“He spoke well enough at my banquet!” the lord objected.
“You did not speak to Shadespeaker,” Ironwood announced. “The man you spoke to was Kyaga himself!” With a panther-swift movement, he grasped Kyaga’s wrist with one hand and with the other yanked the glove from the chief’s hand, revealing a complex sigil traced on its back. With a swipe of the glove he turned the sigil into a featureless smear. The brilliant green eyes, wide with hatred, began to fade.
“When he wanted to be Shadespeaker, his spell turned his eyes brown. As Kyaga, they were green. Now you see their real color.” The eyes had faded to a dull blue. Ironwood smiled at the chieftains ranged behind Kyaga. “There never was any Shadespeaker. This man announced his own advent among you.” The expressions of chagrin on their faces were almost comical.
“Not only is there no Shadespeaker, there is no Kyaga Strongbow, either!”
“Then who is he?” demanded the lord, at his wit’s end.
Ironwood snatched away the veil, revealing a vaguely handsome but rather nondescript face over which fear crept like advancing fog. “No one you, or any other here, would know, save for me. His name is Boreas. He is a rogue, a harpist, and an actor. Once, in another land, he was my friend. But he betrayed me and left me for dead.”
“Hah!” Shellring said excitedly. “Granny Toadflower said it was the musician behind all this! ‘False eyes,’ she said. ‘There is one,’ she said.”
“When he realized Yalmuk and Guklak were ready to betray him,” Ironwood went on, “he decided to murder them in an advantageous fashion. He would make it look like the Tarsians had done it so that his chieftains would be bound closer to him in their desire for vengeance.”
“Infamous!” said the lord.
Ironwood favored him with a humorless smile. “He sought further advantage by framing Councilor Melkar for Guklak’s killing. He wanted you to hand him your most capable military commander. He knew your kind well, my lord. He knew you would seize the flimsiest excuse to be rid of a potential rival.”
The councilors gazed upon their lord with little favor, but he ignored them. “I am not yet convinced.”
“For an actor like Boreas, imitating a Tarsian noble was child’s play. He met a number of them personally and was helped by the fact that they frequently wear masks in public. He could move freely throughout the city, even through the gates after hours, impersonating one lord or another. That was how he lured Yalmuk to the square before the Hall of Justice. Just another Tarsian noble, ready to sell out his lord or offer a bribe for Yalmuk to do the same. He got the man passage through one of the gates—your guards are eminently bribable, my lord—and led him to the square, where the mute slave was waiting on the pedestal of the statue of Abushmulum the Ninth. One or the other of them whipped the noose around Yalmuk’s neck, and the two of them hauled him up. That was why all the blood was on the pedestal.”
He grinned into the man’s face. “I suppose a wire garotte is a natural weapon for a harpist, eh, Boreas?” He looked up. “Find his harp. I’ll warrant it’s missing a string.”
“And Guklak?” a nomad chief demanded.
“Easy,” said Ironwood. “He probably killed him right here in the camp, then passed through one of the gates as a nobleman on military duty with the corpse wrapped up on a pack animal. Patrols pass through the gates at all hours. The guards had orders to keep out nomads and other strangers, not nobles of their own city.”
“This man spins lies!” shouted Kyaga. His outburst was greeted with stony silence.
Shellring turned to Nistur again. “That was how he passed the truth-fiend! ‘Shadespeaker didn’t kill Yalmuk,’ he said. It was true! There never was a Shadespeaker!”
Nistur nodded. “Let this be a lesson to you. Never trust a man who refers to himself in the third person.”
“We could not have been gulled so easily by such a rogue!” protested a chieftain.
“I think I may be able to elucidate,” said Stunbog. “In fact, here comes one of my colleagues with the proof.”
The wizened little wizard appeared from a rear compartment of the tent. “I found it,” he announced, holding up a brass-bound casket. This he handed to Stunbog.
The enormous woman in the spangled robe emerged likewise from the rear of the tent. “There was no harp,” she announced, “but I found this.” She held aloft a long-necked lute, from which a string was plainly missing.
