Belgin gathered up what dignity he could and looked to Miltiades. "You know her?"
The paladin simply nodded. "She is Aleena Paladinstar." His eyes darkened. "A friend, but one who has much to answer for."
"Good," said the sharper. Td get bored if anything ever became easy or obvious." He began a sweeping bow to the lady before him, but as he moved tearing pain lanced through his chest. Gasping in surprise at the bright blood that fumed from his mouth, Belgin collapsed in the street, darkness whirling in to blanket him.
Silver light danced above him, cool, supernal. He felt light as a feather, almost as if he'd slipped free of some heavy shackle. I'm dying, he realized. He didn't feel much fear, only a little sadness. It wasn't as if he hadn't been expecting it, after all. That was the manner of the blood-forge's curse-you could be fine all day long, only to keel over dead at sunset. Belgin had seen it often enough. If he'd had the strength, he would have laughed until he cried. All the heartache, all the trouble, of the Kissing Shark's last voyage and Entreri's damned contract, and I was going to kick off anyway. There must have been a better way to spend my last days.
"He's fading fast." A woman's voice, distant and concerned. "Cure the affliction quickly, or well lose him."
"I know, I know. But it's not a mundane disease. It's a magical curse, the effect of growing up in a land ruled by a bloodforge."
"If I counter the curse, can you then heal him?"
'Tyr willing, I think so."
Motion now, someone dumping him unceremoniously on a rickety wooden table. Belgin gazed up at the smoke-stained roof-beams of a tavern, impossibly far away. What better place for me to die than in some dismal alehouse? Irony on irony. I'm almost sorry I won't see how this turns out. The woman spoke words he knew, working a potent spell designed to undo curses. He wanted to tell her to save her magic, that the priests of Edenvale had tried that measure long ago, but he couldn't find his breath. Then Miltiades spoke loudly, calling on the power of his god, as his hands descended to rest on Belgin's chest.
Silver Hghtning jolted his chest, although his eyes saw nothing but a soft glow. The sharper gasped and bounced from the table in reaction, then drew a great cold breath that seemed to go on forever. It had been years since he could hold so much air in his lungs. Flinching, he waited for the inevitable fit to rack him again… but this time, it didn't come.
"Belgin? Can you hear me?" Beside him, Miltiades helped him to sit upright. Taut with worry, the paladin peered into his face. "Speak, man! Tyr's power has made you whole again."
"I can breathe," Belgin whispered. He couldn't believe it. He felt weak as a kitten, drained and exhausted, but with some hidden sense he could feel that the wreckage that had cluttered his lungs and stolen his wind for so many months was gone. He sucked in another great gasp of air just to enjoy the sensation. "Miltiades, what did you do?"
"Not I, but Tyr," the paladin answered. He stood and smiled. "The bloodforge disease that ravaged you could not be defeated by magical healing nor undone by simply removing the curse. But both spells together succeeded where either one alone would have failed. Through me, Tyr cured the disease, but only after Aleena here defeated the curse."
The sharper looked from the paladin to the mage and back again. Beyond the two, he became aware of more details of the room beyond. It was the common room of a squalid alehouse, dank and smoky, so small that the three of them seemed to crowd the place. The front door was barred, and in the opposite corner a pair of villainous-looking pirates sprawled, dead or asleep. By the filthy ale tap, a small, mouselike man sat against the wall, bound by the lasso.
"Where are we?" asked Belgin.
"The Broken Pike," answered Miltiades. "We carried you here after you collapsed. Aleena and I had to secure the premises before turning our attention to you." He grimaced. "It's fortunate that we acted when we did. You were on the verge of death."
"Fortunate, indeed," the sharper breathed. "Is that
Marks in the lasso?"
The paladin nodded. "He wasn't inclined to offer us the hospitality of his establishment, so we decided to give him a chance to reconsider." He glanced across the table at Aleena. "Perhaps when we've finished with Marks, well find another use for the lasso of truth. What do you think, Aleena?"
Under the paladin's ire, most men would have flinched, but Aleena simply met his gaze with determination. "I have nothing to hide, Miltiades."
