Maiden of Pain: Forgotten Realms (The Priests)

by Kameron Franklin

  The hide curtain was pushed back and out strode a striking older man with Ythnel’s wererat captor in tow. While the man’s shirt, breeches, and boots were patched and sullied, he carried himself with an air of confidence and a twinkle of cunning in his deep blue eyes that seemed out of place in the middle of a swamp. A thin mustache, touched with the same gray that streaked his fading hair, did little to separate the man’s sharp nose from his broad grin. He stopped before Ythnel, covering her thoroughly with his eyes while the other wererat whispered in his ear. Nodding, the man raised his hand, and the wererat stepped back with a slight bow.

  “So I understand you were part of a group of wizards recently captured by the werecrocodiles. You’re very fortunate that some of my men were able to rescue you.” The man spoke with disarming friendliness and concern.

  “It was my impression your men would have been just as happy to eat me,” Ythnel scoffed.

  “Ah, I’m sure it was just a poor attempt at humor.” He smiled. “Unfortunately, hunger is a common epidemic amongst my people, thanks to the werecrocodiles. Making light of it is often our only relief.”

  Ythnel took a second look at the crowd gathered around her and noticed how gaunt many of the figures were. Skin was stretched taut, and many faces had hollow cheeks and dark circles around the eyes. The way they all looked at her made her suddenly very uncomfortable.

  “What do the werecrocodiles have to do with your going hungry?” Ythnel asked.

  “They constantly patrol the waters around this island, attacking us when we try to cross. It makes it difficult to hunt or forage; there’s nothing left on the island to support either us or the werecrocodiles.”

  “So how have you survived?”

  “Raids mostly. The werecrocodiles are overconfident and sloppy. It’s easy enough to slip past their pickets with an appropriate diversion. Occasionally, we make it across the river and can … trade with passing caravans.” The man’s hesitation gave Ythnel the idea that the trades were probably one-sided.

  “Enough business,” the man declared suddenly. “I would imagine you are tired from your ordeal. Please, accept what hospitality we can offer.” He waved his hand in a grandiose gesture that encompassed the surrounding ruins and midden heaps.

  “That is quite generous,” Ythnel said, trying hard to keep the skepticism from her voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Ah, where are my manners. I am Torgyn.” He bowed. As he straightened, he looked at her expectantly.

  “I, uh, am Ythnel.”

  “Well met, Ythnel. Join me for a bite to eat?” He motioned her toward a table made of stacked mud bricks and crossbeams. When they sat, a pair of plates were brought to them. The “meal” presented to her made Ythnel’s stomach turn. Rotten vegetable matter and bones, which were covered as much with maggots as meat, were piled on the plates. The stench was more than enough to cause her to gag. She daintily picked through the refuse, earning snickers from the assembled wererats. Torgyn was watching her intently.

  Ythnel wondered if this was some sort of test. Would they kill her if she refused to eat it? Even as hungry as she was, she knew she couldn’t force herself to eat the putrid dish in front of her.

  That’s when it occurred to her that she wouldn’t have to. Overcome by hunger as she prayed last night, Ythnel had requested a seldom-used orison she had learned early in her days at the manor and eventually forgotten. She began to chant while holding her hands just above the plate and channeled a small burst of Power. With a smile, she picked up a chunk of meat, brushed the maggots off of it, and took a bite. The overwhelming odor of decay was gone. The texture was a bit gamey, and she tried not to think of what it might have been before the wererats killed it. She just enjoyed the feeling of something in her belly.

  “A useful spell,” Torgyn remarked, “but not very effective in a fight.” He grabbed a handful of the rotten food on his plate and shoveled it into his mouth.

  “An empty stomach is as much a distraction in a fight as having a strap on your armor unbuckled. It is a weakness that your enemy can exploit,” Ythnel replied.

  “Very true,” Torgyn said, his mouth still half-full. “Purifying food is not really a concern of ours.”

  “And what is your concern?”

