The door stood ajar when he and Skagi arrived. They could see the merchant pacing back and forth in front of the door. During one pass, he saw them and beckoned.
The room was smaller than Ashok expected from the merchant, who dealt in some of the most exotic goods in Ikemmu. Tatigan had a reputation for catering specifically to the needs of the shadar-kai and their constant search for new experiences and pleasures. His own quarters were simple, but what furnishings he owned appeared to be of the finest quality, even to Ashok’s uneducated eyes.
A large bed covered in thick blankets and furs took up one side of the room; a dark wood table with two chairs matched a large desk at the far side of the room. The smoothly polished wood grain followed a beautiful pattern like falling rain. Maps of Ikemmu, the Underdark, and various parts of Faerûn covered the walls. Next to them hung a single painting of a green landscape—a vast forest as seen from a distance through pale mist. A path veered through the wood, and on the path were riders wearing a livery Ashok didn’t recognize.
“That’s Cormyr,” Tatigan said, following Ashok’s gaze. “I’m told the painting once belonged to Azoun IV, a former king, though I’ve never had it verified.”
“How go your studies of Ikemmu?” Ashok asked. He nodded to the stacks of parchment on the merchant’s desk, a strange mixture of account keeping and research notes written in spidery shorthand.
“Well enough. I don’t have as much time for them as I’d like, but now that you’re here, maybe I’ll make some progress,” Tatigan said. He had on loose-fitting trousers and a silk shirt overlaid with a vest of light gray fur. As was his custom, he wore spectacles with dark green lenses, even in the dimness of the lantern-lit room.
“What makes you say that?” Ashok said.
“Oh, that reminds me, I have something I think you’ll want to try, Skagi.” Ignoring Ashok’s question, the merchant went to the table, pulled out both chairs for them, and took down a decanter of wine and two glasses from a shelf above his head. He poured a taste into one of the glasses and handed it to Skagi.
“Don’t need to be so stingy,” Skagi said, eyeing the tiny amount. “I wasn’t going to drink it all.”
Tatigan chuckled. “You’ll want to take this vintage slowly, my friend. It hits you when you least expect it.”
Skagi sniffed the drink, then drained the glass in one swallow despite the merchant’s warning. Tatigan poured a slightly greater amount into the second glass and offered it to Ashok.
Ashok took the glass, but he hesitated before putting it to his mouth. “What did you mean when you said you’d make progress with me here?”
“Godsdamn, this is the stuff!”
Ashok turned to see Skagi half out of his chair, his hands pressed against the floor as if for balance. When he looked up, Ashok saw he was sweating, his eyes feverish, but he grinned at both of them.
“More?” Tatigan asked politely.
Skagi made a grab for his glass, missed, but picked it up on the second try. He waved it in the air.
“You can’t be drunk already?” Ashok said. “I’ve seen you drain four flagons that were each larger than this decanter without losing your wits.”
“Yes, but his body isn’t used to the jhuild,” Tatigan said. “Rashemi firewine.”
Ashok looked at Tatigan sharply. “This is from Rashemen?”
“Oh yes, I understand you’ll be making a journey there,” the merchant said with feigned nonchalance. “Did you know the Rashemi are the only people in Faerûn who make the jhuild? One decanter is worth more than the pair of you, so a trickle is all you get. Enjoy.”
His curiosity aroused, Ashok drained his glass. Immediately he felt the wine’s warmth in his blood, as potent as if he’d drunk half a bottle. The drink left a strange aftertaste on his tongue, making it feel thick and awkward in his mouth. He took a step forward and back to test his balance, but his reflexes didn’t seem to be as impaired as Skagi’s were. Yet when he lifted his hands, for a breath, his vision blurred and a tremor went through his hands. His heartbeat quickened, and a burning sensation spread through his chest, slowly at first, but then so fast he broke into a sweat. He couldn’t control his heartbeat.
“This isn’t wine,” he snarled. He braced a hand against the wall to keep from falling. “You poisoned us.”
