Twilight Falling

by Paul S. Kemp

Riven, seated on the cot, leaned back against the wall and guffawed. He was sure too.

  Only then did the implications of what the halfling had said hit Cale.

  “Wait, you detect no magic at all?”

  “No. Should I?” While he spoke, Jak removed an ivory bowled pipe from one of his belt pouches and fished around in another for his tin of pipeweed.

  “I don’t know.”

  At Stormweather, Tamlin had detected protective spells on the sphere. Could it be losing its power? More alarming, could it be masking its power somehow?

  “Jak,” said Cale, “we need to know what this thing is … or was. You know anyone who can help? A Harper maybe?”

  Jak had once belonged to the Harpers, a broad-reaching organization that sought to do “good,” whatever that meant.

  Jak filled his pipe, and struck it with a tindertwig. He blew out a smoke ring in Riven’s direction and nodded.

  “I know someone,” Jak said, “but he’s no Harper. He’s … well, you’ll see. He is discreet, though, in his way, and I’ve used him before. It’ll cost us.”

  “I’ve got the coin,” Cale said.

  “I’ve got coin too,” Riven said, surprising them both.

  “Well enough,” Jak said, with a raised eyebrow directed at Cale.

  After that, Cale filled the halfling in on the details of the past night, including the use of illusions, the half-drow’s and Almor’s telepathic abilities, and the way splitting the sphere had seemed to affect Cale’s sword.

  Riven leaned forward on the cot and listened intently throughout. It was the first time Cale had mentioned the change in his enchanted sword and the attackers’ use of telepathy. Jak took it all in. When Cale finished, the halfling blew out another smoke ring.

  “A mental mage?” he asked. “That might explain the ‘illusion.’ You might have only thought they looked like the guards.”

  Cale hadn’t considered that. Mental mages—psionicists—were so rare that he’d never encountered one before. He had no idea what one might be capable of doing.

  “Possible,” Cale said. “I don’t know. They didn’t manage their weapons like mages, though, mental or otherwise.”

  “How would we fight psionicists?” Jak asked the ceiling, thoughtful.

  “Same way as anything, little man,” Cale said, and put his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Damned right,” added Riven. He picked his teeth with his little finger. “I knew a psionicist once. Little different than an ordinary wizard. Nothing special.”

  Cale thought Riven’s words sounded forced but did not comment.

  “I hope not,” Jak said. He looked to Cale. “You think they’ve kept the guard—Ren—alive?”

  Cale shook his head. He didn’t know, but he sure hoped so. He felt responsible for Ren being captured. He’d told the young man it would all work out. It hadn’t.

  “He’s alive,” Riven said. “Else why take him? He’s a contingency. If they’d gotten away with the whole sphere, he’d be dead already. They didn’t, though, so he’s not. Yet. But that doesn’t mean they won’t have a go at us anyway.”

  Neither Jak nor Cale took issue with Riven’s reasoning. It made sense.

  “Now what?” Jak asked the room.

  Cale answered, “Now you take us to your contact, and we find out what this is.”

  “You have a ward on our half?” Jak asked Cale. “To prevent magical tracking?”

  “I did. Not anymore. You?”

  “Of course,” Jak said, and gave him a wink. The halfling again took out his holy symbol and incanted a prayer, all the while holding his pipe in one corner of his mouth. “That ought to keep it for a while.”

  Cale smiled. He should have known the halfling would have a warding spell available. A good thief could always shield his swag.

  CHAPTER 8

  CONFRONTATION

  Vraggen had been attempting to track the other half of the globe all morning without success. He knew that neither it nor Cale was still in Stormweather Towers. Yet he had heard nothing from Elura, who was supposed to be watching the mansion. His greatest concern was that Cale had simply fled the city with the globe. The fact that his spells had been unable to locate the half-globe heightened that concern. Either Cale had warded it, Beshaba had afflicted Vraggen with exceeding bad luck, or Cale was gone. If the last, tracking him would be difficult and time consuming. Vraggen didn’t have that much time. The Fane of Shadows would appear soon. He could sense it.

