by Paul S. Kemp
Cale and Jak both eyed him in shock, and the assassin’s sneer gave way to a grin.
“I’m jesting, Fleet. Close your mouth before a gull drops a turd down your gullet.”
It took a moment for that to register. When it did, Cale couldn’t help but smile. Even Jak chuckled, after he’d recovered himself.
“Drasek Riven making a joke,” the halfling said, shaking his head and looking at Cale wide-eyed. “That, I thought I’d never see.”
“You’ll see everything if you live long enough,” Riven said.
“Let’s make sure we do, then,” Cale said, turning the mood back to serious. “Gear up. We debark the moment we dock. First me, then Jak, then you.”
He didn’t want them getting off the ship as a group. If Vraggen did have spies watching incoming ships, they would be looking for a trio.
He turned back to the sea and watched as a four-man guide boat separated from the mass of ships in the harbor and oared for Foamrider. It would direct her to a pier. Behind them, Mres started barking orders. Above them, the sailors in the rigging began to furl the mainsail. Foamrider would float into dock under only the foresail.
Cale watched as the city grew larger and larger in his sight. He knew that beyond it were the Gulthmere Forest, the Lightless Lake, and Vraggen.
All they could do was hope that Brandobaris and Mask favored them with some luck.
“This place is a pit,” Azriim said.
Vraggen wasn’t sure if the half-drow meant their room at the Bent Chalice Inn or the city of Starmantle in general. Either way, he had little patience for Azriim’s complaints. Time was short.
“Silence,” he ordered. Though healing the hurt given him by the halfling had been a trifling thing, his wounded pride left him irritable.
He whispered the words to a scrying spell as he poured a ewer of water into the shallow silver basin he’d brought with him from Selgaunt. The surface of the water began to shimmer with color. Vraggen willed the scrying basin to show him the Lightless Lake, and an image formed in the water.
“There,” he said. “Observe, Azriim.”
The half-drow stepped forward and stared into the basin. Dolgan too crowded in to see.
The basin showed a still lake, its waters the color of slate, set in the midst of a reed-filled lowland. Cypress trees loomed on all sides. That was where the Fane would appear.
Vraggen willed the image to move eastward until it fixed upon a simple settlement.
Sod huts with woven reed roofs surrounded a communal fire pit. Goggle-eyed, froglike humanoids about the size of a large man, hopped about the settlement. Their smooth, green skin glistened with slime. The warriors among them wore reptilian scale armor and bore wooden spears with fire-tempered tips. Their females wore nothing and probably lived their lives in service to the males.
“Bullywugs,” Azriim observed with distaste.
Vraggen nodded. He had scried the bullywug tribe several times before. They lived in the lowland swamp surrounding the Lightless Lake and numbered about eighty or so. The tribal chief and his shaman aide commanded obedience through a combination of physical strength and religious awe. Central to that religion was the Lightless Lake, which the bullywugs believed to be a manifestation of the mouth of their frog god, Ramenos.
Vraggen smiled. The lake was holy, but not for the reasons the bullywugs believed.
Vraggen continued to scan the settlement until he located the chief—a towering bullywug, grossly fat, dressed in scale armor and adorned with a crown of polished turtleshell.
“They’re near the lake,” Azriim said. “They’ll interfere with the ritual.”
Vraggen nodded. He knew.
“You’ll obliterate them, I assume?” asked the half-drow.
Beside Azriim, Dolgan grinned and licked his lips. Vraggen turned to look upon both of his lieutenants with measured contempt.
“Violence is a tool to be used sparingly,” the mage said. “These are simple creatures. It’s unnecessary to destroy them. Instead, I will turn them into our allies.”
Dolgan’s crestfallen expression evidenced his disappointment. Azriim pursed his lips.
“Fine,” said the half-drow. “As long as they don’t touch my clothes.”
For the next few hours, Vraggen studied the bullywug chieftain, waiting for him to be alone in his hut. When he was, Vraggen quickly prepared a series of spells. First, enchantments that allowed him to speak and understand the bullywugs’ croaking tongue. Second, a spell that rendered him invisible.