  “The werecrocodiles. Therefore, I’m very interested in what they would want with some wizards. I’d also like to know what you and your wizard friends were doing in Adder Swamp to begin with.” Torgyn smiled, but there was a wicked cunning behind it that put Ythnel on guard. She chewed slowly to give herself time to think. There really wasn’t anything to gain by lying to the wererats. She doubted they would return her to the Karanoks, and it was possible that there was a way to play the conflict between the two groups of werecreatures to her advantage. However, she would have to be careful to avoid mentioning the revelation that Brother Crocodile was really a werecrocodile. Even the slightest indication that there was some sort of connection between her and the werecrocodiles could result in the wererats turning on her.

  “My friends are members of an underground society attempting to overthrow House Karanok.” Ythnel took Torgyn’s raised eyebrow to mean he at least knew of Luthcheq’s ruling family. “After rescuing me from the Karanoks, we fled to the swamp. That is why we are here.

  “I have no idea what the werecrocodiles want with us. They captured us last evening, as we were sleeping.”

  “I think I know: magic. They used magic once to enslave us. It would give them the advantage should they be able to wield such power again.” He seemed to mutter this last to himself, but he kept his eyes on Ythnel. “They knew you had magic. The question, though, is how did they know?”

  Ythnel’s mind raced for an answer that would not involve Brother Crocodile. “On several occasions when we first entered the swamp, we had to use magic to fight off creatures that attacked us. Perhaps they witnessed one of those encounters.” Ythnel held her breath as she waited for Torgyn’s reaction.

  “Perhaps,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “So it would appear that Lord Mulkammu finally has his wizards. This time, though, it seems we would have a wizard of our own with which to fight back.” The man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “It appears that your rescue was just as fortunate for us as it was for you.”

  They had rounded the island, following the west fork of the Adder River until it finally spilled out into the Bay of Chessenta, before anyone noticed that Ythnel was lost. A wounded werecrocodile had finally caught up to Kohtakah, whom Kestus rode, a broken arrow shaft protruding from its left shoulder. The group immediately headed for the island shore, and once beached, the werecrocodiles transformed into their human shapes. The wounded werecrocodile reported he had been hit by the wererat volley and had thrown the woman while trying to dislodge the missile. By the time he had resurfaced, she was gone.

  “The woman is of no real concern,” Kohtakah shrugged off the news of Ythnel’s disappearance. “We still have the two wizards.” He tentatively examined the other’s festering wound, Kestus noted, taking extra care not to touch the arrowhead. “We need to get you back to the city to have this removed.”

  The group marched along the northern edge of the island, heading east. That side of the island was covered with the same mud-brick structures Ythnel had pointed out earlier, but they were more often in some semblance of completion. Squat, square buildings were huddled together in what could have passed for city blocks had they been connected by cobblestone streets rather than channels of muddy water.

  Small points of flickering light began to appear in the distance as night fell, indications that the group was finally nearing the werecrocodile community. The mages were led past lit dwellings toward a towering pyramid that appeared to be the center of the village. The entrance was guarded by only a pair of sputtering torches set in sconces on either side. Kohtakah knocked then waited a moment before pushing the door open and ushering the group inside.

  The first to enter, Kestus gazed about the gr
and chamber. Braziers of dried mud, sinuous crocodiles carved in shallow relief around the bowls, held glowing coals that cast a soft red light against the inner walls of the pyramid. At the far end of the chamber, a great chair of dark wood rested at the base of a dais upon which sat a nondescript altar. Standing over the altar with its face toward the chamber entrance was the immense statue of an athletic man whose horned crocodile head disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling, some twenty feet above them.

  A gong sounded from somewhere at the back of the chamber, and a near-giant of a man with a jutting chin and shaved head strode out from some hidden doorway behind the dais. He wore a sleeveless leather tunic that ended just above the knee, exposing corded muscles on his arms and thick calves. A fur-lined cape hung around his shoulders, billowing slightly in his wake as he made his way to the great chair. When he had seated himself, Kohtakah stepped forward and bent on one knee before him.

  “Lord Mulkammu, your servant has returned from the human city with great news. I have brought wizards with me.”

