Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  "But it will keep him busy!"

  Outside, Ong was shouting, his voice changing as he spoke, dwindling from the roar of a dragon to the bellow of a man. The Tuigan women were shouting too. Tycho forced the thought of their flashing knives from his mind. He pulled a dagger from his belt and shoved it into Li's hands.

  "Get to the back of the tent and be ready to cut us a new door!"

  Li swallowed and ran for the back of the pavilion. Tycho muttered a desperate prayer to whatever deities might be watching and grabbed at the iron leg of a brazier. The hot metal seared his palm, but he choked back the pain and dumped the coals out onto the nearest pile of cushions. He didn't wait to watch the smoldering embers take hold of the fresh tinder, but just ran after Li toward the back of the tent, knocking over every brazier he could.

  "Tycho!" shouted Ong.

  Tycho whirled around. The fat dragon, wearing his human shape once more, stood in the door of the tavern, flap clutched in his hand, and women crowded behind him.

  All of them were momentarily frozen by the sight of the flames rising in the tent.

  To lose either women or tavern, Ong had said, would be condemnation. Tycho's music might not have been strong enough to harm the dragon directly, but that didn't mean it couldn't affect him in other ways.

  "How about one last song, Ong?" Tycho yelled. He reached inside himself and sang, light ripples of music that hissed and crackled on the air. He sang to the fire.

  From within the flames, something answered. Glowing embers rose and shifted like eyes, staring first at Tycho then shifting to Ong. Flames gathered together into a form the size of a child and tendrils of fire reached out. Ong's eyes flashed with anger.

  "A fire elemental? You attack a lord of water with a puppet of fire?"

  The elemental's tendrils brushed the walls of the tent, which burst into flame. It moved across the carpets and they too burned.

  "Who said I was attacking you?" called Tycho. He spun around and plunged through the flap into the back of the tavern. "Now, Li!" he screamed.

  Over the crackle of flames and the howls of the dragon, Tycho heard cloth tear as Li opened a rip in the wall of the tent. The fire gave him just enough light to see. He dived through the tavern's new door hard on Li's heels, and kept running-

  "Are you sure that will get us enough time?" Li gasped as they raced through the rain.

  "Ask me again after we've made it out!"

  Behind them, women were shouting and Ong was roaring. A strange liquid rush rumbled through the night, followed by the long hiss of an extinguished flame. Tycho bent his head and ran harder.

  The caravan that came straggling along the Golden Way in the morning light was a good deal more subdued than the one that had entered the oasis the night before. All eyes turned-some with wary suspicion, some with outright fear-to the two figures that waited in the meager shadow of the marker stone. Li nudged Tycho as the caravan approached.

  "Mother of dogs!" he breathed.

  Tycho looked where the Shou pointed.

  Chotan and Ibakha rode alongside the caravan-on Li's and Tycho's horses. As they drew close to the marker, they jumped down, letting the horses walk on their own. Both women glared at the men.

  "We have a message for you," growled Ibakha. She flung a Tuigan knife into the ground at Tycho's feet. "Ride the Wastes with care."

  Tycho swallowed and said, "Is that a message from Ong?"

  "No," said Chotan. "It's a warning from the Tuigan."

  "And Ong?" asked Li.

  "He sends his respect for your fast thinking-and reminds you that even exiles have friends." The grin she gave them was vicious and eager. "Enjoy Shou Lung, Faroon. You ride with a dragon's attention now."

  They turned and walked back down the trail toward the oasis. Li and Tycho stared after them.

  THE PRISONER OF HULBURG

  Richard Lee Byers

  1 amp; 2 Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  His leather cloak rattling in the cold night wind, Pavel Shemov hurled his god-granted power against the pale, twisted things hovering around the sailboat. First, assuming them to be a product of sorcery, the priest tried to wipe the gaunt, translucent figures from the air with a counterspell. Next, suspecting them to be spirits of the dead, he tried to burn them away with a blaze of conjured sunlight.

  Nothing worked. Every second, more phantoms oozed into view, whispering obscenities, pawing at their prey. At first, Pavel had been unable to feel their touch. Then it had become a slimy brushing. Soon, he reckoned, the specters would be substantial enough to hurt a person.