  Once again, he closed his eyes, cast his spell, and focused his consciousness. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the other half of the globe. His spell diffused his perception, extended it a few hundred paces in all directions around him, through walls, seeking, seeking …

  There. Praise Cyric! He sensed the globe!

  His glee almost broke his concentration. He could not stop himself from smiling.

  He narrowed the location. It was not far. Right, then maybe a block or two up—

  “No!”

  He lost contact with the globe. Countermagic sheared off his spell-enhanced perception as cleanly as a vorpal blade through flesh. Cale must have enspelled the other half of the globe. But Vraggen knew enough. He let his concentration slip.

  Around him, the sound of the street returned and filled his ears: the clop of horse hooves, the clatter of carriages, the shouts of vendors. He opened his eyes.

  “What is it?” Azriim asked.

  The half-drow stood beside him, resplendent in a fine-fitting green cloak, polished boots, and tailored shirt. Immediately behind him stood hulking Dolgan and quiet Serrin. Dolgan wore his axes and ring mail. Serrin’s leather armor peeked out from under his cloak, and his hand sat on the hilt of his falchion.

  Vraggen tried to keep the frustration out of his voice when he said, “I had it for a moment. It’s close.”

  “How close?” Azriim asked. His mismatched eyes looked grim.

  “Close.”

  They stood to one side of Wide Way, one of the main thoroughfares in the Foreign District. The crowd of passersby flowed around and past them at a marked distance. Serrin and Dolgan eyed each as they passed, the way raptors might eye doves. Both men looked ready to gut anyone who looked at them askance. Of course, no one did. Dolgan was too big, and Serrin too sinister. Vraggen’s men were eager, ready. He needed to give them their prey. They looked to him for orders.

  “The other half of the globe is nearby. A block or two up and to the right. It’s probably in Cale’s possession. Keep your eyes open. If he’s on the street, he shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

  Both nodded and started heading up the street.

  “Wait,” Vraggen ordered.

  They stopped and turned to look back at him. Both had an eager gleam in his eyes. Both wanted another chance at Cale. Vraggen knew their failure at Stormweather had tweaked their professional pride.

  “Azriim and I will follow. If you spot him, and he can be killed without risk to the globe, you may do so. Otherwise, we negotiate.”

  Dolgan gave a hard grin at that and said, “Negotiate … right.”

  Serrin only nodded, still gripping his falchion.

  They turned and hurried up the street. Azriim and Vraggen trailed several paces behind, scanning the crowd. Cale, tall and bald, would be easy to spot if he wasn’t in disguise.

  “They want to kill him,” Azriim observed with a grin.

  “Of course they do,” Vraggen agreed. “Hold a moment.”

  He took out a small glob of gum tree sap from a belt pouch and incanted a spell that rendered both he and Azriim invisible. Some nearby passersby exclaimed at the sudden vanishing of two men from the street but Vraggen didn’t care.

  “Stay close,” he said to Azriim. “The spell only operates close to me.”

  “Nicely done,” Azriim’s disembodied voice said.

  Vraggen gave a tight smile. He would soon have his globe.

  Cale, Riven, and Jak exited the Lizard and hit the street. The three s
paced themselves a few paces apart and moved quickly through the crowd. Jak led, and with his small frame darted deftly through the sea of colorfully dressed pedestrians, wagons, and carriages. Cale, however, could not avoid the occasional bump or jostle from the throng. He eyed everyone with suspicion, alert to the street around him, to the rooftops, the alleyways. A few paces behind and to his right, Riven did the same, thumbs hooked on his belt, near his saber hilts. While Cale took some comfort from the fact that the half-sphere again was warded, he was not foolish enough to think that made them safe from attack.

  Jak had told them that his contact, an eccentric loremaster of Oghma, lived alone across town on the outskirts of the Temple District. With luck, they could get there within half an hour.

  Staying on the main thoroughfares, they made rapid progress. As was typical for Selgaunt, morning traffic crowded the streets. Booth vendors, peddlers, noble carriages, farmers’ wagons, adventurers, and merchants all moved along and tended to their business. Cale actually welcomed the passing horse patrols of black-armored Scepters.