When he was ready, he pulled his teleportation rod from his cloak.
“I will return apace,” he said to Azriim and Dolgan.
Vraggen turned the dials of his teleportation rod, felt a brief wave of nausea, and found himself standing in the hut of the bullywug chieftain.
The stink was abominable. A mixture of organic decay and fish. From outside the hut, Vraggen could hear the steady chirp of insects and the irregular croaks of the bullywugs. Several guards stood just outside the doors, he knew. The chieftain sat in a woven-reed chair—a throne of sorts—with his arms crossed over his belly, snoring.
Vraggen wasted no time. He whispered the words to an enchantment that would make the chieftain believe him a trusted friend and ally. He became visible the moment he began to cast. The bullywug slept throughout.
When Vraggen finished the spell, he cast another minor spell that allowed him to see dweomers. The bullywug chieftain glowed in his sight. Good. The charm had taken effect. Vraggen laid a hand on the slimy skin of his “friend.”
The chieftain’s goggle eyes flew open. He reached for his spear, saw Vraggen, and croaked a greeting. His fat jiggled when he moved.
“Indeed it is me, my friend,” Vraggen said in a low croak, so as not to alarm the guards standing outside, “Vraggen. And I bring news. Ramenos the Sleeping Maw wishes to show the tribe favor. But first, he must feed upon a sacrifice.”
The chieftain’s eyes clouded. His long tongue swiped across his lips nervously.
“Feed?” he chieftain asked. “How came you to this news?”
Vraggen looked suitably mysterious and answered, “Signs and portents, mighty chieftain.”
The bullywug, implicitly trusting Vraggen’s words due to the enchantment, seemed to accept that explanation.
“What does the Maw demand?”
Vraggen smiled and said, “He is to accept me and two other manlings into his jaws. Three days from now, when the Lightless Lake glows with his presence.”
The bullywug grinned with relief and patted his fat stomach.
“He demands manling, of course!” the bullywug said. “It has been too long. After that, the maw will be sated for many seasons. The fish will be plentiful!” He thumped Vraggen on the shoulder, unable to contain his glee. “To be food for the maw is an honor indeed.”
Vraggen accepted the compliment with a humble nod of his head. He wondered how such a stupid creature had risen to the top of the tribe.
“I will return with the other manlings in several days,” Vraggen went on. “We shall stand before the maw until the sign is given. You must prepare the tribe. To earn the favor of Ramenos, you and your warriors must prevent any interference with the offering.”
The chief nodded eagerly, his chins wobbling hither and yon.
“Eglos should know of this.”
Vraggen assumed the chieftain was speaking of the tribal shaman.
“Indeed, my friend,” the mage said. “Please bring Eglos here, to me, and I will deliver Ramenos’s message to him directly.”
Vraggen sank into the shadows while the chieftain shouted orders to the guards outside. They poked their heads in, received confirmation to retrieve Eglos, and hurried out. In a short while, Eglos appeared.
The shaman stood a head shorter than the chieftain, and his widely spaced eyes looked slightly to the side of whatever he was looking upon. He wore a brace of humanoid skulls as a sign of his office.
The moment Eglos wal
ked into the hut, Vraggen surreptitiously cast a spell similar to that which had enthralled the chieftain. Eglos greeted him cheerfully and raptly listened to his explanation of Ramenos’s plan for the tribe.
“May the maw devour you painlessly,” Eglos croaked.
Again, Vraggen humbly accepted the blessing.
“Prepare the tribe for my return,” he said, then he teleported out as the chieftain and shaman watched in awe.
Back in his room at the Bent Chalice, Vraggen smiled at Azriim and Dolgan.
“A quarter hour of subtlety and deception has won us over thirty bullywug warriors as allies. Force has its place,” he said, enjoying the lecture, “but it is not always the answer.”
Azriim stared at the ceiling and said, “I can smell you from here. Perhaps you should bathe?”
Dolgan guffawed.
Vraggen, in a generous mood, let the insult pass.
“Azriim and I will journey to the Lightless Lake,” the mage said. “Dolgan, you remain in Starmantle. If Cale somehow manages to track us, kill him. We’ll leave Elura to watch the road.”