  The three-man crew realized the same thing, and panic-stricken, yammered and flailed ineffectually at the phantoms.

  A child-sized figure among the humans, Will Turnstone shouted, "Ignore them! Put in to shore!"

  The halfling might as well have been a mute for all the good his exhortations did. An apparition raked at Pavel's forehead. The attack stung, and blood dripped down into his left eye. Across the deck, specters ripped the flesh of sailors, or assailed the boat itself, clawing at the timbers.

  "Dive overboard!" Pavel shouted.

  It was their only chance. He cast about for Will.

  Swinging his curved, broad-bladed sword, the half-ling slashed one glimmering assailant to fraying ecto-plasmic tatters and sidestepped the talons of another. He was holding his own, but it couldn't last. There were just too many phantoms.

  Pavel dashed forward, snatched up his friend, and leaped over the side. As he splashed down in the frigid waters of the Moonsea, he invoked the magic of his enchanted cloak.

  The folds of the leather mantle expanded into rippling, pulsing wings to propel him through the depths like a manta ray. He could breathe like a fish as well. The water was cool in his lungs.

  Will squirmed in his grip, pointed upward, and he realized that though he could breathe, his comrade couldn't. He surfaced warily, but found he'd swum far enough to evade the apparitions. They remained intent on the sailboat and its immediate vicinity.

  Pavel carried Will on to shore, then swam back to look for the sailors. By then, the wraiths had disappeared, and unfortunately, the mariners and boat had, too. Nothing remained but drifting planks and other flotsam.

  Will crouched and hid in the shadow of a stand of brush, then waited, shivering, his heart still pounding, for Pavel to return. At last the lanky, handsome cleric reared up from the shallows and waded onto the pebbly strand.

  Will was relieved to see his friend, but it wouldn't do to show it. It would violate the spirit of their perpetual mock feud.

  The half ling straightened up and sneered, "Nice job out there on the boat. It's good to see your magic is as useful as ever."

  Though plainly upset at the slaughter of the crew, Pavel made the effort to answer in kind: "At least I had sense enough to flee when the situation became hopeless. What were you trying to accomplish by standing and fighting? That was idiotic even by your standards."

  "The spooks piled on me-obviously, they knew which of us posed a threat to them-and I had to cut my way clear. You might want to fix that scratch on your brow before what passes for your brains leaks out."

  "Right. I forgot all about it."

  Pavel recited a prayer to his patron deity, Lathander, lord of the dawn, sketched a sacred symbol on the air, and his hand glowed with a red-gold light. He touched it to the cut, and the wound closed.

  Will ripped up some grass and wiped his exquisitely balanced hornblade, as such oversized halfling swords were called, and asked, "So what happened out there?"

  "I don't know," Pavel admitted. "Obviously, something uncanny attacked us, but it didn't feel like conventional magic, or spirits, either."

  "Which leaves…?"

  The human shook, his head and answered, "At this point, all I know is, we've seen how the Zhentarim are destroying 'unlicensed' ships and caravans."

  "But we were sailing a stolen Zhentish patrol boat," said Will. "We were supposed to be safe."

/>   "Apparently that trick has stopped working."

  "No, really? You think?" The half ling sighed. "What do we do now?"

  "Well, at least we made it almost to Hulburg before the Zhents spotted us." Pavel pointed to the ruined city farther up the shore, a vague mass just visible in the dark. "Let's find a safe place to rest, then start our explorations in the morning. We can worry about how to get back to Thentia when the time comes."

  For centuries, war had plagued the Moonsea, laying waste to town after town. Hulburg was one such casualty. Twenty-five years past, the Zhentarim sacked the port. The wilderness was well on its way to reclaiming it. Animals laired amid the rubble of crumbling houses, while grass, brush, and small trees choked the streets. At least, Pavel thought, it meant a fellow didn't have to look too hard to find breakfast. He picked berries, taking care to avoid the long thorns protecting them, and handed half to Will. His curly black lovelocks bedraggled from the dunking they'd received, Will eyed the fruit askance.

  "What's this, a prank to give me the runs? They're green."