"Fine. Then maybe you'd care to explain why you destroyed the portal and stranded us in the Utter East. Or why we were sent to rescue a monster, not a high lady. Or for that matter why I shouldn't suspect you of being a doppelganger yourself."
Aleena folded her arms and met the paladin's anger with misdirection. "You've learned that Eidola is a doppelganger then? How did you find out?"
"It might have been when she took a crocodile's shape and killed Noph," Belgin said. "Or when she turned into a great black mastiff and ran off through the dungeons of Doegan, or perhaps when she turned into a horrible fiend and commanded a trio of vrock to attack us. Somewhere along the way we figured it out."
The sorceress directed a fierce glare at him, but Belgin only laughed. "Wasn't she wearing a girdle? A large belt, chased with gold and silver?"
"No," Miltiades said. "We never saw any such thing."
"Damn," Aleena sighed. "Someone must have removed it for her."
"Removed what?" Belgin asked.
"The girdle was a magical bond that locked Eidola into her human shape and personality. As long as she wore it, she could work no evil. If she wears it no longer, there's no telling where she could go or what she could do." She frowned, thinking. "You'd better tell me what happened after you arrived in Doegan."
Miltiades started to answer, but Belgin broke in abruptly. "Oh, no. You won't throw us off the scent that easily, my lady. Before Miltiades tells you what he was doing in the Five Kingdoms, maybe you should explain how you knew of this girdle that Eidola should have been wearing. And how you knew that she was a doppelganger." In one fluid motion, he drew his rapier and set the point in the hollow of Aleena's throat. "We've good reason to be suspicious of foes who look like friends these days."
Eyes blazing, Aleena flushed and began to raise her hands. A gentle shake of the sharper's head persuaded her to hold still. "Miltiades, tell this fool to lower his blade," she grated.
The paladin looked at her thoughtfully. "Not yet, Aleena. Answer his question."
"The Blackstaff and I have known of Eidola's true nature for several months now," she said, glaring at Belgin over the shining blade of the rapier. "We keep a close eye on anyone who gets close to Piergeiron, and we spotted her as soon as she made her move against the Open Lord."
"Why didn't you stop her then?" Miltiades demanded. "What kind of game were you playing with your father's life, girl?"
"We didn't strike at her because she possesses a hold of some kind on my father's mind, perhaps even his very soul. We feared that slaying her would kill the Open Lord, too. And if she does hold his soul in her hands, my father would not only be dead but destroyed utterly. We couldn't take the chance." A hint of uncertainty flickered across her proud, confident features. "Khelben and I decided that we had to render Eidola harmless if we couldn't move against her openly. The Blackstaff crafted a girdle of righteousness to bind Eidola. It prevented her from working harm against the Open Lord, or anyone else for that matter, and held her in the shape she currently wore. She couldn't have removed it herself."
"You could have informed me of this before sending me to the Utter East," Miltiades growled.
"Khelben and I hoped that you'd be able to retrieve Eidola with the girdle still binding her. We should have realized that she'd find a way to remove it once she was out of our sight long enough."
"What's the nature of the hold Eidola possesses over this Piergeiron fellow?" Belgin asked.
"I don't know how she did it, but I think that Eidola trapped some portion of his soul within the prison of a soul gem," A
leena answered. "It shouldn't be possible. These devices wrest the victim's soul from his body altogether, destroying him utterly. But Khelben and I can think of no other enchantment that might allow Eidola to hold my father's life in her hands." She gently reached up to push Belgin's rapier from her neck. "Miltiades, every minute we waste places my father in greater danger. Please, we have to catch her quickly."
Belgin looked at the paladin. "Are you satisfied, Miltiades?"
The paladin nodded. "Almost, Belgin. Lower your sword."
With a flourish, Belgin returned his rapier to its scabbard. "My apologies, Lady Aleena. I-" His words were cut off by a sudden icy chill that settled over his limbs, rendering him motionless. A spell of holding! he realized with horror.
The sorceress whispered and gestured, finishing her enchantment. "As long as we're demanding explanations, Miltiades, I thought your companion had a few to offer."
