by Ed Greenwood
She whirled with a despairing sob, knowing she couldn’t hope to outrun the leatherworker, and launched herself across the grass with ghostly fingers tugging at her and the leatherworker’s eager chuckling right behind her.
Then another man came around the corner of the tomb with a bloody sword in his hand, heading right at her with stern murder in his eyes: Korvaun Helmfast!
The wave of relief and pure, incongruous joy that flooded Naoni left her weak-kneed. “Korvaun!” she cried.
He raced up to her, eyes blazing, and thrust his blade right past her as an angry shout rose right behind her—a hout that twisted into a startled shriek of pain, dying swiftly into a gurgling howl … and trailing away.
Korvaun turned from the leatherworker’s body, blue eyes still afire. “Are you hurt, Mistress Naoni?”
Naoni shook her head, gasping, and managed to say, “N-no. Thanks to you, my lord.”
Korvaun winced as if the word ‘Lord’ had been a blow across his face. “You’ll not mind if I accompany you until we can get out through the gates?”
Naoni managed a tremulous smile. The ghostly clawings seemed to be gone, but the doorless arch of the tomb yawned like a dark and hungry mouth just a few paces away.
“No, I’d not mind that at all,” she said gratefully.
Korvaun cast a swift, searching glance all around to ensure no one was approaching with drawn steel, then gave Naoni a smile. His long hair was tousled and spattered with someone else’s blood, and there was a lot more of it all over his splendid clothes. His cloak—
Naoni put a hand to her mouth. “Where’s your cloak?”
Strangely, its absence troubled as much as all the bloodshed. There’d been something reassuring about seeing her handiwork swirling grandly about his shoulders.
“I left it with a servant before I came in here; I didn’t want to be so brightly marked as a noble in this crowd.”
Naoni stared at him. “Is it your custom to come strolling through the Deadrest before dusk? When it’s full of an angry mob killing each other?”
“ ’Tis my custom to go seeking friends who may need aid and stand with them,” Korvaun replied quietly. “Born with coins enough to do as I please, in a city that has more well-to-do wastrels than any great kingdom might need, ’tis almost the only deed of worth I can do.”
Naoni swallowed. There’d been clear bitterness in his voice, but … “Friend? You came seeking me?”
“Yes,” Korvaun said simply.
Then his gaze went past her, and his face changed.
“Into the tomb,” he snapped, reaching out a long arm to gather her in. “I can defend—”
“No!” Naoni almost shouted. “There’s a ghost—”
“Well of course there is,” Korvaun replied, plucking her up like a bundle of cloth. “Every tomb in the City’s crawling with them.”
“No, no, no!” Naoni cried, struggling to get free. “It was clawing at me!”
Korvaun swung around to look behind him, whirling her like a rag doll to do so. “Inside,” he said urgently. “There’re six—no, seven—men running right at us, with swords out! I wear a talisman that can ward spirits away!”
“Well, give it to me!” Naoni said, finding her feet at last. “I’m not going in there withou—”
“Naoni, I’ve no time to—’tis my belt buckle! I can’t fight with my breeches half down—get in, woman!”
With a roar the foremost man arrived, a giant of a dockworker in a tattered black-buckle jerkin swinging a wicked, blood-smeared scythe.
Korvaun shoved Naoni back at the darkness—where three pale, watching faces now floated, with no bodies beneath them at all—and raised his slender sword in a desperate, ducking parry. He dare not let steel meet steel squarely, or his blade might snap off like—
There was a ringing clang, sparks danced, and the docker was snarling into Korvaun’s face as his scythe rebounded. Two more dockers were coming up fast; Korvaun knew he had to down the man quickly. He spun up out of his crouch dagger-first, driving it in under the man’s ribs and ripping up and out.
Blood spouted, and the wounded man wailed. Letting go scythe and his last meal in untidy unison, he staggered away, clutching his gut. His stagger took him right in front of one of his fellows, giving Korvaun time to slash at the face of the other man. When that docker threw up his knife to parry, Korvaun hooked the man’s feet out from under him and landed on him, knees first, to stab once and spring back up.