  "It's spring, cretin," said Pavel. "Naturally, they're green. They're still edible."

  The halfling chewed one up and swallowed it, grimacing the while, and said, "Why did I ever leave Saerloon?"

  "Because your thieves' guild, showing excellent judgment, decided to kill you. Look, if you don't want the berries, give-"

  "Hush!" Beckoning for Pavel to follow, Will darted into one of the decaying houses. The thatched roof had fallen in, but skilled hunters both, they nevertheless managed to traverse the floor without their steps snapping and crunching. They hunkered down behind a window and peered out.

  Pavel understood what was going on. Will had heard someone, or something, coming. It wasn't necessarily a threat. They'd assumed they might find a few people still dwelling among the ruins, inoffensive farmers or fishermen most likely. But it seemed wiser to find out for sure before revealing themselves.

  Pavel scowled when four men-at-arms tramped into view, chatting, uncocked crossbows dangling in their hands. Each wore the somber trappings of a Zhentilar soldier, with the Black Network's dragon-and-scepter emblem emblazoned on their tunics.

  Once the warriors had drifted on past and out of earshot, Pavel said, "Do the Zhents know we survived? Are they hunting us?"

  Will snorted, "Of course not. Those soldiers weren't expecting any trouble. It was a routine patrol."

  "If so, it means the Zhents have taken control of Hul-burg. But why allocate troops to occupy a ruin? There's nothing here anymore."

  "Could they be looking for the same lost knowledge we are?"

  Pavel shook his head and replied, "I don't see how. They don't have Sammaster's notes. But even so, with Zhents prowling about, it's going to be difficult to explore the ruins unmolested."

  "No fooling."

  "Curse it, anyway! How many are there, where are they camped, and what are they up to?"

  "Seeing as how I'm the scout," Will answered, grinning. "I guess I'd better find out."

  A battered castle, its crenellated ramparts stained and jagged as a beggar's teeth, overlooked the harbor. As soon as he caught a glimpse of it, Will surmised the Zhentarim had set up shop there, and when he spotted the black-clad sentries walking the battlements, he knew he was correct. Two vessels, a war galley and a patrol boat, were moored at one of the sagging docks below.

  Will turned and skulked on, through streets overgrown with weeds and littered with rubble, slipping from one bit of cover to the next. Until, at the juncture of two lanes, he heard approaching footsteps. He squatted behind a horse trough and peeked around the side.

  A freckled, snub-nosed youth, his Zhentish uniform too loose and short on his gangly limbs, slunk by with many a glance back over his shoulder. Will inferred that the lad had slipped away from the castle without permission, to shirk work or scratch a carnal itch in private.

  Will pulled the warsling from his belt, glad that oil and enchantment had kept the leather supple despite its immersion the night before. He rose and let fly.

  The polished skiprock hit the Zhent in the back of the head. An expert marksman, Will would have been astonished if it hadn't. The only question was whether it had done more harm than intended, some skulls being more brittle than others. As the youth pitched forward, the halfling darted forth to check him.

  It was all right. The warrior was still breathing, and any damage short of death, Pavel's prayers could reverse.

  Pavel could also do something else that Will couldn't accomplish. He could haul the ungainly bulk of a fellow human away before some other Zhentilar discovered the youth lying unconscious in the street. The halfling ran to fetch his friend.

  "We're running a risk," Pavel said. "What if somebody misses him?"

  "The longer you dawdle," Will said, "the more likely that is. So get on with it."

  Pavel had carried the youth into a shadowy derelict shop and set him on the dusty floor. Will then tied the prisoner's hands and feet with strips of cloth cut from his tunic. The soldier still lay motionless where they'd secured him, the hair on the back of his head matted with blood.

  It struck Pavel that the wretch didn't look much like the popular notion of a vicious Zhentilar. Maybe he wasn't. Perhaps he was just a callow lad the Black Network had conscripted into its forces.

  But even if he was, Pavel and Will still couldn't afford to be gentle with him. The Zhentarim garrison posed too great a danger, and their mission was too important.