The paladin turned his attention from Aleena to Belgin, the same measuring gaze in his eyes. He held up a silver chain, with a pendant in the shape of a harp suspended from it. "We found this beneath your shirt as we worked to save your life. What business do the Harpers have here, Belgin?"
Belgin's heart sank. He cleared his throat awkwardly but found he could still speak. "I'm no Harper, Miltiades."
"Then why do you wear the pin?" Aleena demanded. "Do you make a habit of impersonating Harpers for your own purposes?"
"I've seen you wield magic, read runes more ancient than any I've ever seen, and track with the skill of a Silverymoon ranger," Miltiades said. "You're no ordinary scoundrel, Belgin, no matter how much you try to pass yourself off as one. You're a bard, and a sldllful one. And you wear the Harp. So how did you come to be in the Utter East, Harper? Did you travel with Entreri, perhaps?"
"Miltiades, we don't have time for this," Belgin grated. "Eidola is-"
"I know about Eidola," the paladin interrupted. "I'm tired of deceptions. Tell me who you really are and what you're doing here."
Belgin closed his eyes and sighed. "Hundreds of years ago, when the Ffolk first came to the lands that would become the Five Kingdoms, there was a bard named Dereth Caelwindar among them. He was one who wore the Harp in the Moonshaes, and he followed the Ffolk to the Utter East and settled in Edenvale. Learning that he was thousands of miles from his brothers and sisters, he decided to continue the tradition as best he could. When he felt his years gaining on him, he selected a young lass to learn the ways of the Harp. Generation after generation, each Harper passed his lore and knowledge to an apprentice, keeping the tradition alive."
"Amazing," breathed Aleena. "Who could have known?"
"Almost twenty years ago, Lady Jaele Serwid chose me to carry on in her footsteps," Belgin continued. He attempted a wry smile. "I fear that I was not much of student. I was certain I had better things to do than carry a torch for a secret brotherhood centuries dead, and I was always quicker to look out for myself than for others around me. I might carry the Harp, Miltiades, but I've never been a Harper."
The paladin studied him a moment longer, and then nodded. "He speaks the truth, Aleena. You may release him."
The cold shackles holding him seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but a memory of immobility. Shivering, Belgin rubbed his arms and stamped his feet. Miltiades offered him the silver pendant again, but Belgin shook his head. "No, you were right. I have no right to wear it."
The paladin pressed the Harp into his hand. "There's more to you than you think, Belgin. I've known more than one Harper in my day. Whatever you've been, whatever you've done, you've earned the Harp as much as anyone I've ever met. Wear it well."
Belgin considered a sharp answer, but to his own surprise he reached for the pendant and slipped it beneath his shirt. For all the things I've done, he thought, betrayal, murder, robbery, and cheating of all descriptions, I still can't bring myself to mock this lonely symbol. Not now. "You have a way of making me believe that I'm more than I am, paladin," he said in wonder. "Why do you do it?"
"A good man is a hammer in the hand of Tyr," Miltiades answered.
By the bar, the small man bound in the lasso of truth groaned and stirred, climbing back to consciousness. The paladin took up the end of the magical lariat and wrapped it loosely around his shield hand, keeping his hammer free for action. After a moment, the man blinked and looked up at Miltiades, towering over him.
"What's going on? Who do you think you are?" he snapped in a shrill voice. "You have no idea who you're tangling with, you arse-kissing numbskull!"
"Marks," said Miltiades wearily, "Be silent and listen to me. I have two questions for you. First, can you walk? And second, can you lead me to the lair of the Unseen?"
The man's face turned red and veins stood out on his forehead as he tried to fight the compulsion of the lasso, but the enchantment proved too strong for him. 'Yes. And yes."
"Well, come on, then. It's time you were about Tyr's work, scoundrel." Miltiades reached down and hauled the small barkeep to his feet, dragging him to the door. He paused to throw a dark cloak over the man, concealing the lasso that bound him, and then opened the door to the rank street. Belgin and Aleena exchanged suspicious glances, then followed. "Lead the way," Miltiades said.