“Of course I did.” Tatigan took Ashok’s glass and refilled it. Instead of handing it back to him, the merchant took a drink. “That’s what jhuild is—wine so potent it attacks your body. It won’t kill you, but your system fights with it, so you have to monitor your limits. But if you can find the right balance between kill and cure—and isn’t that the essence of liquor?—the jhuild will make you stronger. The berserkers drink it among the Rashemi.”
He was right. Ashok’s body slowly adapted to the effects of the drink. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Rashemi obviously didn’t brew the jhuild for flavor, at least not in the way other wines were carefully bottled and aged to bring out their subtleties. This brew dominated the senses—the firewine masters me until my body masters it—then came the experience of flavors. Gods, he never knew there was such a thing as a battle with wine.
“Who are these berserkers?” Ashok said.
“The warriors of Rashemen,” Tatigan explained. “When we get there, you’ll likely meet them. They have fangs—battle groups—to protect every village in the country.”
“We?” Ashok said, surprised. “You’ll be on the caravan with us?”
“Leading the caravan, you mean.” Tatigan couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “For years I’ve attached myself to other crews to peddle my goods, but I’m tired of the small scale. I’ve started a venture with three other merchants, a coster caravan that’ll claim the Golden Way trade route as its own. We leave soon to beat the first snows in the North. Uwan tells me that, by happy coincidence, you have business in Rashemen with the wychlaran and need an escort, which I offered to provide.”
Ashok took back his glass from Tatigan. He swirled the liquid and watched it settle, taking in the color and vibrancy of the wine while he tried to take in Tatigan’s words. Firewine, berserkers, fangs—he wanted to know more about these Rashemi, but first, he needed to know how much Tatigan knew about his own mission into their country. “Did Uwan tell you what our business in Rashemen was?” he asked carefully.
“No, and I didn’t ask. As always, I serve the Watching Blade and the city of Ikemmu,” Tatigan said, offering a whimsical half bow. “Besides, it will be good to have as many skilled warriors as possible along for our first outing. Everyone benefits.”
Ashok took another drink—a sip this time—of the jhuild. He shuddered as the poisoned pleasure hit him. “Warriors that brew this drink could understand the shadar-kai,” he murmured.
Tatigan looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. “See now, that’s why I’m glad you stopped by to see me, Ashok. You always say such interesting things.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Tatigan went to his desk and sat on the edge. He lifted one of the parchment sheets. “I make the same observation here in my research.” He read the text aloud. “ ‘Faerûn’s native humans are ill-equipped to confront the driven nature of the shadar-kai, their motivations, and goals. Relationships, particularly trade relations, are by no means impossible—we have daily evidence of success—but the discord in their natures creates a barrier in social and cultural interactions. Of all the human peoples in Faerûn, the ones most suited to understand the shadar-kai are the Rashemi.’ ” He set the parchment back down.
“The history of Rashemen is fraught with war and strife,” Tatigan went on. He pointed at the map on the wall. “Even their geography works against them. Look: Their southern neighbors, the Thayans, launched countless invasions over hundreds of years. From the East, the Tuigan horde did the same, to say nothing of the lost empires of Narfell and Raumathar—powers that used Rashemi land as a battleground. Despite all this, their people carve home and glory out of a harsh, i
solated environment. They submit utterly to the authority of the wychlaran—witches—and reward their warriors for superior skill and fighting prowess. In battle, frenzy consumes their berserker warriors, a force that rivals the ecstasy of pain and suffering embraced by the children of Netheril, the shadar-kai. The great irony is that the isolated natures of both peoples would never allow one to seek out the other for an alliance.”
“Until now,” Ashok said.
“Precisely.”
“Can we expect a fight from these berserkers?” Skagi said. Like Ashok, he’d regained his composure from the jhuild.
“That all depends,” Tatigan said. “They open their lands for trade caravans, though they never welcome outsiders with open arms. Shadar-kai have walked among them before as sellswords on caravan runs out from Ikemmu, so you’re nothing new to them—a curiosity perhaps, but nothing more.”
