City of Torment

by Bruce R Cordell

  “More than a figment, unless I’m imagining you,” Anusha said, smiling.

  The woman studied Anusha and said, “Perhaps you do but imagine me. If you hadn’t reinforced me somehow, I’d be gone. I felt my mind slipping away, dissolving.”

  “You said that before. How can you be sure?”

  Yeva tilted her head. “I have abilities too, Anusha. Potent ones, if not suited to my present predicament. I sense a burning power in you, despite your lack of physical form. You are not a memory like me. More like a … construct of psionic power. A thread of your will keeps me here.”

  Anusha shook her head, not really understanding the woman. “You have abilities? What sort? Can they help us to escape this place? My body lies on the surface.”

  The woman looked out into the surrounding darkness, toward the ice face, then back at Anusha. She considered for a long while, saying nothing. Finally, she shrugged. “Even though reason suggests our attempts shall fail, we should try. I am not the sort who gives up my quest while reasonable hope remains. I don’t know what my fate will be if we do win free. Nor do I know how many years have passed since I was trapped. But I’ll never know if I do nothing.”

  “Can your abilities help us escape?” Anusha asked again.

  Yeva produced a short bark of laughter. “My talents would be useful should any creature threaten our insubstantial selves. I suppose in this terrible place there might be such creatures. Aboleths can blast the minds of their foes or enslave them.”

  Anusha didn’t like the sound of that. She’d been hurt while dreamwalking once before.

  Yeva continued, “Let us explore. Perhaps the inhabitants of this city hibernate like their lord, the Eldest. We shall search for a door and try to exit. Unless things are changed, we are deep in the earth, in the bottommost cellars and roots of the Underdark. Perhaps some tunnels to higher caverns can be found.”

  Anusha said, “Yes, let’s try! Though I hope if I walk too far, I won’t be pulled back here.”

  “Pulled back here? Is there some reason to believe you might be?”

  “No, I … well, yes. There is that concern. My dream form used to be bound to my body. I could only move so far from it before I was pulled back into wakefulness. Now, my body is far away, much farther than my old limit. When I try to wake up, I flicker and remain in this chamber of ice …”

  “So?”

  “So, I might have a new focus. Maybe this very sphere of ice.”

  Yeva said, “For your sake, I hope you’re wrong. Otherwise, you will probably never escape. Then it will only be a matter of time before you go insane, or the Eldest’s condensed and frozen thoughts reabsorb you.”

  “Oh.”

  Yeva gave a grim chuckle and gestured into the darkness. “This way?”

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Veltalar, Aglarond

  Seagulls hung on invisible thermals over the alley. Their beaks jerked left and right as they scanned every foot of the squalid space for scraps. Bird cries echoed off the clapboards. Broken furnishings, heaped garbage, and less identifiable waste crowded the narrow lane. The stink was overpowering.

  Raidon guessed the odor was composed of rotting fish, dead rats, and—overwhelmingly—urine.

  The smell threatened to ruin his concentration. His Sign had drawn him to Veltalar, but now it was giving him problems.

  A breeze managed to squeeze between the buildings to ruffle his hair, easing the rank smell. He breathed in more deeply while the opportunity presented itself. The old storehouses were too far from the new port to enjoy a consistent sea breeze.

  “Still nothing?” Thoster asked from behind Raidon.

  Raidon glanced back. The captain and Seren walked single file after the monk, trusting him to lead them to their quarry.

  Raidon said, “Nothing. I’ll let you know if that changes. No need to keep inquiring.”

  Seren chuckled. Thoster nodded, then mopped his brow.

  The Cerulean Sign’s direction had dispersed as they’d drawn near the Aglarondan port. The Dreamheart was in the city, that was clear, but the relic’s power was too overwhelming this close. The Sign was too inundated with the Dreamheart’s aberrant influence to get a precise fix.

  “Well, how about your directions—sure you ain’t lost?” Thoster asked. “I doubt Japheth’s holed up out here. It’s a sty.”

  “The man I spoke with last night—”

  Seren interrupted, “He was a thief. He tried to steal my wand! I wish you’d let me deal with him.”

