How, he asked himself, have I changed so much in such a short time?
Such were his thoughts as he numbly exited the tower.
The Sow’s Ear had more connections to the underworld of Tilverton than Grimwald’s Revenge. Aidan looked around nervously as he approached the warped wooden door of the establishment. He had spent most of his career pursuing the very elements that made up the tavern’s clientele, and here he was walking into the dragon’s lair without a single weapon. Morgrim’s choice of meeting places left much to be desired.
He grimaced as he pushed open the door, walking into the establishment. Although it was midday, the inside of the Sow’s Ear was dark and shadowy. Aidan could see several figures lying scattered around the common room in various states of drunkenness. Those who could still sit up squinted against the tavern’s smoke-filled haze, playing traitor’s heads or swords and shields. The walls, floors, and tables of the place were chipped and rotting, and the place smelled of stale beer and urine.
As he approached the bar, a fat, gap-toothed man in a greasy apron flashed him a scowl and asked for his order. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Aidan bought an ale and found an empty table in a deserted corner. He sipped the drink slowly, grimacing at the flat taste.
Where was Morgrim? The damned priest said he would meet him here at midday. He scanned the common room again, a queer feeling rising in his stomach. Despite the confusion he brought on, the captain found himself anxiously awaiting the priest.
The door suddenly crashed open, and he nearly dove to the ground as three men staggered drunkenly into the common area.
Torm’s Teeth, he thought, you’re as skittish as a cadet on review.
Aidan sniffed distastefully as he watched the three men swagger to the bar and bellow for some ale. He knew by the look of them that they were trouble. He sipped his own ale quietly and kept his eyes studiously away from the three braggarts, hoping they would ignore him.
He was wrong.
One of the oafs swayed toward his table and began to laugh. “What have we here,” he slurred. His companions must have heard the grizzly sound, for they turned their attention away from a full-figured barmaid and onto the object of their friend’s interest.
“I don’t see nuthin’, Durm,” replied the blondest, and fattest, of the toughs. “Nuthin’ but a graybeard taking up our fav’rit spot.”
Aidan rolled his eyes. Why did they always use that tired old excuse for a fight? Lack of imagination, he supposed.
As the rest of Durm’s friends approached, he stared intently into his beer. All he had wanted to do was wait quietly for the priest. Now it looked like there would be trouble. The three men surrounded him, blocking off any chance of escape.
“What’s wrong, old man,” taunted Durm. “Don’t ya remember how to talk?” He laughed again, a vulgar sound somewhat between a belch and a snort.
Aidan sighed. He knew how this would most likely end. If only Morgrim would arrive, he could walk away without a fight.
“I guess he can’t remember, Durm,” replied the fat one. “Maybe we should refresh his mem’ry”
They all laughed self-importantly. Suddenly, the last of the men, a giant, red-haired fellow with the build of a field ox, slammed his meaty hand on the table. Durm leaned forward.
“My friend here would like you to move so we could have our table.”
Aidan looked up at the three men. Smiling invitingly, he said, “There’s no need to get upset. Why don’t you and your friends sit down here and join me for a drink?”
As he finished the sentence, he threw the remainder of his drink at Dunn, then slammed the cheap metal goblet on the red-haired giant’s hand. Both of the men recoiled from the surprise attack. He took advantage of that opportunity and got to his feet.
As soon as Aidan stood up, the fat man charged in. Aidan quickly sidestepped the attack and grabbed the man’s arm. Raising it over his head, he pivoted his hips and watched with satisfaction as his attacker flipped in the air and landed with a whumpf on his back.
By this time, Durm and his companion were ready for another go-around. Aidan sized up his two opponents with a practiced eye. He could handle Durm easily enough, the man was all bluster and soft muscle. It was his companion, the ox, whom he worried about.
They moved forward and he braced for the attack. Before he could raise his arms, however, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. Someone had thrown a bottle. Aidan’s head spun and before he knew it, the giant had both of his hands locked behind his back. Durm strutted forward, producing a thin dagger from his belt.
“Not so fast now, are you old man,” Durm said. “I think I’ll gut you right here for what you did to me and my friends.”