“I suppose a harp would have been too awkward to carry about in his travels,” Ironwood said.
“Some years ago,” Stunbog announced, “these two men, Ironwood and Boreas, had a fateful encounter with a young black dragon. Ironwood slew it, but was terribly wounded. Boreas, who must have hung back throughout the struggle, removed its heart and fled, leaving his companion to die. Behold the heart of the dragon.”
He threw back the lid and held the casket high. Even the hardened nomads and the schemers of Tarsis gasped. Revealed within, on a nest of satin, was a grayish-red organ larger than that of a full-grown bull. Though its owner had long been dead, the heart pulsed with an uncanny life-force, throbbing audibly.
“The heart of a black dragon,” Stunbog went on, “properly activated by one who knows the Arts, confers a spell of glamour upon the possessor, bestowing upon him great charisma, making the merely capable seem superb, the merely adequate seem great. Why just be a great actor, Boreas thought, when with this talisman he could act on the world stage?”
“Ah!” Nistur said. “Now I know you!” He walked to Ironwood’s side, took a purse from within his tunic, and tossed it at the feet of Boreas. “I must return your fee, for I failed in my commission.” He addressed the assembly. “This man, attired as yet another Tarsian nobleman, hired me to kill my friend here, whom I had not yet met. The one who calls himself by many names has an affinity for underhanded homicide. He even hired a gang of thugs to ambush us in the Old City.”
“He had more than mere murder on his mind when he commissioned that attack,” said Stunbog, “just as he had more than mere conquest in mind when he moved against Tarsis.”
“What could be more important than conquering Tarsis?” the lord demanded haughtily. “Not that I would have permitted such an outrage, of course.”
“It seems that Boreas devoted much time to studying the lore of black dragons. They are creatures far more complex than their dismal reputation would suggest. He had the heart, but Ironwood took the skin of the dragon. These two items, together with a spell from a very ancient and obscure tome, would make him powerful beyond his wildest dreams. Somewhere beneath the ruins of the Old City of Tarsis lies the great Library of Khrystann; this is widely known among scholars. If that spellbook is to be found anywhere, it is in the old library.
“Evil men suspect all others of evil intent. When Boreas learned that Ironwood was in Tarsis, he suspected that his old friend was also in search of the spellbook and would soon come to steal the dragon’s heart. So Boreas hired Nistur to kill Ironwood, and when that didn’t work, he hired the street gang to keep us away from the Old City. He wanted Ironwood dead, and he wanted the remaining pieces of the dragon’s hide.”
“What do you mean, the remaining pieces?” the lord asked.
“It seems there is a further complication, my friends. Those two young men wrought more foolishness than they knew. That immature dragon left the nest too young, and its mother was compelled to search it out. When she found it slain, she fell under an overwhelming compulsion for vengeance. For all the years since, she has searched for these two, eternally confused by the separation of the heart and the hide. She found a part of the hide in a town where Ironwood had his war-harness made. She destroyed that town utterly and continued to search for the remainder. Here in Tarsis heart and hide have come together.”
“The dragon!” said the lord. “The one the sentries on the walls have reported seeing at night! I thought it only a phantom.”
“It is not too late!” Boreas cried in desperation. “She can
hunt only at night and cannot bear the cold for long. I have the heart. Ironwood has …” For the first time he seemed to notice that the mercenary was not wearing his accustomed armor. “He has hidden the skin, but he will reveal its hiding place under torture. The white dwarves of Tarsis must know where the library is. With my talismans and the book, I can control her and every other dragon that lives!” He turned to the Lord of Tarsis. “I will share this power with you, my lord!”
“I must consider …” the lord began, but he was cut off by a shout from Shatterspear.
“Never have I seen such a nest of lies and treachery!” he roared as he fumbled with the grip of his sword.
“It has been years since you have seen anything plainly, you sot!” the chieftain of another tribe responded angrily. Without Kyaga’s binding influence, old feuds were quickly reemerging.
