Jaka gave a great wail and stumbled off into the darkness.
obillard scratched his chin when he saw the pair, Wulfgar and Morik, moving down the alley toward the front door of the Cutlass. Deudermont was still inside, a fact that did not sit well with the divining wizard, given all the activity he had seen outside the tavern’s door. Robillard had watched a seedy character come out and pay off a street urchin. The wizard understood the uses of such children. That same character, an unusual figure indeed, had exited the Cutlass again and moved off into the shadows.
Wulfgar appeared with a small, swarthy man. Robillard was not surprised when the same street urchin peeked out from an alley some distance away, no doubt waiting for his opportunity to return to his chosen place of business.
Robillard realized the truth after putting the facts together and adding a heavy dose of justifiable suspicion. He turned to the door and chanted a simple spell, grabbing at the air and using it to blast open the portal. “Mister Micanty!” he called, amplifying his voice with yet another spell.
“Go out with a pair of crewmen and alert the town guard,” Robillard demanded. “To the Cutlass on Half-Moon Street with all speed.”
With a growl the wizard reversed his first spell and slammed the door shut again, then fell back intently into the images within the crystal ball, focusing on the front door of the Cutlass. He moved inside to find Deudermont leaning calmly against the bar.
A few uneventful moments passed, and Robillard shifted his gaze back outside just long enough to note Wulfgar and his small friend lurking in the shadows, as if waiting for something.
Even as the wizard’s roving magical eye moved back through the tavern’s door, he found Deudermont approaching the exit.
“Hurry, Micanty,” Robillard mouthed quietly, but he knew that the town guard, well-drilled as they were, wouldn’t likely arrive in time and that he would have to take some action. The wizard plotted his course quickly: a dimensional door to the other end of the docks, and a second to the alley that ran beside the Cutlass. One final look into the crystal ball showed Deudermont walking out and Wulfgar and the other man moving toward him. Robillard let go his mental connection with the ball and brought up the first dimensional door.
Creeps Sharky and Tee-a-nicknick crouched in the shadows on the rooftop. The tattooed man brought the blowgun up to his lips the second Deudermont exited the tavern.
“Not yet,” Creeps instructed, grabbing the barrel and pulling the weapon low. “Let him talk to Wulfgar and Morik, and get near to my stone that’ll kill any magical protections he might be wearin’. And let others see ’em together, afore and when Deudermont falls dead.”
The wretched pirate licked his lips in anticipation. “They gets the blame, we gets the booty,” he said.
“Wulfgar,” Captain Deudermont greeted him when the barbarian and his sidekick shifted out of the shadows and steadily approached. “My men said you came to Sea Sprite.”
“Not from any desire,” Wulfgar muttered, drawing an elbow from Morik.
“You said you want your warhammer back,” the little man quietly reminded him.
What Morik was really thinking, though, was that this might be the perfect time for him to learn more about Deudermont, about the man’s protections and, more importantly, his weaknesses. The street urchin had found the barbarian and the rogue down by the docks, handing over the small bag and its curious contents and explaining that Captain Deudermont desired their presence in front of the Cutlass on Half-Moon Street. Again, Morik had spoken to Wulfgar about the potential gain here, but he backed off immediately as soon as he recognized that dangerous scowl. If Wulfgar would not go along with the assassination, then Morik meant to find a way to do it on his own. He had nothing against Deudermont, of course, and wasn’t usually a murderer, but the payoff was just too great to ignore. Good enough for Wulfgar, Morik figured, when he was living in luxury, the finest rooms, the finest food, the finest booze, and the finest whores.
Wulfgar nodded and strode right up to stand before Deudermont, though he did not bother accepting the man’s offered hand. “What do you know?” he asked.
“Only that you came to the docks and looked up at Waillan Micanty,” Deudermont replied. “I assumed that you wished to speak with me.”
“All that I want from you is information concerning Aegis-fang,” he said sourly.
“Your hammer?” Deudermont asked, and he looked curiously at Wulfgar, as if only then noticing that the barbarian was not wearing the weapon.