Aidan shook his head, trying to recover from the thrown bottle. If he could just shift his weight a little, he’d be able to kick the gloating man in the face.
Before he could do this, however, a soft voice floated from the bar. “I think he’s had enough, don’t you.”
Durm spun to face the voice. Aidan looked over to see Morgrim, dressed in a simple brown robe. Even without his vestments, the man had a malignant air. Durm must have sensed this, for he chuckled nervously and said, “Yeah, sure. We was just havin’ a bit of fun, weren’t we boys.” He nodded to the giant. “Let the man go, and let’s be on our way.”
The mighty grip relaxed, and Aidan made his way toward Morgrim, rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation. The three men looked at Morgrim once and then quickly left the bar.
“What took you so long?” Aidan asked.
Morgrim flashed him a grin. “I was busy doing some research,” he replied. “Besides, you looked like you had everything under control. I especially liked the way you blocked the flying bottle with your head.”
“Demons take you, man!” Aidan nearly shouted. “Do you think this is some gods-blasted prank?” He was too angry and confused to deal with the priest’s newfound levity.
Morgrim’s smile vanished. “I see your meeting didn’t go so well. Come, let’s talk business if it’s a dark mood you’re having.” The priest pulled Aidan into a corner and whispered. “I found out a couple of things that might interest you. First, Alaslyn Rowanmantle did commission a blade for you from Khulgar’s weapon shop. You should lay a few inquiries up that tree and see if it yields fruit.”
Aidan nodded. “What’s the second thing?”
Morgrim looked about the room before continuing, “Apparently, there are rumors of some sort of transaction, purportedly over a dagger, that will take place tomorrow in the sewers. If we can witness that transaction it would be most beneficial.
At last, something constructive to do, Aidan thought.
It was early evening by the time Aidan found himself in front of Khulgar’s shop. Briefly, he stared at the evening sky, splashed pink with the last rays of the setting sun, and paused at the door. The air was still, poised as if the slightest breeze would shatter the twilight scene. He breathed deeply, gathering the stillness into himself. His life had changed so much in the last tenday that it took something as unfailingly regular as the coming of night to remind him of who he was. With a sigh, he entered the shop.
Blades of various shapes and sizes, from short-hilted daggers to elaborately crafted two-handed weapons, hung promisingly on display, and a number of finer ones lay behind rune-inscribed glass. The heat from the back forge poured over him in waves. He shuddered once, trying to expel the cold that had settled into his bones. Winter was never kind in Tilverton, and every year his old body found it more difficult to fight the chill. He waited patiently for a clerk, gratefully soaking in the heat, until a lad finally came out to assist him.
He quietly handed the boy a few silvers and spoke Khulgar’s name. The young apprentice dashed off, only to return a few minutes later with the dwarven smith in tow. Khulgar was short, like all of his people, but he possessed thickly corded muscles and a mighty barrel of a chest. His skin was ruddy and heat-baked; a thin sheen
of sweat covered his naked torso. Aidan noted with interest the smith’s tightly braided beard, now tucked neatly into his heavy pants. This, he thought, was a dwarf of whom Moradin himself would be proud.
“Here now,” barked Khulgar, folding his callused arms across his chest. “What’s this you been doing to my boy, that he drags me away from the forge so early?”
Despite the dwarf’s gruffness, Aidan suppressed a smile. He doubted that Khulgar spent much time away from the forge. Not wishing to waste any more of the smith’s time than necessary, he got right to the point. “I’m wondering if you remember working on a dagger commissioned by Lady Rowanmantle herself.”
If the invocation of the regent’s name impressed Khulgar at all, the dwarf didn’t show it. He stood there for a minute, a scowl sculpted upon his craggy face, before answering, “Hmmph… I receive a lot of commissions from the Lady.”
“Yes, I quite understand,” Aidan put in hastily, “but this would have been a gift intended for a retiring Purple Dragon officer.”
Khulgar’s stony face cracked into a smile. “Yes, 1 remember that one… carved the Purple Dragon’s symbol into the hilt myself.” The smith paused. “Unusual, that’s for sure.”