Melkar turned to the lord and sneered. “You are worse than any barbarian! It was a cursed day for Tarsis when you assumed command. Get me out of these chains!”
There was a universal reaching for weapons, and the wizened little wizard, Alban, threw up his hands. “Hold! Any breach of the peace before the sun is at its zenith will bring disaster on us all!”
Hands gripping hilts, eyes wide with hate, their heads swiveled to judge the shadow. No more than five inches of shadow remained on the western side of the shaft.
“As it happens,” said Stunbog, reverting to the subject at hand, “Ironwood’s armor has been destroyed forever. Only the heart remains for the dragon to home in on. Black dragons are not very intelligent, but they are quite relentless. She is bereaved, she is suffering, and she is very, very angry. I think she might well be angry enough to attack in the daylight. I am old, my friends. Perhaps my ears play tricks. Does anyone else hear something?”
There was utter silence; then, faintly, there came a sound like distant thunder. It was the sound of vast wings beating, and the sound was drawing closer by the second.
“Time to leave,” Nistur said to his companions. He tugged at Ironwood’s arm. “Come along.”
Slowly, still glaring at Boreas, Ironwood backed away. His former friend seemed scarcely to notice. His eyes were wide with unmitigated terror, and they grew wider as the sound of the wings drew nearer. At the entrance to the tent, Nistur turned and doffed his hat once more.
“We take our leave now. Our task is done. Gentlemen, I wish you joy of one another.”
There was a great silence as they walked away from the tent, then: “Let’s go!” Shellring cried, sprinting toward the boulders. The others were close on her heels, Stunbog holding his robe above his knees, putting on a considerable burst of speed for one of his years. They darted into the crevice, and the camouflaged door swung open before them.
“Look!” Shellring said, stopping them. They turned, then crept back toward the mouth of the crevice, drawn by a dreadful curiosity.
Men boiled from the tent as a vast shadow fell over it. Then a gigantic form dropped from the sky like a thunderbolt: a shape blacker than night and full of triumphant malice. The dragon was gaunt, almost skeletal, its once-glossy scales dull with privation, but its power was unaffected by its suffering. It landed on spread back legs, its whipping tail scattering warriors and beasts like chaff thrown up by a winnowing-fan. With savage foreclaws, it spread the magnificent tent open like a man throwing aside a pair of flimsy curtains. Then the head and long neck, the grasping claws, disappeared within.
“Let’s get away from here,” Shellring moaned. “I don’t want to see this.” But like the others, she was unable to tear her gaze away.
The dragon drew back from the tent. In one great-taloned hand, it held the wooden casket. In the other, a human form writhed. The beast raised its fearsome snout and vented an ear-shattering roar. Then the great, leathery wings spread, and the dragon was aloft, scattering tents in the hurricane generated by its flight. With incredible speed, the black form dwindled in the western sky.
“Now,” Stunbog said quietly, “we can go.”
* * * * *
“Here is what you asked for,” Hotforge said, handing Stunbog a large earthenware jar with its mouth stoppered by a wooden plug and sealed with wax. “You won’t forget your promise, now.”
“Of course not, my friend,” Stunbog said, somewhat out of breath. The dwarves had hustled them through the labyrinthine tunnels, and they were now at the foot of a ramp leading up to the surface.
“What is it?” Ironwood asked.
“You recall what Granny Toadflower said?” Stunbog delivered a fair imitation of her demented speech. “ ‘You want a cure for dragon bite? Down there! Find the lightning-worm!’ This is a portion of the heart of the behir, along with several of its talons. They each have properties to prevent or counteract effects of poisons.”
“It can cure me?” Ironwood asked.
“I doubt it can effect a permanent cure, but if we can find a properly qualified practitioner of the magical arts, I think we can bring about a remission of the effects of the dragon’s poison for a long time, perhaps long enough to find a complete cure.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing,” Ironwood said.