  Out of habit, Cale occasionally shot an unobtrusive glance behind to check for tails. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, but after a time, he began to suspect that they were being followed. Block after block he saw one or the other of two men—one small, one large—on one or the other side of the street. They avoided eye contact, but that avoidance was a bit too affected. They were good, but Cale was better. He took a few quick steps nearer to Jak so that the halfling could hear him.

  “Trouble, Jak.”

  The halfling didn’t turn around but nodded once. Surreptitiously, he signaled in handcant, I know.

  Cale let the crowd pull him back a few strides, slowly, so as not to alert their tails.

  He drifted near to Riven. and asked, “You see them?”

  “Saw them, you mean? They picked us up a few blocks back. Two men. Big one on our side of the street, smaller man on the other side. They switch every block or so.” Riven casually loosed his sabers in their scabbards, one then the other, and asked, “How do you want to handle it?”

  Cale thought about it. They had marked two men, but likely there were more they hadn’t seen. Sooner or later, the tails would make a move. They could be setting up an ambush ahead. Cale made his decision. He would force them to act. If he was to fight, it would be on his terms.

  “We fight,” he said to Riven. He called up to Jak in the halfling’s native tongue, “Find a spot to make a stand, little man.”

  Jak nodded, and began scanning the side streets for an unoccupied alley.

  To Riven, Cale said, “I suspect there’s more of them we don’t see.”

  “Probably,” Riven agreed.

  Casually, Cale loosened his blade in its scabbard.

  “At least one needs to live,” he said. “We’ll need him to find out where they’re holding Ren.”

  Riven, his mouth an emotionless line, gave a single nod and said, “Only one needs to live. And I’ll question him. Well enough?”

  Cale knew what Riven meant by “question.”

  “We’ll question him together,” said Cale, “but otherwise, well enough.”

  “They could just be hired muscle,” Riven said, “or street thugs.”

  “Could be,” Cale agreed, “but I’m skeptical of coincidences. Too much skill for muscle too.”

  “Agreed,” said Riven.

  They picked up their stride a bit to move them closer to Jak. Trying not to be obvious, they communicated the rudiments of a plan.

  Jak said to Cale out of the side of his mouth, “Up ahead. Narrow street on the right, just after the warehouse.”

  Cale saw it. Between two two-story warehouses ran a narrow dirt packed alley. They wouldn’t have to cross the street to get to it. Good.

  “I see it,” Cale said.

  “I’ve got it, too,” said Riven. “Narrow. That’s thinking, Fleet. That big whoreson’s going to have trouble managing an axe in there.”

  Jak smiled crookedly, obviously surprised at Riven’s praise.

  He shook his head and said to Cale, “I go invisible the moment I turn the corner.”

  Cale nodded and said to Riven, “You come in last and draw them into the alley. Take the first man. I’ll take the second. I’ve got a potion. I’ll go invisible too. Jak, you make sure to put down anyone else who shows. Otherwise, help where it’s needed.”

  Riven sneered, “I won’t need any help, Cale.”

  Cale didn’t expect to need help either, but he believed in being prudent.

  “At least one needs to live,” Cale reminded them both.

  Jak nodded. Riven did not.

  They headed for the alley. As they walked, they spaced themselves out a bit—Jak, then Cale, then Riven. Cale saw that Jak, in anticipation of casting, already held his holy symbol pendant in his hand. Cale reached into a belt pouch and palmed his potion. With his other hand he clutched his own holy symbol and whispered a prayer that would give them Mask’s blessing in the combat.

  Jak reached the alley first. He turned down it as though that was what he had intended all along. He was already invisible by the time Cale, only several paces behind him, turned into the alley.

  “I’m on the right, just inside the alley, against the wall,” said Jak’s voice.

  Cale nodded and walked past.

  “Stinks,” Jak said, and he giggled.

  Cale imagined Jak pinching his nose while waiting in ambush and smiled despite himself. The halfling had spoken the truth, though. The alley reeked of manure and rotting garbage. Perhaps three or four strides in width, it extended the length of the block, bounded on both sides by tall, crumbling brick walls. Shapeless piles of trash lay piled on the ground at intervals. Near the alley’s far end, two stray mongrels pawed at one such pile. They seemed disinterested in Cale’s arrival. A few doors backed to the alley. The rear exits of shops, probably, but none were open.