  Raidon said, “My hard-won contact, who we should not disable until we’re certain we no longer require his services, said a man in a dark cape took control of a gang of thieves tough enough to intimidate the locals. The man’s description matches Japheth.”

  “What was the gang called again?” asked Thoster. The captain watched the gulls overhead.

  “The Razorhides.”

  Seren said, “I have no doubt it’s Japheth. The warlock was moody, dependent on traveler’s dust, and beholden to Behroun Marhana. Just the sort who’d take up with a band of ragtag thieves.”

  “And he’s had the Dreamheart for tendays,” said Raidon. “Who knows how much it’s further corrupted him? If providence favors us, the newest Razorhide will prove to be our quarry.”

  “Well, let’s be on with it,” groused Thoster, still watching the antics of the birds. “I ain’t broke last night’s fast yet, you rushed us off the ship so early.”

  The trio came to a place where the alley widened. A kid lounged on a terrace above, watching the same gulls as the pirate captain. The dirt-smeared sentry was no more than ten or twelve years old, Raidon judged. A small part of him suspected he should feel sad to see the lot life had handed the child.

  The monk raised his hand, a signal for Thoster and Seren to pause. The kid glanced down and saw Raidon in the alley mouth.

  “Well met,” Raidon ventured, his voice pitched low, but loud enough for the child to hear. “I have a potentially valuable proposition for you. Do you know someone called—”

  The boy’s shrill whistle echoed down the alley. He ducked off the balcony through a doorway behind him.

  “You handled that well,” said Thoster.

  Raidon shrugged and said, “Follow me.” He charged the scarred wooden door below the balcony. The area in front of it was conspicuously free of garbage. Raidon transferred the momentum of his dash into a simple front kick. His heel smashed the reinforced door from its iron hinges.

  Yells of surprise and alarm issued from somewhere inside. The monk ducked into the opening. He stood in a halllike vestibule that smelled of damp, soot, and salt. Another set of doors blocked the way, but these were guarded.

  Vaguely humanoid, the guardian seemed to be an animated accumulation of dockside debris—tattered sails, fish teeth, matted seaweed, gull feathers, and dirt. It wore a crown of smashed shells and a cloak of sea mist. Its eyes were smoothed stones, and its hands were rusted nails from shipwrecks.

  The creature didn’t move. It intoned, “Leave, intruder, or see your organs pulled from your flesh moments before Kelemvor claims your wailing spirit.” The voice seemed familiar …

  Seren called from behind, “That sounds like Japheth!” The woman peeked into the vestibule, her wand drawn. Thoster stood next to her, his whirring, clicking sword unsheathed.

  “Warlock, you hiding in there?” said the captain.

  Raidon advanced another step.

  The doors behind the creature opened. Several grim young faces peered out. Mostly humans, male and female, only a few older than twenty. The tallest said, “You’re dead meat.”

  Captain Thoster guffawed. “The three of us faced down a great kraken less than a month ago, lad. I don’t reckon we’ll have trouble turning you lot into so much chum for the sharks.”

  Raidon raised his hand. “We only want to know one thing—where is the warlock Japheth?”

&nb
sp; The tallest youth scowled. He was a little older than the rest, and his arms were bare, apparently to show off an elaborate stitchery of scars and tattoos.

  A younger, pudgier kid behind the tall one blurted, “He’s the man! What d’you want with Japheth?”

  “Is he here now?” purred Seren. She moved into the vestibule. “We’d like to talk to him.”

  “Nah,” continued the pudgy kid. “He don’t hardly ever come here. We bring him his tribute at the—”

  The scarred youth backhanded the talkative kid across the face. He hissed, “Sheathe it or I’ll rip out your entrails, eh?”

  The pudgy kid yelped, “Sorry, Dherk!”

  The youth, apparently named Dherk, addressed his guests again. “Japheth didn’t mention friends. So get lost.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to us,” said Seren, her voice silky.

  “Lady, I’ll talk to you right now,” the scarred fellow leered. Then his smile faded. He said, “I have a question—how did you find our den? Too many loose lips, I think.”