“This isn’t a trading mission for us. We’re approaching their people directly for aid,” Ashok said quietly. He took another sip of the red liquid. It burned on his lips. “That changes the game.”
“Indeed,” Tatigan said. “Honestly, I’m looking forward to seeing how all the pieces come together.”
“If our relations are poor, you’ll be in the middle of it,” Skagi pointed out.
“He’s right,” Ashok said. “Does your voice carry any weight among the Rashemi? Could you help us secure an audience with the witches?”
“The wychlaran don’t involve themselves with common trade matters,” Tatigan said. “The most I could do is talk to the local folk on your behalf, but it won’t make you less suspicious. No, in this you’re going to be on your own.”
If Ilvani was dreaming about a Rashemi witch, there had to be a reason for it. “We’ll just have to make them understand our need,” Ashok said.
Skagi held up his empty glass. “And get them to share their firewine.”
CHAPTER
SIX
DURING THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, ASHOK STAYED ON THE fringes of the caravan preparations. Reflecting the dynamic of the races in Ikemmu, there was little for him or the other shadar-kai to do—this stage of the journey belonged to the merchants of the coster caravan.
The plan as Uwan had laid it out with Tatigan was for Ashok, Skagi, Cree, and Ilvani to escort Tatigan, accompanied by three other merchants and their personal guards, through the Underdark side of the city. They and the rest of the crew, including the drovers and the wagons, would then use a portal to transport themselves and the trade cargo to the surface of Faerûn.
Tatigan and several other wealthy merchants in Ikemmu paid a bloated sum in coin to maintain the portal in order to transport cargo. Of course, the magic that powered the portal was unstable—all the merchants knew that. More often than not, they lost cargo, and sometimes entire wagons were transported across half of Faerûn in the opposite direction from where they intended to go, but most of the merchants felt it was worth the risk to avoid losing half their yearly incomes to drow raiding parties.
In the meantime, though, Ashok did not sit idle. He had his own tasks to complete, his own preparations to make. And though it pained him, the first thing he did was return to the forges and the scene of Olra’s murder.
He found the woman he and Olra had rescued at work alone by the fire. Clerics had healed her wounds, but Ashok noticed a small tattoo of a black snake wound around her arm, just below where the creature had bitten her.
She worked meticulously and with such concentration that she didn’t notice when Ashok entered the hut. She held a length of red-glowing metal in gloved hands, a fiery brand that would become a sword when she finished molding it.
The woman turned and saw him. She had dark hair drawn into a tail away from her face. A pair of silver studs pierced her nose, and across her collarbone was another tattoo—a length of spiked chain not unlike his own.
“I wondered when you’d come back,” she said. Her voice was gentle, at odds with the harsh forge fire and the gleaming brand she held up between them. The red fire reflected in her black eyes.
“I left my weapon behind,” Ashok said.
The unforged weapon drew his gaze. The metal was hot enough to sear flesh, yet she held the brand up close to her face without flinching, studying every curve, each imperfection in the metal.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the forge master said. “I find I like the metal best in this shape—unforged, barely more than a thought.”
“I’d always heard the blacksmith loves the finished weapon best,” Ashok observed.
“Oh, there’s beauty in that, too, and a blood bond between the forger and the blade. But in this breath, the metal is only what we make of it in our thoughts. It’s perfect in a way it never will be again. We bend and shape it, so malleable, even though it has the power to burn us down. There is always the risk that the fire will maim us and master us.”
“And there lies the joy,” Ashok murmured.
“For all shadar-kai,” the woman said. “I see in my mind now the warrior who will claim this blade. She haunts my dreams, whispering to me to curve the steel inward, shape the hilt thus and so. She is quite demanding.”
“You know who she is?” Ashok asked.
“No,” the woman said, “and I likely never will. It’s not my place to know where the weapons go when they leave my forge, but I dream of the wonders they’ve seen, the blood they’ve tasted in battle.” She blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “Oh, and my name is Kerthta. Forgive my manner, but I don’t converse with many people. May I know you?”