His lieutenants nodded, though Vraggen could see the distaste in Azriim’s expression. The half-drow did not relish the thought of spending any time with bullywugs in a fetid swamp. Vraggen smiled.
All of the pieces were in place. He needed only to wait for a new moon, and the appearance of the Fane of Shadows.
CHAPTER 14
STARMANTLE
Unlike Selgaunt, which had grown up at random around an earlier Chondathan settlement, Starmantle was a planned town. Straight, brick-paved streets and alleys radiated out at right angles from the large bazaar in the center of the city. Booths, tents of all colors, and tables laden with merchandise filled the bazaar. The smell of cooking fish, southern spices, mistleaf, and horse dung filled the air.
Founded centuries before as a commercial rival to Westgate and the Night Masks, Starmantle held its gates open to all races in the name of mercantilism. While it had never managed to match its rival city in size, it nevertheless attracted a diverse population. All manner of men and monsters filled the city’s seething inns, eateries, festhalls, and markets. By day, lizardman tribesmen, half-ogre mercenaries, and bugbear woodsmen from the Gulthmere walked the streets beside human corsairs, merchants, and whores. By night, orcs, drow, and worse haunted the alleys and side streets. Cale marveled at the various creatures. In Selgaunt, half-ogres and bugbears would have been thought raiders and attacked on sight by the Scepters.
Starmantle had only a few streets as wide as Selgaunt’s trade boulevards, but each of those was packed full by a seemingly endless train of merchants, porters, carts, wagons, crates, and barrels. A steady stream of merchandise moved day and night along the main trade arteries, flowing between the harbor, the city gates, and the bazaar. Despite the difference in size, in Starmantle as much as in Selgaunt, King Trade ruled the realm.
Still, Cale couldn’t get over the feeling that the city was overcrowded with people and overstuffed with goods, as swollen and ready to burst as a waterlogged chest. Starmantle seemed to Cale nothing more than a miniature Westgate—a violent, dirty boil growing on the arse of the Dragonmere, with little to offer other than brisk trade. The fact that several towering temples dominated the skyline and looked down on the filth seemed more a joke than an aspiration.
They had arrived in the city a day and a half before, and Cale had yet to see any sign of an organized city watch. Instead, the inhabitants of Starmantle seemed to police themselves. Street violence was commonplace, but not wide-scale. Bystanders remained exactly that, and street brawls never escalated into riots. Cale had seen six knife fights since arriving—four of them had left one of the participants dead.
In that environment, Cale knew that the best way to avoid trouble was to appear capable of handling any that might come. Accordingly, Cale, Riven, and Jak wore their weapons and scowls openly.
Still, despite the lawlessness and violence, trade continued in earnest. Merchants managed to buy, sell, barter, and prosper. Cale figured anything could be bought or sold in Starmantle, from flesh to mistleaf. For his part, Cale wanted to purchase but one thing—the services of a guide who knew the Gulthmere and could take them to the Lightless Lake within—then get the Nine Hells out of that place.
To that end, he and Riven had made discreet inquiries after Magadon. No success. It seemed Riven’s former comrade was out of town on other work.
Running short of time, they had put out through a handful of bawds notice of their desire to hire another guide—any guide—who knew the northern reaches of the Gulthmere. A full day had passed without a response, but finally they had at last gotten a name through one of Riven’s inquiries—Gaskin Dreeve. Riven had arranged a meet and was away at it. Cale and Jak expected his return shortly.
They sat in a corner table of the Stone Hearth Inn with untouched ales on the table before them. Only a few other patrons shared the common room and all of them were human, a rarity for most establishments in Starmantle.
“I don’t like Riven doing this alone,” Jak said in a low voice.
He took a pull on his pipe and rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully. Cale swirled his ale but didn’t drink.
“We’re past that, little man,” Cale replied. “He’s in this now, as deep as us.”
Jak didn’t look convinced.
“One of us could have went with him,” the halfling pressed.
“True,” Cale acknowledged, “but that would risk tipping our presence to Vraggen or his agents.”