Then the rest were arriving in an untidy, shouting knot, and Korvaun was sprinting back to the tomb, where a white-faced Naoni stood trembling, tiny shears held up before her like a dagger. Korvaun scooped her up like a babe, despite her wail of fear, and plunged right at the three—no, four, now—glowing ghostly faces.
The ghostlight promptly winked out. Korvaun lost his footing in the sudden darkness, and they landed hard on the cold stone floor. Naoni rolled away and promptly screamed. Korvaun cursed his way up to his feet and whirled to face the first charge.
Two of the men who’d come to slay him skidded to frantic halts, wide-eyed, and started to shout in fear.
Ghosts were all around them, half-seen and chilling, all skull-faces and wasted limbs and horrible battle-wounds gaping. Naoni was sobbing on her knees with long-fingered phantoms clawing at her. Korvaun ran to her, waving his sword.
A horrible boneless thing—the phantom of someone who’d been crushed by something heavy—reared up before him, mouth working horribly. It melted away into tatters as Korvaun and his talisman rushed right through it.
He fell again and skidded to a halt on his knees, his arms around a weeping, quivering Naoni Dyre. The ghosts melted away from them.
“Easy, love,” he murmured awkwardly. “All will be well, I swear!”
She turned and sobbed into his chest but then went stiff and silent, pulled herself away, and looked toward the tomb-mouth, eyes wide and wild.
Korvaun followed her gaze. It was almost night outside the tomb now, and he could see distant figures running frantically and hear a great chorus of iron clangings, followed by terrified howls of “The gates! They’ve closed the gates on us!”
In the deeper, closer darkness of the tomb, a silent host was gathering in a pale ring close around Korvaun and Naoni. Not all the ghosts tarried: phantom after phantom slid out through the arch into the falling night, but ever more were seeping out of burial runes and rising up from the flagstones to join the silently staring throng.
Korvaun stared at them, and they stared back, their eyes so many cruel, patient points of light. Coldly menacing. Waiting.
He shivered despite himself, as Naoni whispered, “They’ve closed the gates. We’re shut in here until morning, aren’t we?”
“It seems so.”
The lass in his arms hadn’t yet seen the ghosts gathered all around them, but she was trying to turn around now, pushing firmly against him. “Are those men gone?”
“They are,” Korvaun replied nervously, watching the ghosts drift a little closer. One got too close and melted into tatters, its darkly furious eyes vanishing last of all. They were testing the strength of his talisman, seeking to wear it down or find some weakness …
“Lord Helmfast,” Naoni said more calmly, “I thank you for your timely aid, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to get up now, and—”
“Keep still,” Korvaun hissed. “Please.”
She froze, and peered up sharply. “Why?”
Korvaun drew a deep breath. “The ghosts are all around us, lass. My—all my talisman does is keep them a little at bay. If you stand away from me, I can’t stop them from … from …”
Naoni shuddered. “So cold,” she whispered, remembering. “Like searing frost.”
There was a sudden commotion outside, the thudding footfalls of a large, booted man running as fast as he could. He panted past, then someone else screamed suddenly, “No! Noooo! Take them away!”
“Are—” Naoni started to ask, voice rising in
fear, and Korvaun held her tightly, wincing. Outside, something pale glowed and flashed—and the screaming man fell silent and toppled, staring forever at nothing.
The ghost whirled away from its victim, giving Lord Helmfast a grin of coldly savage glee. Lifting skeletal hands, it moved bony digits in a brief, complicated dance.
Korvaun was no wizard, but he knew a spell when he saw one. So, apparently, did the watchful ghosts. They drifted closer, well within the range of the talisman’s power.
He glanced down at his belt buckle. The faint, silvery glow of its holy power was fading away.
Korvaun’s heart started to pound. This shouldn’t be possible! The talisman was no wizard’s charm but a blessed object. No ghost—not even that of a great wizard—could undo a holy blessing.
Or could it?
Torm preserve us … what if the ghostly spell had been cast on him, not the talisman? A magic to make him afraid …
“The presence of fear does not mean the absence of faith,” he said fiercely, his voice almost steady. “I believe. Torm’s blessing will protect us from the angry dead.”