“I’m Ashok. How is your arm?”
She touched the tattoo, and a fleeting emotion crossed her face, too quickly hidden for Ashok to identify it. “I’m healed. I wear this to honor the leader of the Camborrs.”
Something in the way she said the title struck Ashok. “Did you know Olra?” he asked.
Kerthta nodded. “I wear the snake to honor her. I claim no part in its defeat.”
And something else became clear to Ashok then, as he replayed the memory of Olra running toward the forge huts and raising the alarm, the desperation in her cry. Ashok had never stopped to wonder at it, at why she’d been afraid when she should have been charging into battle exhilarated. And her eagerness to kill the snake … Now Ashok knew what drove her.
“You honor her well,” Ashok said.
The woman didn’t answer. She went to the wall next to the forge and removed his spiked chain from a peg. She brought it to him, and Ashok saw in the firelight that she’d cleaned and sharpened the spikes to razor points. There was more—an odd sheen reflected from the metal, but he attributed it to the wavering firelight.
“I once wielded a similar weapon, before I trained for the forge,” the woman said. She let the links dangle from her hands like rolls of silk. “As I honor Olra, so I try to do the same when I give this weapon back to you. It is more than it was. I’ve placed magic in the steel that can cut where it would never have cut before. May you treat it better than you treated Olra.”
Reaching for the weapon, Ashok stopped and let his hands fall. He went cold inside. “I didn’t mean to let her die. I did everything I could to prevent it.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Kerthta said. “You heard her final wishes, and so did I. They were the words of a friend, yet you discarded them.”
Ashok’s face flushed with shame and anger. “I couldn’t control the shadow snake. A Camborr must always control or, if he cannot, kill. Olra’s rule.”
“So you did. You killed the snake.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Make no mistake, Ashok, the hands of the forge masters guide the weapons of Ikemmu as surely as if we wielded them ourselves,” Kerthta said. “I tell you, you fought well and bear no shame.”
“I keep my own counsel where my battles are concerned,” Ashok said. “Olra was dying. She chose me for an honor I don’t deserve.”
Kerthta shook her head in disgust. “Then take your weapon and go.” She dr
opped his chain in the dirt.
Jaw clenched, Ashok bent and retrieved it. His pride almost caused him to leave the chain behind, but he knew he would need it for what lay ahead. He left the hut.
Ashok sought out Neimal just after the Monril bell. Having retrieved one weapon, Ashok reflected with grim humor that it was time to reclaim another.
He found Neimal by the city gate, issuing instructions to the Guardians who were about to go out to their posts at the Shadowfell portal.
“Your friend is still out there,” she said when Ashok approached. “I don’t like having my portal Guardians stand out on the plain listening to that beast’s screaming. I’ve had to shorten the guard shifts because of it.”
“It’s my fault,” Ashok said. “I should have done something about him before now. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Neimal raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were going off with the caravan to the mirror world.”
“I am,” Ashok said, “but I want to take the nightmare with me.”
Neimal laughed. Ashok had never heard the witch show true amusement, but her voice was full of it now. “You’re the craziest shadar-kai I’ve ever encountered, Ashok, and I’ve seen some interesting things guarding this wall. Taking a nightmare on a caravan run full of humans and horses—I wonder which one of them will bolt first?”
“That’s why I need your help,” Ashok said. He could feel the excitement building in his blood. He hadn’t felt this alive in days and wished he could thank some creature other than the nightmare for it. “I need you to put an enchantment on the beast, as you did for me once before. But this time I need an illusion to make it look like a normal horse.”
“It won’t matter how normal the thing looks or acts—the caravan crew will sense the aura of terror it projects,” Neimal said. “The horses will feel it first and break their harnesses, and then the humans will react. Their dreams will drive them mad.”
“The nightmare has always targeted me with its visions,” Ashok said. “Their dreams will be safe. As for the rest, can you give me a spell to mask its aura? Something to outlast the journey?”
Unbroken Chain: The Darker Road Page 8