  “Kohtakah, it is indeed a blessing to see you after so long.” Mulkammu’s grim face transformed into a warm smile for the Royal Sorcerer. “We had feared that perhaps you were lost, but to hear that your mission was instead a success … praise Sebek!”

  “Yes, Lord Mulkammu, though I regret that I could not bring more help. It seems the rulers of the city seek to eradicate magic and its practitioners. These two are the last members of a group that had operated in secret but were recently discovered and forced to flee. Shamshur’s”—He indicated the werecrocodile behind him who had carried Muctos.—“patrol came across us as we sought to escape from further pursuit.”

  “Hmm, that is indeed unfortunate. But you are unhurt? And your pursuers?” He looked between Kohtakah and Shamshur.

  “We lost them in the swamp, my lord,” Kohtakah responded.

  “Hanat was hurt, my lord,” Shamshur said, stepping forward. “We were attacked by the vermin slaves. One of their cursed silver arrows struck him, forcing him to buck the female prisoner he was carrying. The wound is not grave, but he needs immediate tending.”

  Mulkammu raised an eyebrow at the mention of the woman and looked at Kohtakah. “Explain.”

  “My apologies, Lord Mulkammu. The woman is nothing, bait that was used to trap the wizards.”

  “Then why bring her along?”

  “She is a cleric of a Faerûnian goddess—”

  “So she has magic?”

  Kohtakah nodded.

  “Sebek’s smile! Magic cannot be allowed to stay in the hands of the slaves.” Anger flashed across Mulkammu’s face, but his expression quickly returned to its former stony calm. “First things first, though.” He signaled with his hand, and the gong sounded again. This time two men in simple, flowing white robes emerged from the same hidden doorway in the rear of the chamber. They moved silently to Hanat and made a cursory examination of his shoulder, pulling at the edges of the wound for a better look. Hanat gritted his teeth as skin and dried blood separated.

  One of the men departed but returned swiftly pushing a handcart with a black leather satchel and a lantern sitting on top. He retrieved a set of tongs from the satchel and handed it to the other white-robed man. Then he lit the lantern and held it up high enough so it cast its light over the wound. The man with the tongs delved into the wound with the instrument, took hold of something, and yanked. Hanat moaned and swayed on his feet, but Shamshur quickly slid up behind him to provide support. While the man with the lantern set the light source down and began bandaging Hanat’s shoulder, the man with the tongs moved to the cart and started cleaning up. Kestus could see a bloody arrowhead lying next to the tongs atop the cart.

  “You have done well, Kohtakah,” Lord Mulkammu said, rising from his throne. “Let us see to our guests. Then we will make plans to retrieve the woman from the wererats. Shamshur, you and your men may go.” Shamshur bowed and turned to follow the rest of his patrol back outside, leaving the two mages with Lord Mulkammu and Kohtakah.

  Once the others had left, Mulkammu greeted the mages with a toothy grin that was unnervingly predatory. “Welcome, my friends.”

  “You have an odd way of treating friends,” Kestus said, stepping forward. “Kohtakah said we would be honored as heroes.”

  “Did he?” Mulkammu faced Kestus. “I make no apologies for the way in which you were brought here. Dire circumstances call for dire actions.”

  “And what would those circumstances be?”

  “Why, nothing less than the continued existence of my people.”

  “Is that why you sent Brother—Kohtakah to infiltrate us?”

  “Yes, though his instructions were not that specific. He was merely to seek out individuals who could be of use to us.”

  “Wizards, you mean.” Kestus did not like the undertones of this conversation. Mulkammu was hiding something. “Why do you need wizards?”

  “That requires a bit of explanation. In fact, it may be easier to show you than tell. Please, follow me.” He turned and began walking toward the back of the chamber. Kestus looked at Muctos and shrugged. The man seemed unconcerned with whether they were following him or not. There was no one between them and the door out. Of course, Kestus was sure they wouldn’t get far before they were caught again, and their treatment then might not be as hospitable. Taking quick strides, Kestus and Muctos hastened after Mulkammu. Kohtakah brought up the rear.

