The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  *****

  Jak whipped the snorting horses into a steady canter. At that pace the carriage bounced through the wide streets like a skipping stone over water, but he thought it best to have some speed as he approached Drover's Square. Don't want to be too easy a target, he thought wryly.

  He would have taken this job for no one but Cale. While he regularly took incredible risks in the name of his god, Jak generally preferred calculated gambles to blind leaps. The Master of Stealth himself might enter the endless inferno of Baator on a mere whim, but Jak would do so only after due deliberation and for a good cause. A good cause like a friend in trouble. It might not have been how Brandobaris did things, but…

  "But you're a god," Jak murmured to the sky, reaching under the oversized cloak and twice tapping the holy symbol that hung from his belt. "And I'm a man. Your margin for error is bigger." Grinning sheepishly, he hurriedly added, "No offense, of course."

  Tonight was hardly the night to irritate the Lord of Stealth with his oft-criticized impertinence. Jak and Cale would need all the Trickster's wiles to come through this little affair unbloodied.

  Nearing Drover's Square, he hurriedly rechecked his "disguise." He stood balanced precariously atop the coachman's seat, wearing a large gray overcoat that draped past his real feet to reach a pair of human-sized boots nailed into the floorboards. Cale had insisted on the disguise. Everything must look normal, he had said, or the Night Knives would sniff out the ambush. A halfling driving a nobleman's coach in Selgaunt was decidedly abnormal.

  So I get to play dress-up, he thought, while Cale does the real work.

  Satisfied that he looked at least passably human, he turned to the west and headed toward the square. The steady drumbeat of hooves on cobblestones echoed off the bricks. The snow-dusted streets stood empty. He steered the horses under the arch that spanned the western entrance to Drover's Square, slowed the team a bit, and guided the carriage into the killing field.

  If Cale had meant to choose an ideal ambush point in order to minimize suspicion, he had chosen well. Drover's Square offered an unparalleled field of fire. There was a wide-open expanse of cobblestones bordered by tall buildings-perfect perches for snipers. The area was littered with unhitched wagons and piles of discarded crates-perfect for hiding ground forces. Moonlight trickling between the looming warehouses cast a crazy quilt of shadows. Jak felt utterly exposed. The Knives could be anywhere.

  They won't take chances with bows, he assured himself. They want the boy alive, and they won't want a stray arrow to eliminate their prize.

  Still, his heart raced. Mouthing a prayer to Brandobaris, he guided the carriage across the square.

  A sudden sound jerked his head skyward. Cale's voice-shouting in Lurienal, the halflings' tongue-from a nearby rooftop. "Get out of there, Jak! This isn't a Night Knives oper-"

  Shouts from all around drowned out Cale's warning as armed men burst from the surrounding buildings and swarmed toward the carriage, blades and crossbows bare.

  "Trickster's hairy toes," Jak grumbled, then thought, There must be thirty or more!

  They ran toward the carriage from all sides, screaming for him to halt. The horses bucked and snorted, skittish as the men began to close.

  Thinking fast, Jak stripped off the oversized cloak and hurriedly murmured a prayer to the Lord of Stealth. On the instant, he vanished from sight. Invisible now, he leaped from the carriage and swatted the already nervous lead horse in the rump. "Hyah!"

  The team bolted and took the bouncing carriage with it. Two of the ambushers tried to halt the speeding carriage, and the panicked horses ran them down, crushing bones under a flurry of merciless hooves. The rest of the men sped after the bouncing coach, still shouting for a nonexistent driver to halt. Crossbows twanged, and bolts thudded into wood. Somehow, another of Cale's monumental shouts managed to rise above the din, again in Lurienal.

  "Take cover, Jak!"

  "Dark!" Jak breathed, and raced for the nearest warehouse.

  *****

  Hurriedly, Cale affixed his grapnel to a carved rainspout and fed the rope down the side of the warehouse. "Dark," he murmured as he worked. "Dark and empty." This had turned bad fast. Jak would need help. He hoped the little man had heard his warning.

  There must be thirty men down there, he thought. Who in the Nine Hells are they?