“Unusual in what way?” Aidan asked excitedly. Here, at last, was his first real lead!
“Well, I usually deliver the regent’s commissions myself-I don’t much trust anyone else to handle them-but when the commander came in and said that he wanted the dagger, I let him have it. Who am I to argue with-”
“Excuse me,” Aidan interrupted, not sure if he heard the smith correctly, “did you say the ‘commander’?”
Khulgar nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Commander Haldan. I wouldn’t have just given it to him, but he said that Lady Rowanmantle charged him with its safety. He was supposed to deliver it to its intended recipient personally,” the dwarf replied. “Look… why do you want to know this, anyhow?”
Aidan didn’t hear the question. Sweat broke out on his face and his knees trembled. The heat from the forge seemed to treble in intensity, as the interior of the shop, so comforting just moments ago, closed in upon him like the jaws of an ancient red dragon.
Ignoring the smith’s startled exclamations-for Aidan’s skin must have looked as sallow and gray as the roaming dead-he threw open the door of the shop and ran out into the night. He stumbled hurriedly through the streets and alleyways of Tilverton for hours, not knowing, not caring about his destination. His thoughts, if one could call them such, were a chaotic jumble.
Impossible!
Let them pry the dagger from my heart! He was the best of us!
Moradin would be proud!
Morgrim, my friend?
How could he?
Finally, Aidan tripped and fell on the uneven stones of a darkened alleyway. He struggled to rise, but couldn’t, his mad strength spent. Defeated, he panted hard into the night air. Winter wind whipped through his sweat-soaked body, sending a chill down his spine. The sensation hurt, but the pain cleared his mind; it was like awakening from some ensorceled dream.
Aidan lay in the alleyway for a few more minutes, marshaling his strength. When he finally arose, his steps were unhurried and steady. Although the night grew ever colder, he didn’t feel it. He was numb, empty, like the husk of a soldier after his spirit has fled-except that he wasn’t dead.
He trudged on and reached the door of his simple house. Once inside, Aidan slumped on his bed and waited in vain for sleep’s blessed relief. When it didn’t arrive, he sat in the darkness of his room, searching for some other way to resolve the situation-but nothing came. Haldan had used him, broken every oath of friendship and honor known to a warrior. For that, he had to pay. As the hours passed and dawn threatened the night sky, Aidan’s resolve hardened. Emptiness gave way to a hungering need for vengeance. When Morgrim appeared at his door in the pre-dawn light, adorned in a thick purple robe and bearing a skull tipped obsidian staff, Aidan didn’t even acknowledge the young priest’s greeting. Instead, he threw an old black cloak over his own leather armor, buckled on a sword. and uttered a silent prayer to Cyric as they marched out into the fog-shrouded morning.
He was off to kill his oldest friend.
Aidan walked through the old sewer tunnel and grimaced at the ankle-deep sludge through which he and Morgrim were trudging. The priest’s staff spat feeble illumination into the darkened tunnel, revealing slime-coated stone walls and horridly wilted roots. The air was dank and warm, heady with the stink of decay, and everywhere Aidan could hear the echoing squeal of sewer rats.
He and Morgrim had spent much of the early morning wandering through this endless array of crumbling sewer tunnels in a frustrating search for the correct series of passages. At first, his memories of this place had threatened to overwhelm him. He had lost a lot of men within these tunnels during the final battle against the Fire Knives, and their dying screams seemed to carry throughout the sewers. But these memories had also spurred his thoughts toward Haldan-with whom he shared command that awful night-and he used the surge of anger brought on by the thoughts of his former commander to tame his tortured remembrances. Now, every step brought him closer to the truth-a truth he knew would be difficult to face.
At last, the two neared the center of the Fire Knives’ old headquarters. Aidan stopped and turned to Morgrim, pointing down a tunnel that angled to the east.
“This is it,” he whispered. “Straight down this tunnel lies an old storage room used when the sewers were still active. That’s where we’ll find the Lirithane.”