“The boy said you had information,” Morik clarified.
“Boy?” the confused captain asked.
“The boy who gave me this,” Morik explained, holding up the bag.
Deudermont moved to take it but stopped, seeing Robillard rushing out of the alley to the side.
“Hold!” the wizard cried.
Deudermont felt a sharp sting on the side of his neck. He reached up instinctively with his hand to grab at it, but before his fingers closed around the cat’s claw, a great darkness overcame him, buckling his knees. Wulfgar leaped ahead to grab him.
Robillard yelled and reached out magically for Wulfgar, extending a wand and blasting the huge barbarian square in the chest with a glob of sticky goo that knocked him back against the Cutlass and held him there. Morik turned and ran.
“Captain! Captain!” Robillard cried, and he let fly another glob for Morik, but the agile thief was too quick and managed to dodge aside as he skittered down another alley. He had to reverse direction almost immediately, for entering the other end came a pair of city guard, brandishing flaming torches and gleaming swords. He did keep his wits about him enough to toss the satchel the boy had given him into a cubby at the side of the alley before he turned away.
All of Half-Moon Street seemed to erupt in a frenzy then, with guardsmen and crewmen of Sea Sprite exiting from every conceivable angle.
Against the wall of the Cutlass, Wulfgar struggled mightily to draw breath. His mind whirled back to the grayness of the Abyss, back to some of the similar magic the demon Errtu had put on him to hold him so, helpless in the face of diabolical minions. That vision lent him rage, and that rage lent him strength. The frantic barbarian got his balance and pulled hard, tearing planking from the side of the building.
Robillard, howling with frustration and fear as he knelt over the scarcely breathing Deudermont, hit Wulfgar with another glob, pasting him to the wall again.
“They’ve killed him,” the wizard yelled to the guardsmen. “Catch the little rat!”
“We go,” Tee-a-nicknick said as soon as Deudermont’s legs buckled.
“Hit him again,” Creeps begged.
The tattooed man shook his head. “One enough. We go.”
Even as he and Creeps started to move, the guards descended upon Half-Moon Street and all the other avenues around the area. Creeps led his friend to the shadows by a dormer on the building, where they deposited the blowgun and poison. They moved to another dormer across the way and sat down with their backs against the wall. Creeps took out a bottle, and the pair started drinking, pretending to be oblivious, happy drunks.
Within a few moments, a trio of guardsmen came over the lip of the roof and approached them. After a cursory inspection and a cry from below revealing that one of the assassins had been captured and the other was running loose through the streets, the guards turned away in disgust.
Morik spun and darted one way, then another, but the noose was closing around him. He found a shadow in the nook of a building and thought he might wait the pursuit out, when he began glowing with magical light.
“Wizards,” the rogue muttered. “I hate wizards!”
Off he ran to a building and started to climb, but he was caught by the legs and hauled down, then beaten and kicked until he stopped squirming.
“I did nothing!” he protested, spitting blood with every word as they hauled him roughly to his feet.
“Shut your mouth!” one guard demanded, jamming
the hilt of his sword into Morik’s gut, doubling the rogue over in pain. He half-walked and was half-dragged back to where Robillard worked feverishly over Deudermont.
“Run for a healer,” the wizard instructed, and a guard and a pair of crewmen took off.
“What poison?” the wizard demanded of Morik.
Morik shrugged as if he did not understand.
“The bag,” said Robillard. “You held a bag.”
“I have no—” Morik started to say, but he lost the words as the guard beside him slammed him hard in the belly yet again.
“Retrace his steps,” Robillard instructed the other guards. “He carried a small satchel. I want it found.”
“What of him?” one of the guards asked, motioning to the mound of flesh that was Wulfgar. “Surely he can’t breath under that.”
“Cut his face free, then,” Robillard hissed. “He should not die as easily as that.”
“Captain!” Waillan Micanty cried upon seeing Deudermont. He ran to kneel beside his fallen captain. Robillard put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, turning a violent glare on Morik.