  Shouting men scrambled around the square and tried to corral the panicked horses. Several of the ambushers had already been run down. Their crushed bodies littered the cobblestones, broken limbs cocked at grotesque angles. It would only be a matter of time before the rest either calmed the horses or shot the team down. Cale had to move now.

  He selected the most tightly packed group of men within range, plucked a large crystal globe from his necklace, and hurled it through the air across the square. When the globe struck the cobblestones in the midst of the crowd, Drover's Square exploded in fire. The force of the blast blew bodies apart and threw the pieces into the air like dry leaves in a gale. Screams and the stink of burning flesh filled the air. Many of the men scattered, unsure of where their attacker lurked, while others still pursued the carriage. Cale spared the carnage only a glance before climbing over the edge and shinnying down the rope.

  Halfway down he peered over his shoulder, chose another cluster of men, and hurled a second globe from the necklace. Again orange fire blossomed, and again men burned and died. The fireballs would attract the city watch, he knew, but he intended to be gone before they arrived. He would retrieve Jak and get the Hells out of here.

  He descended into a chaotic furnace of thick smoke, screaming men, burning wagons, and rearing horses. No one had yet sighted him. He dropped the last ten feet to the ground, whirled, and whipped out his longsword.

  He stood face to face with Drasek Riven.

  "Riven? What in the Hells-"

  The assassin lunged forward, both blades low. Cale leaped back like a cat but felt the points of Riven's sabers slice the cloth of his cloak. He clumsily parried one of the assassin's follow-up slashes but took a shallow cut across the forearm from Riven's other saber. A minor wound. Sneering, Riven backed off.

  "What are you doing, Riven? You-" In that instant, everything crystallized. Riven had been the betrayer of the Knives, the betrayer of the Righteous Man. But why? Cale asked himself. Who's he working for?

  "I've been waiting a long time for this, Cale," Riven hissed. "So I'm going to bleed you slow. One nick at a time." He waved his sabers threateningly. His one eye glared with an evil glow.

  Breathing hard, Cale backed up against the warehouse wall. He briefly considered trying to climb back up the rope, but quickly dismissed the idea. The assassin was too fast. Riven would cut him down the moment he turned his back. Cale knew he had to get out of there. Though skilled with a blade, he was no equal of Drasek Riven.

  Where in the Hells is the Watch? he thought. They must have heard the explosions.

  "What? Nothing to say?" The assassin sneered.

  Behind Riven, Cale saw through the flames and smoke that the men near the carriage had finally grown impatient enough to shoot down the horses. They would have the carriage door open in moments. The rest, still unsure of the source of the fireballs, began to cautiously regroup. Riven continued to gloat.

  "Cale the Clever with nothing to say? Scared silent, eh?" the assassin scoffed. "I always knew you were a coward." He stalked forward, but the shouts from the men checking the carriage turned him around and stopped him cold.

  "It's empty!" they yelled from across the square. "The carriage is empty!"

  Riven whirled on Cale, his triumphant smile replaced with a hate-filled glare. "W-where's the boy, Cale?" he sputtered. "Where!"

  Cale shot him a smug smile. "I always knew you were an idiot, Riven."

  Roaring in rage, the assassin charged.

  Riven's sabers cut a whistling swath through the smoke-filled air, his promise to kill Cale slowly apparently forgotten. Cale sidestepped a stab at his vital
s and lashed out with an overhand slash. Riven deflected the blow wide with one saber, spun, and slashed backhand at Cale's throat. Cale dropped into a roll to avoid the killing stroke, instead taking a painful gash across his scalp, then leaped to his feet. When he stood, Riven shot him a hateful smile and stabbed him through the shoulder.

  Desperately, Cale pulled free of the saber, swept Riven's other blade wide with his longsword, and landed a vicious kick square in the smaller assassin's chest. The impact blew the breath from Riven's lungs and drove him back three paces. With blood and sweat pouring into his eyes, Cale used the reprieve to gulp his healing potion. Skin knit painfully and abruptly back together. The wounds in his scalp and shoulder stopped bleeding instantly.

  "You're… a… dead… man," Riven managed between gasps.

  Behind the assassin, Cale could see the other men moving across the square toward the combat. Wiping the remaining blood out of his face, he resolved not to go easily. He fingered a globe on his magical necklace and thought, We'll all go together, you sons of whores.