The ghosts did not retreat. “Protect you,” came a hollow, mocking voice from deep in the tomb-shadows. “You.”
That fell meaning was not lost on Korvaun, and his heart sank. A glance at the swiftly fading buckle confirmed his grim suspicions.
“Naoni?” he asked suddenly, voice quavering.
“Yes?”
“The talisman’s power was meant for one. It protects us both, but overtaxed as it is, it will not last the night.”
“And then the ghosts …”
“Yes,” Korvaun said, gritting his teeth as the phantoms all around them began to move, whirling up into an eerie dance wherein they leaned at him, one after another, to reach for him with arms ending in dangling, almost-severed hands, leer with jaws that hung half-off, and glare at him from severed heads floating well below the bleeding stumps of necks that had once supported them.
Naoni lifted her head, saw, shivered, and quickly ducked back against him. “Your buckle keeps us safe for now, but is neither large nor powerful enough to see us safe to morning,” she whispered, eyes large.
“I fear so,” Korvaun replied. Unclasping his belt, he used his dagger to slice the silver buckle free.
“This will protect one person until daylight,” he said, pressing it into Naoni’s hand. “I want you to have it.”
Her slender fingers closed around the faint silver glow, and Korvaun eased away from her. As long as Naoni was safe, he could die content. Like a true Helmfast, he—
But Naoni seized the front of his tunic and pulled him back. “I’m going to stand,” she told him briskly. “Rise with me, and hold me close, but stand behind me with your arms about my waist, leaving my hands free.”
He obeyed the firm purpose in her voice, encircling Naoni Dyre’s waist with his arms, and despite the danger was struck by how right it felt.
Korvaun drew in a deep breath and stared into the dark, cold eyes of the ghosts. For a moment Naoni rested her head against his shoulder, then straightened, once more brisk and swift, and dug purposefully into her largest belt-pouch.
“I can spin anything into thread,” she announced, taking something small and wooden from her bag and beginning a mysteriously complex twisting and turning. “Anything. And what I spin increases in the spinning. A single sweet can yield enough sugared-string to satisfy Faendra’s sweet tooth for a tenday. A handful of gems becomes skeins and skeins of shining thread. The sugar-string retains its flavor, the gem-thread its luster. They’re the same, only more.”
Korvaun blinked. “You can do that to something magic?”
“We’re about to find out. Quiet, and let me work.”
Korvaun watched in wonder as shining, silvery thread spilled from Naoni’s twisting fingers and fell to the odd wooden spindle whirling just above the stone floor. As the thread accumulated, the light grew.
“Take up the spindle,” Naoni ordered, “and turn with me as I spin.”
Lord Helmfast carefully cradled the whirling thing, and found himself moving with her in a slow, peculiar dance. Thread continued to stream from her busy fingers but now wound loosely about them, cocooning them together in a soft, shining web. With each turn, the ghosts retreated deeper into the darkest corners of the tomb.
Finally Naoni held up empty hands. “We can sit down side by side. ’Twill be easier waiting out the night than standing.”
They shuffled carefully to the nearest wall and sank to the stones together. “This is as soft as fine linen,” Korvaun marveled, lifting a handful of shining threads in his spread fingers. “How strong is it? Will I be able to cut us free, if someone charges in here with a blade?”
“Spidersilk’s stronger than most metal,” Naoni told him, “but you can brush it aside with a broom. Nearly anything, spun so fine, can be easily cut.”
“Extraordinary,” he murmured. “You can be sure the Watchful Order will be calling on you very soon. Such power can hardly be kept secret for long.”
Naoni shrugged. “I’m a very minor sorceress. Speaking of the Watchful Order, why don’t they drive down and bind these ghosts?” Her voice trembled as a phantom loomed up and caught her gaze.
“They do, but as more and more dead are laid here, and more and more spells cast, things have started, ah, leaking. A Palace wizard told me all about it at a revel. Usually they’re not bad—vigils keep them back, and they don’t leave the tombs, so the gardens and bowers are safe—but death, especially murder, draws them. And there’s some dark magic at work here, this night.”
Naoni shivered.