“It is truly difficult to make you happy,” Nistur complained as they trudged up the ramp. Then the doors swung wide, and they stepped out onto a grassy mound. The sun had already melted away the last of the snow, and above them the sky stretched in a broad blue expanse. A few yards away, Myrsa and Badar held the reins of six horses, and they cheered when they saw the four tired figures emerge from underground.
“What favor did you promise Hotforge?” Nistur asked Stunbog.
“He asked that I spread word of their plight among any other dwarves I might come across. They have much to trade and, with an infusion of new blood, their hereditary ills will disappear after a generation or two. The dwarves of Tarsis may grow numerous and prosper once more.”
They turned at a dull, inchoate sound from behind them. It came from the city, or just beyond it. There were roaring and crashing noises, and smoke began to ascend.
“That started a while ago,” Myrsa told them. “It must be a battle or a riot.”
“I thought I saw a dragon flying,” Badar added. “Did you see it?”
“That we did,” Nistur informed him, “and from uncomfortably close range at that.”
Stunbog shook his head. “What folly. After all that, after all the revelations they have been granted, they still want to fight.” He sighed. “I have lost all my books and artifacts, but a scholar’s true treasure is here.” He tapped his temple.
They began to mount, but Shellring held back, looking toward the city. “I’ve never been anywhere but Tarsis.”
“You cannot stay,” Stunbog said. “You have too many enemies there now, even if the nomads don’t destroy it.”
“Come with us,” Nistur urged. “See something of the world.”
She eyed a horse warily. “I’ve never ridden before.”
“I will teach you,” Badar said. “Ride with me for a while. I show you what to do.” He reached down a hand. Shellring smiled and took it. With an easy surge, he pulled her onto the saddle behind him.
“That was easily accomplished,” Nistur said.
Ironwood laughed richly. “What a group we are! Look at us: an unemployable mercenary, an assassin who can no longer assassinate, a sorcerer who has forsworn magic, a thief, and a pair of outcast barbarians!”
“And yet, fate has thrown us together,” Nistur observed.
“Aye,” Stunbog agreed. “And I cannot help but think it is for some purpose.”
“We may have saved the world from a tyrant,” Nistur said.
Stunbog nodded. “True, but much of the danger was of our own making. Does it not occur to you that the four of us—Nistur, Ironwood, Shellring, and myself—are much alike? In the past each of our lives took an evil turn, and we sought prosperity through the easy path. Truly, I should not include Shellring, for she was desperate and had little choice in ado
pting the life of a thief. The three of us had no such excuse. I think we have all been given a chance to atone for our sins and the evils we have brought on the world. We must use this opportunity wisely. We will not get another, for as we have just witnessed, there is yet true justice in Ansalon.”
As they sat their mounts and gazed at the black smoke now rising over Tarsis, they pondered these sobering words.
“But what are we to do?” Shellring asked at last.
“Is it not obvious?” said Nistur. “We were commissioned to solve a murder. If I may say so, we accomplished this task with no little distinction. If the Lord of Tarsis had such a problem, might not others? Let us hire ourselves out as solvers of crimes, ferreters-out of murderers, champions of justice! Do you think that lot”—his sweeping gesture took in the city of Tarsis—“are an aberration? Nothing of the sort!”
“Then, where shall we go?” Ironwood mused.
Nistur leaned forward in his saddle. “Ah, my friends, that is the beauty of this career! Unlike mercenaries, we do not have to seek out a war. Unlike merchants, we do not have to find a market.” He leaned back and spread his arms wide. “No matter where we go, we will always find wickedness! And there we shall be in our element.”
And with that they wheeled their mounts about and rode away from Tarsis the Proud.
About the Author
John Maddox Roberts is the author of more than forty books in the fantasy, science fiction, historical, and mystery genres. He has lived all over the United States, as well as in Scotland, England, and Mexico. He spent three years in the army, and after getting home from Vietnam decided that writing seemed like safe, easy, high-paying work. It did turn out to be fairly safe. With his wife, Elizabeth, he lives high in the Appalachian Mountains of southwest Virginia.
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