  Pavel murmured a prayer. His hand tingled with warmth and radiated a rosy light. He pressed his palm to the wound in the Zhent's scalp, and the gashed skin twitched as it knit itself back together. The captive gasped and jerked away from his touch.

  Will pounced on the Zhent and pressed a dagger to his throat.

  "Don't call out, and don't struggle!" the halfling snarled. The soldier froze.

  "That's good," said Will. "Now, we're going to ask you some questions, and I recommend you answer truthfully. Do you see the sun amulet hanging around my partner's neck? He's a priest of the Morninglord, and he's going to weave a spell that will alert him if you lie to us. If you do, I'll cut you. Understand?"

  "Yes," the youth wheezed.

  Pavel murmured and swept the talisman through a mystic pass, pretending to weave an enchantment. He couldn't really utilize the magic Will had described, because, unable to anticipate that he and his comrade would soon be interrogating a prisoner, he hadn't requested that particular spell when praying for his daily allotment at dawn. But the Zhent didn't know that, and thus would fear to dissemble.

  Pavel gave the youth a cold stare and asked, "Why is the Black Network occupying this empty place?"

  "Please," said the youth, "if I betray them, they'll torture me to death."

  Will shifted the knife. The Zhent gasped and flinched away as best he could with his limbs bound and the halfling holding onto him. A drop of blood slid down his neck.

  "If you don't cooperate," said Will, "I'll do the same right now."

  It was another bluff. Will and Pavel weren't torturers. But the Zhent had no way of knowing that, either.

  "I swore oaths to Bane," the soldier pleaded. "If I break them, then, after I die, he'll rip my soul forever."

  "No," said Pavel, "he won't. Renounce the Black Lord, run away from the Zhentarim, find a decent way of living, and he'll have no power over you. I give you my word as a servant of the Morninglord."

  "So," said Will, "you can die today, or have a second chance. What's it going to be? Decide fast, I'm getting bored."

  He flicked the knife, making a second superficial cut.

  The Zhent cringed and said, "All right! Ask your questions."

  "I already asked one," Pavel said. "Why are you here?"

  "To protect the dragon."

  Pavel and Will exchanged glances.

  "What dragon?" the half ling asked.

  "He's called Vercevoran," said the Zhent. "Somebody said he's an emerald dragon. He look
s like he was carved out of a big, green jewel."

  "Oh, blessed powers!" Pavel exclaimed.

  "What?" asked Will. "Does that tell you something?"

  "The forces that attacked us on the water," said the priest. "They didn't seem like true magic, or actual unclean spirits, either. But there's another sort of power, exceedingly rare, a pseudo-wizardry of the mind. Gem dragons are among the creatures possessing such abilities, talents well suited to keeping watch over the entire Moonsea and striking at those who journey without the Zhentarim's authorization." He turned back to the soldier. "Am I right?"

  The youth goggled in amazement at his perspicacity and said, "Yes."

  "I don't understand" said Will. "Why would an emerald dragon help the Zhents? Gem wyrms aren't totally evil, are they? And why aren't his keepers worried about him succumbing to the Rage and running amok?"

  "He's a prisoner," said the Zhent, "magically forced to serve. The spellcasters back in the Citadel of the Raven called up something special to control him. I don't know what. It keeps to itself, and walks abroad shrouded in a cloak and hood."

  "Then explain this," Will said. He stalked to the doorway to take a wary look at the street outside. "The dragon's important to your masters' plans. So why keep him in Hulburg? Why not in one of your strongholds, the citadel, Zhentil Keep, or Mulmaster?"

  "I think I know," said Pavel. "This one creature, mighty as he is, can't perform the task the Zhentarim have set him all by himself. The dastards need a ring of watchers linked mind to mind positioned around the Moonsea. They need a psychic hereabouts to close the circle." He smiled at the youth. "Am I correct?"

  "I think so," said the captive. "I mean, common soldiers like me aren't even supposed to know, but you hear things. Vercevoran and the other slaves are all linked in a pattern that makes their minds stronger than normal."

  "This is… interesting," said Will.

  "And important," said Pavel. "We knew we were in peril every time we traveled. Now we know why."

  "And we know how to remove the threat. Break one strand loose and the whole psychic web collapses."