The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  Tal's sword glanced off Rusk's terrible new claws. The scraping vibration made his teeth ache. In his rush to strike the first blow, he opened his guard far too wide.

  Rusk swept a backhanded slash across Tal's belly, ripping through fabric and flesh. Tal gasped at the pain and tried to restore his guard.

  The beast man pressed the attack, slashing furiously with both gigantic hands. Tal felt a horrible looseness in his guts as he struggled to sustain a defense, parrying left and right as he backed across the stage.

  Even through the pain, Tal felt another keen sensation. The hairs all over his body pricked up, and his joints ached. The transformation was starting.

  Rusk felt it also, and he stopped to howl at the sky. Tal felt a wild scream rising in his own breast, but he fought to keep it down. Rusk lowered his eyes to meet Tal's. He approached slowly, savoring the fear he saw in his prey.

  Tal retreated until he ran out of stage. The pain in his belly sprang to agonizing life. He wondered briefly if he'd live long enough to die as a wolf. Part of him hoped he would die first.

  Then he noticed the springboard.

  A mad grin stretched across Tal's face. Win or lose, he would finish this fight on his own terms. Clutching the flaming sword in both hands, he ran toward his enemy.

  Rusk braced for a headlong attack, his god-granted talons spread before him in a shield of blades. Tal hit the springboard with both feet and flew high above Rusk's bony shields, flipping forward as he guided the sword in a great overhead arc.

  Rusk moved just in time to save his skull. The sword swept past the werewolf's cheek to cleave through the meat and bone of his shoulder.

  Tal collapsed heavily before his enemy, defeated. He felt his guts spilling through his belly but didn't even have the strength to clutch at them. He raised his head to face his death.

  He looked up just in time to see Rusk's severed arm fall away from his body. The arterial spray was black in the yellow light.

  Rusk's agonized howl was deafening as Tal fell backward onto the stage. Their blood mingled in a widening pool.

  *****

  Tal's second convalescence was much more painful than the first. Maleva and Feena returned in time to save his life, but they had yet to use Selune's power to heal him properly. When they returned to his tallhouse the next day, they found Chaney and Eckert at his side.

  After they'd mended his wounds, Maleva produced the moonfire. Tal had already told Chaney and Eckart his story. The servant was especially quiet this morning, still angry at having spent the night trussed and locked in the closet beside the captured lockpick. His cold glare followed the unrepentant Chaney wherever he went.

  "At last," said Chaney, admiring the vial of moonfire. "Here's the solution to all your trouble."

  "No," said Tal. "I don't want it."

  Feena's eyebrows jumped, but Maleva seemed nonplussed.

  "But sir," said Eckart, breaking his silence at last, "how else can you put an end to this curse?"

  "That stuff won't work for me unless I pledge myself to Selune. Right?"

  "That is true," replied Maleva evenly.

  "I can't see you as a priest," said Chaney with a little whimsy.

  "Neither can I," agreed Tal.

  "There are many ways to serve Selune," said Maleva. "All that is required is devotion."

  "You mean obedience."

  Maleva inclined her head with a little smile.

  "The difference between you and Rusk is only the purpose you intend for me. You both demand my obedience."

  "Rusk sought to turn you into a beast, like him," said Feena.

  "I've been wondering about that," interjected Chaney. "There were more than a dozen of us in that hunting party. None of this 'Hunt' came after me or the others who escaped. Why are they so interested in Tal?"

  "It is strange that he followed you to the city," allowed Maleva. She looked Tal in the face as if considering him for the first time. "He has a special interest in you, Talbot Uskevren."

  "He isn't done, either," said Feena. They had found a trail of blood leading to the theater entrance, but Rusk had escaped. "You would be wise to trust in Selune. She offers the power to oppose his kind."

  "I appreciate what you've done," said Tal. "Eckart will see that you're well paid for healing me. But I'll need more time to consider this business of the moonfire and Selune."

  "If you let the beast rule your heart," warned Feena, "you must be destroyed." The heat in her voice was startling.

  "I'll find a way," promised Tal. "But I'll find my own way."

  "Sometimes that is the best course," said Maleva. "We will remain in Selgaunt until you have found that way."