  As he finished his almost thoughtful statement, Dherk flipped his right hand up from where it hung at his side. He released a small knife that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

  The knife buried itself in Seren’s throat. Her eyes went wide. Blood welled around a protruding blade smeared with green paste. A cry of excitement went up among the gang members as the wizard staggered backward, one hand clutching at the knife hilt.

  Raidon charged. He aimed a flying knee at the treacherous youth.

  Just before his knee connected with Dherk’s head, one of the construct’s nail hands clawed Raidon out of the air. The monk was hammered to the ground. Three of the scarecrow’s nails remained behind, two in Raidon’s coat and one in his arm; all three punched through to the wooden floor. The monk was nailed to the ground.

  He yelled, “’Ware the construct’s hands!” as he tried to pull free.

  Thoster said, “Quit playing around, Raidon!”

  The monk tensed, jerked, and pulled his arm free of the nail. Blood poured down his arm as he rose. He ducked beneath another claw. The thing wasn’t actually that fast—it had caught Raidon off guard.

  Seren got a grip on the knife hilt and pulled the blade free. More blood flowed. It was stained green from the paste. She gurgled, “Poisoned!” She let the dagger fall.

  Thoster twisted his sword’s hilt. A vial dropped from a previously hidden hollow. He palmed it and pressed it into Seren’s bloody hand. “Drink it, eh? A restorative. And an anti-venom!”

  Seren uncorked the vial with her teeth and gagged down its contents.

  Raidon swayed like a tree in the wind to avoid another heavy but slow swipe by the construct.

  Dherk tried to flank the monk, another knife held high. He brought it down in a brutal blow as if wielding an ice pick.

  Raidon deflected the knife with his left forearm. His right hand balled into a fist and lashed straight into Dherk’s throat. The youth made an odd noise and dropped the knife.

  Raidon followed up by snatching the lapels of the youth’s sleeveless coat. Still holding Dherk, he twisted his upper torso. The youth’s feet left the ground as he was swung around the monk’s body, propelled by the force of the throw until he sprawled at Thoster’s feet.

  The captain put the point of his sword in the hollow of the gang leader’s tattooed throat. He said, “Call off your construct,” levity gone from his voice.

  Dherk gasped, yelled, “I can’t! Japheth, that sheep-straddler, set it in motion!”

  The seashell-crowned bulk heaved toward Thoster and Seren but avoided stamping on the bleeding tough at its feet.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” hissed Seren, her voice hoarse but furious.

  The wizard brandished her wand and whispered three syllables like a cold wind blowing through the eaves. A wintry line momentarily connected the wand tip with the advancing driftwood scarecrow. Ice blossomed around it until the construct’s body was trapped in a frozen sarcophagus. It ceased moving.

  The faces watching the fight through the inner doorway had lost their grins. One by one, they faded into the shadows.

  “Lost your nerve, eh?” Thoster yelled after them. He glanced back down at Dherk, who he still threatened with his sword. “Your gang ain’t up to defending its turf.”

  Dherk snarled, “We’re a little tired of mages appearing out o’ nowhere and blasting us to the Hells and back for a lark!”

  Raidon motioned for Thoster to sheathe his sword. He crouched next to the angry young man. “Tell us where to find Japheth, and we’ll trouble you no more.”

  “Why’re you so antsy to find him?”

  “He stole something from us. We want it back.”

  Dherk’s eyes narrowed. He studied Raidon, his clothing, and the still-sheathed shape of the sword riding the monk’s back. He said, “He’s stolen something from us too! All the work we do, day and night—he’s taking most of it!”

  Seren slipped her wand back into her belt. The vial Thoster had dispensed had nearly smoothed away the gash in her neck, though dried blood remained and her hair was uncharacteristically disheveled. She fixed the gang leader with a hard stare and said, “The warlock is skimming your coin?”

  “Yeah!” said Dherk. He sat up. “He said he needed it to bankroll something he was working on. He also wanted us to score traveler’s dust. I don’t really care what he’s doing—all I know is he’s taking what belongs to us! So yeah, I’ll tell you where to find Japheth. If you promise he’ll trouble the Razorhides no more.”