Aidan’s hands were shaking now. He placed both of them on his sword hilt while Morgrim stepped off to the side.
The priest nodded and said, “We’ll need to be careful; there are bound to be sentries.” With that, he held his staff aloft and spoke a single word. The light from the staff went out, plunging the tunnel into darkness.
“I have something that will help us deal with our enemies,” Morgrim said softly. “Hold on to me and don’t let go.”
Aidan reached out toward the direction of Morgrim’s voice, grasping for the priest’s hand. When he found it, the captain almost shouted. The young man’s hands were as cold as ice.
Morgrim chanted softly in the darkness of the tunnel, a harsh grating sound that cut through the air like a knife. Aidan winced at the sound and tried to cover one ear with his free hand. The sound swelled for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly.
Silence. Aidan began to panic until he felt Morgrim squeeze his hand. The panic receded, and he continued down the tunnel, guiding both himself and the priest by holding on to the wall. They followed the angling tunnel for a few hundred feet until Aidan saw a dim light in the distance. The two figures kept close to the walls and crept toward the light. As they approached, Aidan saw two cloaked figures guarding an old stone door. He squeezed Morgrim’s hand and pointed at the sentries.
The priest’s answering smile chilled Aidan to the bone. Morgrim released Aidan’s hand, pulled out two daggers, and flung them at the sentries. The weapons kissed both thieves in the throat, and they fell to the floor.
Aidan and Morgrim moved quickly, dragging the now still bodies into the shadows. When they were done, Morgrim threw a small coin back down the tunnel. The silence seemed to follow it, and soon Aidan could make out voices from the room beyond the door. He pressed his ear closer.
“… the note of credit, Paidraig, and my associates will present the knife.”
Aidan’s heart lurched. It was the voice of Haldan Rimmersbane! He had hoped, even at the last, that the evidence was wrong. Now, with the knowledge that Haldan truly was involved in the theft of the dagger, the final fabric that held his former life together tore. The pain of that tearing was worse than any sword wound, and Aidan nearly toppled to the floor with the strength of it. Instead, he banked the smoldering fire of his anger and drew his sword in a white-knuckled grip. With a shout of fury, he pushed open the door and ran into the room, not caring whether Morgrim followed.
/> Haldan and a familiar white-robed figure turned at the sound.
“Traitor!” Aidan shouted.
He did not have a chance to hear Haldan’s response as four figures detached themselves from the shadows and attacked. This time, Aidan was prepared. He swung his sword in a wide arc, denying the thieves an opening. Although he was once again outnumbered, Aidan fought with a mind unsullied by ale. This battle would cost his attackers dearly.
The room flickered in a shower of sparks and blazing lights as Aidan ducked under a hasty attack. Dimly, he was aware of Morgrim locked in a deadly mystical duel with the white-robed man. Again and again the two opponents called upon magical forces beyond his ken, and the room nearly trembled with their power. With a shake of his head, Aidan blocked out the thundering display of pyrotechnics and turned his attention back to his opponents.
Fortunately, the arcane battle seemed to unnerve the cloaked figures, and he quickly took advantage of their distraction, dispatching two of them with a well-timed reverse stroke. The two remaining thieves were noticeably less enthusiastic and soon fell beneath the furious onslaught of his attack. He stood above the two corpses for a moment and carefully wiped the blood from his blade. It was then that he realized the room lay silent.
Desperately he cast about the chamber for any sign of Morgrim. He found the priest in the corner, struggling to rise to his feet. The body of his opponent lay scorched in the center of the room. Aidan shot off a prayer of thanks and started toward his companion. As he neared the corner, he saw Haldan step out of the shadows and raise a sword above Mongrim’s head. The priest tried feebly to defend himself, but it was obvious to Aidan that he was too hurt to do any good.
“No!” shouted Aidan, running toward the two. “You’ve lost, Haldan. Let him be.”
Haldan spun. Even in the dim light of the storage chamber, Aidan could see the runes engraved upon his former friend’s sword.
“Lost?” Haldan said. “I haven’t lost. I’m still alive.”
Realms of Mystery a-6 Page 22