  Feena gave Tal a long look to emphasize her mother's point, a threat mingled with some other emotion in her steady gaze. "We'll be watching you," she said.

  "I understand," said Tal. He knew Maleva and Feena would deal harshly with him if he surrendered to the monster Rusk had placed inside him. "I have thirty days."

  THE BUTLER

  RESURRECTION

  Paul S. Kemp

  Cale sprinted down the alley, flattened himself against the wall, and shot a nervous glance behind. No one-just darkness and empty cobblestones. Winded from the run, his lungs heaved like a bellows. He sucked in the stink of the alley, a sour reek of urine and vomit, and blew it out in a cloud of frozen mist.

  Take it easy, he ordered himself. But that was easier thought than done. Someone was following him; someone had been since he had left Stormweather Towers. But who? And why?

  He slid along the wall until he reached a shallow, garbage-strewn recess hewn from the bricks. Blanketing himself in shadow, he concentrated on slowing his heart and steadying his breathing. He knew a cloud of exhaled breath would betray his location as surely as a shout. With an effort of will, he calmed himself.

  The roughness of the bricks at his back tempted him to try climbing, but he quickly dismissed the idea as too risky. If his pursuer caught up to him while he hung helpless on the wall…

  Blowing out a soft, tense sigh, he quietly eased his dagger from its belt sheath and peered through the darkness behind him. Still no one. Perhaps he had lost A silhouette suddenly appeared at the mouth of the alley, a short, wiry body framed by the light of a street torch. Cale froze and held his breath. The figure wavered uncertainly for a moment, as though sniffing for a trap, then stalked down the alley. The soft sshhk of a blade being drawn rang loud in Cale's ears. He gripped his own dagger in a sweating fist and tried to sink deeper into the shadows.

  The figure prowled down the narrow alley with short sword drawn. Its wary gaze swept the shadowy recess where Cale hid but passed over without a pause. Still holding his breath, Cale studied the man. Darkness hid his features, but Cale nevertheless recognized the ready blade and deft movements of a professional killer. An old adage he had learned back in the pirate city of Westgate popped into his head-only an assassin knows an assassin.

  The man stopped mere feet from Cale's recess and peered ahead into the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he muttered something under his breath and started to stalk farther down the alley Cale leaped out and smashed a fist into his jaw. The impact dislodged teeth and knocked the man across the alley.

  Cale easily sidestepped the dazed assassin's retaliatory stab and landed another vicious punch, this one to the nose. Bone shattered like eggshell, and blood exploded from the assassin's face in a spray of crimson. Stunned, he dropped the short sword and crumbled to the street with a moan. As soon as the assassin hit the ground, Cale had a knee on his chest and a dagger at his throat.

  "Move and you're a dead man," Cale hissed.

  Unable to breathe through his ruined nose, the assassin wheezed through a mouth rapidly filling with snot and blood. "All right. All right. I ain't movin'."

  Even up close Cale didn't recognize him, though he knew most of Selgaunt's professionals.

  "Speak," Cale ordered. "All of it. And if I think, you're lying…" He pricked the
assassin's throat with his dagger and let the threat dangle.

  Fear cleared the man's watery eyes. "Sure. Sure. What's it to me, right?" He tried to force a laugh but choked on his own blood.

  Cale waited for the coughing fit to pass, then asked, "Who hired you?"

  The assassin hesitated only an instant. "House… Malveen. Pietro Malveen."

  Cale nodded. That sounded about right. Turning an assassin loose on the Uskevren would be just like Pietro Malveen. Foolish, ham-handed dolt. He pressed his knee further into the assassin's chest.

  "Who was your target?"

  "No one," the assassin managed between gasps, then hurriedly added, "I mean, anyone… any Uskevren. I thought you were one of the sons." He turned his head to the side and spat blood. "Who in the Nine Hells are you?"

  Cale replied with cold silence and a hard stare. Stupid question, he thought. If you knew the answer, you'd already be dead. He kept his dagger to the man's throat while he tried to decide what to do. He could hardly turn the assassin over to the Scepters, Selgaunt's city guard. Too many questions there. But he had to get to the Stag soon. Riven would be waiting. Perhaps…

  "You're the butler," the assassin blurted, certainty in his voice. "Dark, but you don't move like any butler I've ever seen."