Cale had deliberately chosen to keep the three of them, or even two of them, from appearing together in public other than in the inn. Until they retained a guide and were ready to leave town, he wanted them holed up. They ventured forth from the Stone Hearth only individually and in disguise. Riven was the best among them at disguise so it fell to him to handle the initial negotiations with Dreeve.
Time was short, Cale knew. They had a day and a half, and all he and Jak could do was wait on Riven’s return and hope for the best. Tackling the Gulthmere without a guide didn’t appeal to Cale. He was no woodsman, and neither was Riven or Jak.
After a time, the assassin entered the Hearth, clad in a nondescript gray peasant’s cloak with the hood pulled up and drawn. When he saw Cale and Jak, he made his way over to the table. Disguised as an elderly man, he stood stooped and walked only with the aid of an oaken stave. Wordlessly, he pulled back a chair and slid in. When he threw back his hood, Cale saw that he had colored his goatee gray as well.
A spell or a dye? Cale wondered. The assassin was almost a shapeshifter himself.
“Well?” Jak asked.
Riven frowned, shrugged, and said, “Hard to say. We’ve got nothing else, and this Dreeve says he knows the Gulthmere. He also seemed to know of the lake when I mentioned it …”
He trailed off when the plump, dark-haired bar wench started to head over to their table. Riven waved her away. Cale took the opportunity to ensure that none of the other patrons appeared interested in their conversation. None did.
He turned back to Riven and asked, “But?”
“But he’s a gnoll,” the assassin replied. “And a mist-head. Our bawd failed to inform us of that little bit of information. I trust him about as much as I can tolerate his stink.”
“A gnoll?” Jak hissed. “Are you mad? Tricksters hairy toes!”
Riven glared at the halfling and said, “You have a better idea, Fleet? He said he knows the forest.”
Cale ignored them both and considered. Like Jak, he didn’t like the thought of working with a gnoll. The powerful canine humanoids were notoriously ill-tempered and savage. Still, they had nothing else at the moment. He eyed Riven.
“This gnoll is legitimate?”
“I verified that independently,” Riven said. “He’s done guide work in the wilds around Starmantle since the Year of the Sword. I didn’t mention any temple. Just that we wanted to get to a lake in the northern Gulthmere. He seemed to
know the place I meant. I figure he gets us to the lake safely, then you and Fleet locate either the temple or Vraggen with spells.”
Or with dreams, Cale thought, but didn’t say.
Instead, he said simply, “Good.”
“Wait a—” Jak began.
Cale cut him off with a look and said, “It’s all we’ve got, little man. In two nights, Vraggen’s going to have what he wants, unless we stop him.”
To that, Jak said nothing, only took another pull on his pipe.
Cale looked to Riven and said, “I want to meet him before we commit.”
“Now?”
Cale nodded. He wanted to take the gnoll’s measure himself, and use a few divinations to ensure that he was no shapeshifter in disguise. It would have been easy enough for Vraggen or the half-drow to have paid off many of the bawds in the city. This could be a set-up just as easily as it could be legitimate.
Riven pushed back his chair and rose.
“Let’s go,” he said. “He’s probably still in the Underworld.”
“The Underworld?”
“You’ll see,” Riven replied. “Keep your steel loose in the scabbard. And don’t worry about your appearance. Just draw up your cloak. No one’s looking for a tall man with an elderly cripple.”
Riven flashed his stained teeth, and Cale rose and looked down on Jak. Sephris’s ghost had told them that the sphere denoted a time the very next night, at the point of deepest darkness. Cale took that last to mean midnight.
“Stay here, little man,” he said. “Get our gear together. Guide or no guide, we’re leaving tonight. We’re out of time.”
What was the Underworld once had been … something else, and the something else had burned to the ground, along with several adjacent buildings. The stones of the burned building’s foundation still demarcated its former borders. Blackened wood and loose rocks lay in piles around the large, otherwise vacant lot. A clear path through the charred debris led to a large hole in the earth—probably once a basement, or a large cellar. Smoke and the occasional snatch of conversation leaked out of the hole.