Chapter 6
Justice
Skullport yawned around them, pale fox fire dancing on an open grave. The secret city decayed with a conscious, palpable effort. Mud oozed beneath Belgin's feet. Boards and shingles in the buildings around him creaked and fell, as if something old and rotten was waking from a long slumber. The reek of the place threatened to taint his new-found health, clogging his nose and throat with a noisome miasma he could literally taste. Silent, mindless dead walked all about him, shackled to their rotting corpses by the chains of sinister necromancy. But for Miltiades and Aleena, I'd be one more of those poor souls, he realized. When we're done with this, I think I'll retire to someplace quiet and peaceful. Someplace where the dead stay in the ground and everyone is exactly who they seem to be.
"You are dead men," Marks said clearly. He marched along between Belgin and Miltiades, covered in a moth-eaten robe. The sharper held the lasso close by the man's side, concealing the fact that Marks was securely bound. "You know that, don't you? If you leave now, you might gain a few weeks, maybe a few months, to set your affairs in order. We'll find you soon enough."
"I hate waiting," Belgin said amicably. "If I'm going to be killed anyway, today's as good a day as any. Now, where next?"
"This way," the small man muttered, scuffing his feet in the mud. He shuffled ahead, glaring fiercely at the humans who followed him. They only traveled a few hundred yards as the bat flew, but no street in the hidden city ran straight for more than twenty paces at a time. They twisted and turned through alleys and courts, along streets and over rickety wharves, turning again and again.
"Are you taking us to the Unseen by the most direct route?" Aleena asked archly.
"Yes," snarled Marks. "You'll regret.”
"Shut up," Belgin advised. The man fell silent, fuming and helpless. The sharper looked over the short scoundrel at Miltiades, striding along with unswerving determination. "Miltiades, do you have any plan of action when we find these creatures?"
"Smite them," the paladin answered. "Attack directly, with justice and righteousness on our side. Hit them hard."
"You'd make a lousy pirate," Belgin muttered. He scratched at his jaw, considering his next approach. "What if there are a lot of them? I mean, more than you can smite?"
The paladin looked over at him. "There are never too many," he said softly.
The sharper paused a long moment. "Right," he said thoughtfully. "Lady Aleena, perhaps you have some stratagem in mind?"
The Waterdhavian shook her head and met Belgin's gaze with a condescending sniff. "I'm working on it. I think I can come up with-wait, someone comes."
She broke off and drew Belgin and Miltiades toward a reeking derelict of a building, sheltering in the shadows of its overhanging u
pper stories. The bard tapped Marks softly on the shoulder and shook his head, cautioning the prisoner to silence.
From the gloom ahead of them, a familiar figure in shining silver armor appeared, flanked by a brawny youth in golden scale mail and a seasoned old warrior carrying a long quarterstaff. Miltiades started in disbelief. "It's Jacob! With Kern and Trandon!"
"Ho there, Miltiades!" Jacob called. With a quick sweep of his eyes, he surveyed the street, searching for threats. Satisfied, he turned toward their place of concealment. "You'll never believe who I found wandering around in this forsaken hole!"
"Kern! Trandon! What are you doing here? Where are the others?" Miltiades said, stepping forward to greet them. "Did you succeed in foiling Entreri's designs?"
Kern smiled. He looked a little tired, but cheered by the sight of his friend and mentor. "Well, we followed you after we finished our business in Doegan. Entreri and Noph are dead. The others chose to remain in Doegan to fight off the fiends."
'You destroyed the bloodforge, then?" Belgin asked.
Kern glanced at Trandon, then nodded. "Yes," he answered. "We thought we'd come after you as quickly as we could to help you track down Eidola."
"I should've known we'd end up here again," Trandon remarked.
"Where did you find them, Jacob?" Miltiades asked.
"Yes, where did you find them?" Belgin added. "And what drew you away from the fight with the skull guardians? Those things almost killed us."
Jacob trotted closer. "What's the plan, Miltiades? Is this Marks?"
He pointed past Miltiades at the small man bound in the lasso. The paladin turned at his gesture, looking over his shoulder at the prisoner who stood behind him. Jacob's grin faded and his eyes went dark as cold coals. In the space of a single step his great sword appeared in his hand, almost as if it were a part of him.
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