  Cale grimaced. Foolish, foolish man.

  "What?" The assassin's voice rose an octave. He sensed he'd made a mistake. "What'd I say? You are the butler, aren't you?"

  Cale stared down at the now frightened man with cold eyes. Though he knew now what he had to do, he nevertheless found it distasteful. Apparently realizing his danger, the assassin began to struggle. Cale held him in a grip like a vise.

  "Hey, wait, wait, mmph-"

  Cale covered the assassin's mouth with a powerful hand and leaned in close. "You're right," he whispered into the man's ear. "I am the butler."

  He flashed the dagger and opened the assassin's throat. The dying man screamed into Cale's palm while his blood poured steaming onto the frozen cobblestones. Cale watched him, emotionless. It was over within seconds.

  Cale wiped his blade clean on the man's cloak and stood. He took no pleasure in what he had done, but he had to do it. If he had allowed the assassin to carry word of his skills back to the Malveens, someone would have grown suspicious-Radu Malveen if not that idiot Pietro. Cale could not allow that.

  Some secrets have to be kept, he thought, irrespective of the cost.

  Without a backward glance, Cale left the cooling corpse behind him and headed for the Black Stag.

  *****

  The hearth stood unused, the coals cold. Only the wan orange glow of a single oil lamp provided light in the Black Stag. Hanging crookedly from a hook behind the bar, the lantern's flickering wick emitted wisps of oily black smoke that twisted upward to mix with the clouds of pipeweed smoke hovering around the ceiling beams. The dim, dancing flame created a confusing patchwork of shadows and smoke shapes that played eerily across the dead eyes and hard faces of the Stag's hushed clientele. They looked like the lost souls some said wandered about the uppermost of the Nine Hells in search of peace.

  Cale stood in the Stag's windswept doorway and grimaced. Lost souls indeed.

  He had just left a man lying dead only three blocks away.

  Perhaps twenty other patrons sat huddled in pairs and trios at the Stag's greasy wooden tables. Their hissing whispers remained indecipherable even to Cale's sharp ears, but he could imagine the content of their conversations well enough. He had been party to many such conversations himself once-black market deals, bribes, assassinations…

  Drasek Riven, he saw, had not yet arrived. Irritated, Cale walked across the common room to the bar and exchanged four coppers for a tankard of ale. He took a table far from the Stag's only public entrance, in a corner that commanded a view of the rest of the room. The stink of sweat, spilled ale, and the lantern's fish oil created a distinctively vile stench unique to the Stag, and disturbingly familiar to Cale. The smell recalled to him the man he had once been, a man who did black deeds in the cover of night. He thought again of the corpse back in the alley and knew that the ghost of that man yet haunted his soul. He still did black deeds.

  Trying to banish the image of the assassin's panicked gaze, Cale threw back a gulp of sour ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. A few wolfish faces jerked his way at the sound, but his cool stare quickly turned them back to their own business. He mopped his bald pate with a suddenly sweating hand, a hand that had slit a throat only minutes before.

  "You are not that man anymore," he chanted, as though invoking a spell. "You are not that man anymore."

  The corpse he had left in the alley made a mockery of his claim and he knew it. No matter that he had played the loyal servant to Thamalon Uskevren for the past nine years. He remained a killer. Anything else, no matter how well played, was a sham. If Thazienne ever learned of his fraud…

  Shaking his head angrily, he dismissed Thazienne from his mind. Now was not the time for distractions. He could not afford to show weakness when facing Riven. That black-hearted bastard smelled weakness like an Inner Sea gray shark smelled blood in the water. Cale needed to be focused.

  Endless minutes passed and still no Riven. Cale grew increasingly edgy. His long fingers beat an impatient drumbeat on the arm of his chair. Why had Riven contacted him? Their scheduled meet was still a tenday away. Where in the Nine Hells was he?