  With his thumb, Cale popped the wax seal on his potion vial and gulped it down. Immediately, his body began to tingle. He held out his hand and watched as it, along with the rest of him and his gear, faded from sight. Invisible, he backed against the wall on the side opposite that of Jak, maybe five paces into the alley. He drew his blade.

  Riven turned into the alley.

  “Here,” Jak said, to let Riven know where he was.

  “Here,” said Cale.

  Riven nodded as he passed each of them. Ten paces in, he turned, drew both blades, and waited. Down the alley the stray dogs gave a growl, startled, and ran away.

  Several moments later—they must have taken time to pair up—the two pursuers entered the alley. Cale quickly appraised them. The smaller, swarthy-skinned man in leather looked to be an easterner. His precise movements, compact frame, and narrow face reminded Cale of Riven. A falchion hung from his belt. The other stood nearly as tall as Cale but was much heavier. He wore hand axes on his belt and a mammoth battle-axe across his back. With his thick nose and heavy-lidded eyes, he looked a bit like a stunted Ogre. Both stopped a stride into the alley when they saw Riven waiting for them. Cale figured Jak could probably reach out and touch both of them.

  “Let’s dance, prigs,” challenged Riven.

  The big man grinned and said, “Dance indeed.”

  His ring mail jangled as he unslung his axe.

  The smaller frowned, looking around the alley as though for Cale and Jak, while he absently whipped free his falchion.

  “Just us,” said Riven, and he whirled his sabers. “Come on.”

  Riven beckoned them forward. The two spread out as much as the alley allowed and advanced on the assassin.

  “Mind that axe, Dolgan,” said the smaller.

  Dolgan. When Cale heard the name, a red rush of anger flooded him. The man must have paid for healing. He showed no signs of the wounds Cale had given him.

  Cale eyed the man’s ribs and picked his spot—through the left lung and into the heart. Dolgan would not walk out of that alle
y.

  As they closed on Riven, they unknowingly closed on Cale.

  Cale tensed, waiting for the moment, but before he could act, the small easterner exploded into motion. He sped past Cale and lunged at Riven, blade low. Riven, though obviously surprised by the easterner’s speed, managed a parry with one of his sabers, slid to his left, and loosed an overhand slash at the easterner’s head. Sidestepping neatly, the easterner spun three hundred sixty degrees and slashed at Riven’s thigh. Riven managed to jump backward, slamming himself into the wall.

  Dolgan, still a few paces back, must have thought to take that opportunity to rush in. He bellowed and charged, axe held high for an overhand slash, the only swing possible for that axe in the narrow alley. Before he had taken two steps, Cale stepped in front of him, dropped to one knee and impaled him through the chest. He became visible the moment his long sword penetrated flesh.

  Dolgan’s bellow gave way to a scream of pain. His would-be charge served only to impale him on Cale’s sword, nearly to the hilt. The blade slid between ribs and grated against bone before bursting from Dolgan’s back.

  The big man glared surprised rage at Cale. He opened a mouth flooding with crimson. He roared with pain and anger, soaking his beard in blood and spit, and tried as he began to die to bring his cumbersome axe to bear. Not possible. Cale was too close in, and Dolgan already too weak. When the big man attempted to shorten up on the haft, the weapon fell from his grasp. Cale stared coldly into Dolgan’s dull eyes and twisted his blade half a turn before jerking it free.

  That’s for the guards, whoreson, he thought and hoped that Dolgan too could read his mind.

  Dolgan’s eyes rolled. He staggered, fell to his knees, bleeding, coughing, and … grinning? Cale controlled the disgust that rushed up his throat and smashed the hilt of his sword into Dolgan’s temple. He groaned and crashed to the street. Cale turned around to help Riven with the easterner.

  “That one lives, Riven,” he said, because Dolgan certainly would not.

  The little easterner responded quickly to Cale’s sudden appearance. He maneuvered himself against the alley wall so that he could face both Riven and Cale without exposing his back.