  The lord of the werecrocodiles led them through a small anteroom off the main temple chamber and down a flight of stairs. The stone of the lower level was damp. The waters of the swamp had found a way inside the pyramid. Kestus wrinkled his nose at the musty scent of decay that permeated the air. The group stopped before a great stone door set in the wall and framed by a pair of smoky torches. Symbols that Kestus thought might represent words in the Mulhorandi language were carved across the surface of the closed portal.

  “When we were driven from our homeland more than two hundred years ago,” Mulkammu began, “my people settled here. Blessed by our god, Sebek, lord of the crocodiles, our forefathers began construction of this city. It was a slow process that involved expanding the borders of this swamp, as well as the raising of the buildings that would serve as our homes.

  “The task was a tremendous one, and so our fathers, in their foresight and wisdom, enlisted the aid of some of the lesser beings that already inhabited the region. Together, they continued their work, believing that Sebek was smiling upon them.

  “Then, when I was just a boy, Sebek disappeared.

  “My father, who was high priest of Sebek, no longer felt the presence of the Smiling Death; his prayers went unanswered, and the items of Power we had brought with us from our homeland no longer functioned. Our workers, jealous all these years of our success, took advantage of our predicament and tried to destroy us. But we prevailed, though my father was killed by their assassins.

  “It has been a brutal struggle, and we have suffered, as you could probably see from the state of our city. Sebek has returned, though the connection to him is much weaker than it was before, and many of our artifacts remain useless. I became high priest in my father’s place and have tried to lead my people as best I can.”

  “You have our sympathies, Lord Mulkammu,” Kestus said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice, “but I don’t see why you need us.”

  “The answer to that lies behind this door. This is the vault in which our artifacts are kept. Because of the weakened connection to Sebek, I do not possess the ability to use them. To be honest, I’m not even sure what some of them are capable of. Without them, however, my people will never rise to the greatness they once held. So you will learn what they are and how to use them.” Mulkammu turned and faced the vault door. Muttering in some language Kestus did not recognize, the werecrocodile lord began tracing the symbols that had been etched in the stone. Each symbol he touched glowed a soft, dark green. When he had finished, the vault door slowly swung open wi
th the harsh sound of stone grinding against stone to reveal a room half hidden by shadows. Mulkammu removed one of the torches from its sconce on the wall and walked in.

  To Kestus, the room seemed more of a storage closet than a vault. A short, square wooden rack to his left held a staff of dark, twisted wood and what looked like a scepter. What could be a couple of wands rested on a flimsy table in the middle of the vault. Mulkammu lit a candelabrum with the torch then stepped out to return the burning brand to its holding place. The flickering light danced off an opaque black orb that Kestus had not noticed before. Set by itself on a shelf along the back wall, it rested on what appeared to be braces made from withered tree branches.

  “You have an interesting collection,” Kestus remarked, “but I’m not sure we can help you. If these are divine artifacts, they will not be attuned to the Weave, generally speaking, but will draw their energy from the patron deity of whoever crafted them. Our magic would have little effect on them. And without the proper tools or our spellbooks, I doubt we’ll even be able to identify the items’ properties. I’m surprised Kohtakah hasn’t already explained this to you. Perhaps if you had approached us more openly, before our hand was forced by the Karanoks, we could have worked something out.

  “As it is, we need to be on our way. There is much that needs to be done if we are to have any chance of freeing Luthcheq.”

  “You are not going anywhere!” Mulkammu’s face darkened for a moment, his mouth tightening as his brow furrowed. A touch from Kohtakah seemed to relax him. “I can understand your hesitancy. Let me provide a little incentive, then, to motivate you. If there is nothing you can do with the artifacts, then your special skills are useless to us. You become ordinary humans.

  “We eat ordinary humans,” he said with a devilish smile.

  Kestus didn’t back down. He had nothing to lose. “And if you did, you would be right back where you started. Didn’t you hear what Kohtakah said? There are no more wizards in Luthcheq. No one will be coming near this place. You’ll all rot here, caught up in your little war!”