“I am innocent,” the little thief declared, but even as he did a cry came from the alley. A moment later a guardsman ran out with the satchel in hand.
Robillard pulled open the bag, first lifting the stone from it and sensing immediately what it might be. He had lived through the Time of Troubles after all, and he knew all about dead magic regions and how stones from such places might dispel any magic near them. If his guess was right, it would explain how Morik and Wulfgar had so easily penetrated the wards he’d placed on the captain.
Next Robillard lifted a cat’s claw from the bag. He led Morik’s gaze and the stares of all the others from that curious item to Deudermont’s neck, then produced another, similar claw, the one he had pulled from the captain’s wound.
“Indeed,” Robillard said dryly, eyebrows raised.
“I hate wizards,” Morik muttered under his breath.
A sputter from Wulfgar turned them all around. The big man was coughing out pieces of the sticky substance. He started roaring in rage almost immediately and began tugging with such ferocity that all the Cutlass shook from the thrashing.
Robillard noted then that Arumn Gardpeck and several others had exited the place and stood staring incredulously at the scene before them. The tavernkeeper walked over to consider Wulfgar, then shook his head.
“What have ye done?” he asked.
“No good, as usual,” remarked Josi Puddles.
Robillard walked over to them. “You know this man?” he asked Arumn, jerking his head toward Wulfgar.
“He’s worked for me since he came to Luskan last spring,” Arumn explained. “Until—” the tavernkeeper hesitated and stared at the big man yet again, shaking his head.
“Until?” Robillard prompted.
“Until he got too angry with all the world,” Josi Puddles was happy to put in.
“You will be summoned to speak against him before the magistrates,” Robillard explained. “Both of you.”
Arumn nodded dutifully, but Josi’s head bobbed eagerly. Perhaps too eagerly, Robillard observed, but he had to privately admit his gratitude to the little wretch.
A host of priests came running soon after, their numbers and haste alone a testament to the great reputation of the pirate-hunting Captain Deudermont. In mere moments, the stricken man was born away on a litter.
On a nearby rooftop, Creeps Sharky smiled as he handed the empty bottle to Tee-a-nicknick.
Luskan’s gaol consisted of a series of caves beside the harbor, winding and muddy, with hard and jagged stone walls. Perpetually stoked fires kept the place brutally hot and steamy. Thick veils of moisture erupted wherever the hot air collided with the cold, encroaching waters of the Sword Coast. There were a few cells, reserved for political prisoners mostly, threats to the ruling families and merchants who might grow stronger if they were made martyrs. Most of the prisoners, though, didn’t last long enough to be afforded cells, soon to be victims of the macabre and brutally efficient Prisoner’s Carnival.
This revolving group’s cell consisted of a pair of shackles set high enough on the wall to keep them on the tips of their toes, dangling agonizingly by their arms. Compounding that torture were the mindless gaolers, huge and ugly thugs, half-ogres mostly, walking slowly and methodically through the complex with glowing pokers in their hands.
“This is all a huge mistake, you understand,” Morik complained to the most recent gaoler to move in his and Wulfgar’s direction.
The huge brute gave a slow chuckle that sounded like stones grating together and casually jabbed the orange end of a poker at Morik’s belly. The nimble thief leaped sidelong, pulling hard with his chained arm but still taking a painful burn on the side. The ogre gaoler just kept on walking, approaching Wulfgar, and chuckling slowly.
“And what’ve yerself?” the brute said, moving his smelly breath close to the barbarian. “Yerself as well, eh? Ne’er did nothin’ deservin’ such imprisonin’?”
Wulfgar, his face blank, stared straight ahead. He barely winced when the powerful brute slugged him in the gut or when that awful poker slapped against his armpit, sending wispy smoke from his skin.
“Strong one,” the brute said and chuckled again. “More fun’s all.” He brought the poker up level with Wulfgar’s face and began moving it slowly in toward the big man’s eye.
“Oh, but ye’ll howl,” he said.
“But we have not yet been tried!” Morik complained.