  The door to the Stag flew open, and Drasek Riven strode into the common room as if he owned the place. Without a glance to either side he stalked directly up to the bar, his scarlet cloak billowing behind him like a pool of blood. Wordlessly accepting a tankard of ale from the skinny, greasy-haired barkeep, he turned to survey the common room with a contemptuous sneer. His right hand rested comfortably on the hilt of one of his two sabers.

  Gazes that had nervously followed the assassin's trek to the bar hurriedly turned back to their own business and dared not look up. Drasek Riven fairly stank of murder. He had a reputation among the Night Knives as a man who loved to kill. No one in the Stag risked eye contact. Except Cale.

  Cale met Riven's hard gaze with a cool stare. The assassin's one good eye flashed recognition, and he strutted over to the table. Licking his lips, Cale tasted the salt of sweat. Riven reminded him of a hunting cat-compact, powerful, and predatory.

  Calm down, man, he ordered himself. Though he towered over Riven physically, Cale knew his own bladework was no match for the temperamental assassin's slim sabers. He made his face an emotionless mask as Riven slid into the chair across from him.

  "You're late," Cale announced matter-of-factly.

  Riven regarded him over the rim of his tankard while swigging a gulp of ale. He set the tankard down softly and sneered. "So?" Clearly, the assassin was itching for a confrontation.

  Cale gave no ground, though it meant risking naked steel. He pointed a single finger at the assassin's pockmarked face and hissed, "So the next time you make me wait, I walk away. You understand? We'll let the Righteous Man decide who's in the wrong."

  That struck home. Cale was Riven's only rival for the guildmaster's ear. Where Cale urged caution and patience to the Righteous Man, Riven urged violence, and violence now. Most times, events had proven Cale's counsel the better. Riven would not want to make the Righteous Man choose between them. Not yet.

  Cale watched with satisfaction as Riven's smug sneer twisted into a scowl. Tight lipped, the assassin fixed him with a menacing glare. "You push me too hard, Cale, and I'll gut you like a bluefish. The Righteous Man be damned."

  Still unwilling to back down, Cale leaned forward and stared unflinchingly into Riven's scarred face. The assassin had lost an eye on a job years ago but disdained an eye patch. The scarred, empty hole in his face provided a window into a soul equally scarred and empty. "You know where to find me," Cale calmly stated.

  To his credit, Riven gave no ground either. "That's right," the assassin replied softly. "I do." He flashed stained teeth through a
neatly tended goatee. "The Righteous Man won't be able to protect you forever, Cale. When he's gone, I'll still be here. Then we'll have this conversation again." Riven's hard gaze promised blood.

  Cale leaned back in his chair and tried to look unconcerned. "It's starting to stink in here. Be about your business, errand boy."

  Riven jumped to his feet and whipped a saber from its scabbard before Cale could even get a dagger drawn. Suddenly staring down the point of Riven's blade, Cale slowly removed his hand from the dagger's hilt. His heart raced. Riven stared at him a long moment, waving the saber blade under Cale's chin. Cale said nothing, only stared. At last the assassin sheathed his blade and slowly sat back down. His signature sneer returned tenfold.

  "You're slow, Cale," he mocked. "Very slow. You're like a little dog… lots of yap-" he leaned forward and champed his teeth, his one eye burning a hot hole of hate into Cale's consciousness- "but no bite." He sat back and smugly crossed his arms over his chest.

  We'll see, bastard, Cale thought. You show me your back, and I'll show you your grave. Though he itched to say those words aloud, Cale kept his calm and said, "The information, Riven."

  The assassin made a deliberate show of slowly quaffing from his tankard before speaking. "The information is this, Cale: Naglatha has hired us-"

  "Naglatha! Since when do we work for an agent of the kingdom of Thay?"

  "Since she started paying in platinum suns," Riven snapped. "Now shut up and listen." The assassin leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. His breath made Cale want to gag. "An issue is soon to be before the Hulorn, and Naglatha wishes to see it decided in Thay's favor. The Righteous Man assured her that he could see to it."

  "What issue?"

  "Not my business," replied Riven easily. "Not yours either. We're just providing the leverage."

  Cale saw immediately where the conversation was going. He shook his head and spoke hurriedly, trying to head it off. "I've already told the Righteous Man that I've got nothing on Thamalon Uskevren. I'm working on it, but the man is clean."