  “You ain’t in a position to demand things, lad,” Thoster said.

  Raidon helped Dherk to stand and said, “Take us to Japheth. When we get back what the warlock stole from us, we’ll see about what ‘belongs’ to you.”

  Dherk smirked. “Now you’re talking.”

  Tendrils of arcane formulas twined up the vault wall. Sigils, runes, and sympathetic congruencies combined to create an elaborate diagram. Alphabets jumbled together, so that the graceful swoops of Rellanic battled the crude lines of Davek while intertwining uncomfortably with the even more elaborate loops of Supernal. Where lines intersected, glimmers of light gathered.

  Japheth traced the inmost lines for the hundredth time to the diagram’s center, where a magical sum was scribed in chalk. It was a conclusion that, no matter how many ways he varied the formulas, refused to change.

  He turned, swaying with exhaustion. His eyes fell on Anusha’s sleeping form. “You were right. I didn’t save you at all.”

  Lucky raised his head from his paws.

  Japheth rubbed at his forehead, smudging it with chalk. “It’s impossible.”

  The dog whined.

  The warlock dropped the chalk. He called the dog over and ruffled him behind the ears. “Don’t worry, I’m not giving up. But …” He shook his head. “But I’ll have to take a trip. No way around it. Anusha’s mind is fixed to a new focus. Breaking the Dreamheart won’t bring her back—it would sever my last hope for finding her.”

  He shook his head. “If I fail …” Despite how he liked to think he was a hard man living in hard times, he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he was unable to save Anusha.

  Lucky wagged his tail, not really comprehending. He was happy to see Japheth moving again after hours of intense scribbling and muttering.

  The sound of something breaking jerked both their heads around. A puff of cold vapor rose from the birchwood podium next to Anusha’s bier. Japheth examined the clutter of arcane implements piled there. His eyes dropped to the hemp cord that dangled off the podium’s side.

  The nautilus seashell lay broken on the floor, its whorled shards frosted with ice. It was the amulet keyed to the construct he’d left in the Razorhides’ den.

  “The construct is defunct,” he mused, “destroyed by winter magic. I wonder how Dherk managed …”

  He frowned. Japheth placed a finger on the largest remaining piece and closed his eyes
. The connection was already dissipating. He concentrated, forcing the bond to remain active another few heartbeats. For his effort he received a stabbing headache and the image of Raidon Kane.

  “Mystra’s corpse, they’ve found me!” he gasped.

  How long since the driftwood scarecrow was destroyed? Mere moments? Given the inexpert way he’d crafted the thing, that might be a fool’s hope. The amulet’s destruction could be relaying old news.

  The disturbing plan he’d half conceived as his final recourse had become, with one look into Raidon’s determined gaze, his only option.

  He contemplated simply waiting for Raidon. He could try to patch up the misunderstanding and explain his need.

  But the half-elf and his relic-sundering sword might not listen to reason. He might demand the Dreamheart. Of course Japheth wouldn’t give it up. He’d already risked everything to free Anusha. He’d invested too much to gamble losing her.

  “I will go to Xxiphu,” he whispered, incredulous. He’d travel to that horrid place where her mind’s new focus lay and cut her spirit free.

  The only question remaining was how.

  A long step through his cloak might get him to the place where he’d seen Anusha’s soul caught up. To do so, he would have to touch the Dreamheart again and draw upon its energy to extend the range of his step. It might be possible.

  First he needed allies. Working by himself was proving too limiting. A trip down to Xxiphu without backup would probably see him dead not long afterward, with Anusha no better off than before.

  Japheth cast about, wondering who could help him. A name popped into his head; he already knew someone who possessed the knowledge and resources to help.

  It was unfortunate that person hated Japheth so fiercely he’d sworn multiple oaths to see the warlock dead. But with Japheth’s pursuers nipping at his heels, the Lord of Bats would have to serve.

  Fear lent his tired limbs new swiftness. He found a canvas satchel and swept all the items on the podium into it. He rushed from the vault into the adjoining suite and began snatching up tomes. There were a few treatises and ritual books he’d need, especially if Neifion didn’t prove amenable to Japheth’s charm.