“Ye’re thinkin’ that matters?” the gaoler replied, pausing long enough only to turn a toothy grin on Morik. “Ye’re all guilty for the fun of it, if not the truth.”
That struck Wulfgar as a profound statement. Such was justice. He looked at the gaoler as if acknowledging the ugly creature for the first time, seeing simple wisdom there, a viewpoint come from observation. From the mouths of idiots, he thought.
The poker moved in, but Wulfgar set the gaoler with such a calm and devastating stare, a look borne of the barbarian’s supreme confidence that this man—that all these foolish mortal men—could do nothing to him to rival the agonies he had suffered at the clawed hands of the demon Errtu.
The gaoler apparently got that message, or a similar one, for he hesitated, even backed the poker up so he could more clearly view Wulfgar’s set expression.
“Ye think ye can hold it?” the brutal torturer asked Wulfgar. “Ye think ye can keep yer face all stuck like that when I pokes yer eye?” And on he came again.
Wulfgar gave a growl that came from somewhere very, very deep within, a feral, primal sound that stole the words from Morik’s mouth as the little thief was about to protest. A growl that came from his torment in the pits of the Abyss.
The barbarian swelled his chest mightily, gathered his strength, and drove one shoulder forward with such ferocity and speed that the shackle anchor exploded from the wall, sending the stunned gaoler skittering back.
“Oh, but I’ll kill ye for that!” the half-ogre cried, and he came ahead brandishing the poker like a club.
Wulfgar was ready for him. The barbarian coiled around, almost turning to face the wall, then swung his free arm wide, the chain and block of metal and stone fixed to its other end swishing across to clip the glowing poker and tear it from the gaoler’s hand. Again the brute skittered back, and this time Wulfgar turned back on the wall fully, running his legs right up it so that he had his feet planted firmly, one on either side of the remaining shackle.
“Knock all the walls down!” Morik cheered.
The gaoler turned and ran.
Another growl came from Wulfgar, and he pulled with all his strength, every muscle in his powerful body straining. This anchor was more secure than the last, the stone wall more solid around it, but so great was Wulfgar’s pull that a link in the heavy chain began to separate.
“Pull on!” Morik cried.
Wulfgar did, and he was sailing out from the
wall, spinning into a back somersault. He tumbled down, unhurt, but then it hit him, a wave of anguish more powerful than any torture the sadistic gaoler might bring. In his mind he was no longer in the dungeon of Luskan but back in the Abyss, and though no shackles now held him he knew there could be no escape, no victory over his too-powerful captors. How many times had Errtu played this trick on him, making him think he was free only to snare him and drag him back to the stench and filth, only to beat him, then heal him, and beat him some more?
“Wulfgar?” Morik begged repeatedly, pulling at his own shackles, though with no results at all. “Wulfgar!”
The barbarian couldn’t hear him, couldn’t even see him, so lost was he in the swirling fog of his own thoughts. Wulfgar curled up on the floor, trembling like a babe when the gaoler returned with a dozen comrades.
A short while later, the beaten Wulfgar was hanging again from the wall, this time in shackles meant for a giant, thick and solid chains that had his feet dangling several feet from the floor and his arms stretched out straight to the side. As an extra precaution a block of sharpened spikes had been set behind the barbarian so if he pulled hard he would impale himself rather than tug the chains from their anchors. He was in a different chamber now, far removed from Morik. He was all alone with his memories of the Abyss, with no place to hide, no bottle to take him away.
“It should be working,” the old woman grumbled. “Right herbs fer de poison.”
Three priests walked back and forth in the room, one muttering prayers, another going from one side of Captain Deudermont to the other, listening for breath, for a heartbeat, checking for a pulse, while the third just kept rubbing his hand over his tightly cropped hair.
“But it is not working,” Robillard argued, and he looked to the priests for some help.
“I don’t understand,” said Camerbunne, the ranking cleric among the trio. “It resists our spells and even a powerful herbal antidote.”
“And wit some o’ de poison in hand, it should be workin’,” said the old woman.
The Spine of the World Page 14
