumbled into an unseen razor of steel, bitter cold and visceral horror slid through the sharper's heart. The raging storm seemed to recoil as they stumbled into a clearing of unnatural calm, but the wild and random malevolence that shrieked and wailed all around them seemed to coalesce into a single presence, looming in the ash and dust ahead. Belgin opened his mouth to make light of the creeping horror around them, but for once he had nothing to say.
The whirling dust clouds parted, revealing a tattered brown figure dressed in the cerements of the tomb. Eyes of living green flame blazed in its sunken orbits, frozen emeralds dancing in an open grave. Regal trappings of gold, tarnished and ancient, marked the creature as a great lord of vanished Netheril. A grim company of lesser undead flanked the master, their eyes flickering with dim echoes of the malevolence that burned in their lord's face.
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