  "Come on," he said to Riven, and beckoned him forward with his long sword.

  Riven's signature sneer returned with his breath. "Cale, yo-ahhh!" The assassin's words turned into a howl of pain as the tip of Jak's shortsword burst from his gut in a shower of blood. The now visible halfling, standing behind the assassin, jerked his blade free. Riven fell to his knees, gurgling blood, then collapsed into a groaning heap.

  As Jak walked past the bleeding assassin, he spitefully said, "You talk too damned much, Drasek Riven." The halfling bounced up to the surprised Cale and shot him a smile. "Bet you're glad to see me, huh? Come on, let's-"

  "I'm finishing this," Cale pronounced, and walked past Jak toward the writhing Riven. Jak's small hand closed on his wrist and pulled him to a halt.

  "Forget him, Cale. Erevis! Forget him. We've got to get out of here."

  Cale's gaze followed Jak's pointed finger to see the rest of the hit team speeding toward them. The flaming, smoke-filled square swarmed with shouting men. A crossbow bolt buzzed past his ear to slam harmlessly into the side of the warehouse. Another followed, then another. Jak was right.

  "Let's go," Cale said.

  "Which way?" he asked. The nervous excitement in Jak's voice was plain. "They're everywhere."

  "Up." Cale reached around the halfling and grabbed the end of the rope. "You first. I'll coil it behind me as we climb." He looked back to the square. Their pursuers were only a long spearcast away and closing fast. "Go! Go!"

  Without a word, Jak leaped up and began climbing. Cale quickly wrapped the end of the rope around his waist and followed. Halfway up, he spared a glance down and saw a crowd of eight or nine crossbowmen taking aim.

  "Crossbows, Jak," he shouted up to the little man. Trying to make himself as small a target as possible, Cale held the rope with only his hands and pulled his legs into his chest. Bowstrings twanged, and a shower of bolts peppered the walls around him. Two of the barbed missiles struck him square in the back but ricocheted off his enchanted leather armor. Still, the impact was enough to nearly knock him off the rope. He looked up to see Jak still unwounded. Brandobaris takes care of his own, he assumed.

  "Go, Jak! Now, while they reload!" The halfling sped up the line like a red-headed spider, but before they had climbed another ten feet, Cale's keen ears picked up the telltale intonations of spellcasting below.

  Dark! he cursed inwardly. Who in the Nine Hells are these men?

  "Hang on!" Cale shouted. "Spell!"

  At that instant, a searing bolt of lightning shot upward from the ground and exploded into the building. The force of the blast shattered bricks, showering Cale's exposed skin with a hundred stinging chips of stone. The rope swung across the face of the building like a pendulum. He gritted his teeth and held on. Jak held on too, he saw, but barely. Clinging to the rope with only his hands, the halfling's feet dangled loosely over empty air. He looked stunned.

  We can't take another one of those, Cale thought. He looked down through the smoky air and saw the crowd of crossbowmen preparing another volley. In the midst of them stood a gray-robed mage, fingers even now weaving another blast. Without a second thought, Cale plucked another of his precious missile globes-one of only three left-and hurled it downward.

  "Eat this!" he shouted.

  Too late the mage and crossbowmen scrambled for cover. With a deafening roar, the globe exploded into a blazing inferno that left the men mere piles of charred meat and exposed bone. Though thirty feet up, the blast of superheated air still curled Cale's eyebrows and warmed his boots. That globe had been his most powerful.

  Free from the threat of crossbows, he and Jak quickly scaled the rest of the wall. When they reached the top, Cale raced over to the trapdoor that provided access to the roof from the warehouse below and stuck his dagger in the latch.

  "There are still more of those bastards," he explained to Jak. "They'll try to reach the roof to cut off our escape. We've got a minute or two at best."

  Swaying on his feet, Jak nodded absently.

  Cale hurried over and gently gripped the little man by the shoulders. "Are you all right? Did the lightning bolt catch you?"

  Jak returned Cale's concerned gaze with green eyes only now beginning to unglaze. "Yes… partially. I'll be all right though."

  Stubborn as always, the halfling squirmed out of Cale's grip and shook his head as though to clear it. Afterward, he withdrew his holy symbol-a platinum snuff box he had stolen from some mage-and mouthed the words of a healing spell. Immediately he looked better. Recovered, the little man blinked and looked around the roof as though seeing it for the first time.

  "Trickster's toes, Cale," the halfling cursed. "Mages and Drasek Riven? What's going on here?"

  Before Cale could answer, the latch on the trapdoor began to rattle. Without a word, he and Jak raced to the eastern edge of the roof. Eight feet of empty space stood between them and the safety of the adjacent rooftop.

  "Can you make it?" Cale asked the halfling.

  Jak shot a glance back at the trapdoor just as a body slammed into it with a loud thump. The dagger held, but it would not do so for long. "I'll make it," he promised.

  They backed up to get running room, then sprinted forward and leaped into open space. Cale made it easily, Jak barely.

  Hitting the rooftop in a run, Cale pulled his last dagger and headed for the trapdoor in this roof. Before he reached it, it flew open and a blond head poked through, facing away from him. Without hesitation, Cale rushed forward, grabbed the man by the hair, and lifted him through the opening. The surprised man squawked in protest and awkwardly swung his long sword.

  "Dark! Hey… wha-"

  The man's protests ended in a groan when Cale buried the dagger in his back, all the way to the hilt. Holding him aloft like some macabre marionette, Cale let him bleed and spasm away the last seconds of his life. From the warehouse below, he heard the shouts of still more men. He disdainfully flung the corpse to the side and reached for the trapdoor. As he did, he caught sight of Jak.

  The little man stared at him, ashen faced, eyes aghast. Cale's gaze went to the corpse, then back to Jak. He pointed at the body with his bloody dagger. "It's either this or we don't get out of here alive."

  Jak nodded, but his eyes remained haunted.

  He's never seen this side of me, Cale realized. Little man, I hope we live long enough for you to decide later if we're still friends.

  Shouts and the heavy tread of boots on stairs pulled him back to himself. He grabbed the trapdoor, threw a missile globe down into the warehouse, and slammed the door shut. The explosion shook the building. Smoke poured from the cracks around the trapdoor. He could hear the screams of burning men even through the wood and brick.

  Without looking at Jak, he bent down and rifled the corpse. He quickly found what he sought. "Dark," he softly cursed.

  From the inner lining of the corpse's cloak he removed a small token. Shaped as a black triangle with
a yellow circle inset and a "Z" superimposed over the whole, the badge told him all he needed to know.

  "Zhentarim," he breathed. No wonder there had been so many men. An immense organization comprised of warriors, mages, and the fell priests of the mad god Cyric, the Zhentarim sought to dominate trade and politics throughout the lands of Faerun. Their methods ranged from legal trade agreements to assassinations.

  Jak's intake of breath was as sharp as a razor. "Zhents! Gods Cale, what's going on here?"

  Cale stared down at the badge in his palm while his mind worked to make the connections-Thayvians, Zhents, Riven, the Night Knives. But it was too much, and now was not the time.

  "I don't know," Cale replied at last. "We'll have to figure it out later. We need to get out of here fast." What he did know was that the Zhentarim rarely left survivors. They were thorough. Very thorough. Already, more armed men had probably secured the block. Getting out would be difficult.

  "We'll get no help from the Watch," he said to Jak. "The Zhents will have bought them off. So we stick to the roofs until we clear this block. When we hit Rauncel's Ride we go street level and make a run for uptown. You capable of that?"

  Jak, holding a dagger in one fist and his holy symbol snuffbox in the other, nodded. "I'm capable, but…"

  "But what?"

  Jak shook his head. "Nothing."

  They started to head off, but Jak abruptly stopped. "Wait, Cale. I… I've got a better way." The halfling sounded strangely reticent. "There's an abandoned cordwainer's shop off Stevedore's Way. The alley beside it has a secret passage that leads into the sewer system. We're at low tide, so the sewers should be passable. We can get out that way."

  Cale paused, thinking, weighing the options. Both were long shots, but Stevedore's Way was closer. "Are you certain it's secure? If the Zhents catch us in the sewers…" He left the result unspoken.

  Jak hesitated only an instant. "I'm sure," he said at last. "The Zhents don't know about it."