“Tell me of your spinning,” Korvaun said hastily, not wanting her to dwell on the butchery she’d seen. “You’re marvelously skilled at it, all magic aside. Who taught you?”
Naoni tensed. Though she didn’t move, she suddenly seemed farther away.
“I taught myself,” she murmured. “I taught myself many things. My mother died when I was twelve.”
Korvaun knew old pain when he heard it. “What did she die of?” he asked gently.
“Lack of coins,” Naoni said in a strangely lifeless voice.
Silence fell, and Korvaun carefully said nothing, waiting.
“Not something any noble would know about,” she added bitterly, turning around in his arms until her back was against him. “You with your rich clothes and carefree carousing and days so full of whim and idleness.”
Korvaun decided not to even try to defend himself or the other proud Houses. Instead he asked, as gently as before, “How can one die of poverty when married to a guildmaster?”
“Father wasn’t guildmaster then, and commanded just a building crew. He did the work of six, but couldn’t earn coins enough. Not nearly enough.”
“For?”
“For cure-potions and temple-healings to banish Mother’s fever. We barely had enough for her funeral.”
“So you had to become mother to the Dyres.”
“Yes,” Naoni said, and added in a voice as soft and steely as the thread she’d spun, “and I will die before any Dyre lacks for coin again!”
“Well, the cloaks you made for us should soon have you set up in a grand house—in North Ward, say—with all you could want. We’ve been asked about them scores of times already, by many of Waterdeep’s finest.”
“Finest,” Naoni echoed scornfully. “Finest thieves, finest swindlers, finest—gahh!”
Korvaun held silent, seeking the right words. A great wound begat Naoni’s pain, but ’twas an old one. It seemed she’d spent a lifetime rubbing salt into it. If there was any chance of a life for them together, they had to be done with this.
“I wasn’t aware that the gods gave any noble child the slightest choice as to the station it was born to, any more than they offer that choice to a babe born to a tavern dancer in some Dock Ward alley. That’s a lot of venom to be born of mere envy,” he said, picking words likely to goad her into wrath.
&nbs
p; The woman in his arms almost exploded. Naoni Dyre managed to sit bolt upright and twist herself around to face him all in one movement. She glared at him with more fire than all the ghosts in all Waterdeep could manage.
“Envy? ENVY? Let me tell you something, Lord High and Mighty Helmfast! I don’t envy nobles, I pity them—but I pity far more the folk who must live with them and suffer the hurts of their thoughtless or malicious caprices!”
“Caprices?”
“Hah, think you a mere stonemason’s daughter can’t know a fancy word or two, do you? ”
Naoni was literally trembling with anger. Korvaun held her very gently, wondering what to do.
Nose to nose with him, she hissed fiercely, “Do you truly want to know why I despise nobles?”
Korvaun swallowed. “Yes.”
He remembered what he’d seen in the Warrens vault: Varrencia Cassalanter’s wedding invitation, adorned with an etching of the happy couple. He’d seen at a glance what he’d never noticed until that moment: Varrencia and Faendra Dyre looked startlingly alike.
“Once, not so long ago,” Naoni hissed, “there was a young and beautiful lass, a commoner who loved a young noble. Loved and was loved, or so she believed, until the day she knew she was with child, and shared that joy with her lord—and had his gates slammed shut in her face. Her kind and faithful lord promptly took a wife of as high station as his own.”
Naoni’s face was wet, now; in the light of the web Korvaun could see tears on her cheeks.
“When she was large with child, he sent masked men to snatch her away to a country estate. The ride was hard, and her time came early. Lying there broken on a fine bed in a strange house, she was told her babe had died. Then she was bundled back into her clothes, still dusty from the ride that had brought her, taken back to the street she’d been seized from—and tossed to the cobbles.”
Naoni’s voice broke, and they sat together in silence for several moments. Even the ghosts had left off their eerie moans. Still and silent, they seemed to be listening.
Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Naoni added, “While recovering, she heard the triumphant news that her lord and his hitherto-barren wife had been blessed by the gods, who’d miraculously given them a daughter. In those safer days, great lords still threw open their gates to let the unwashed view their future masters, and my—and the lass went, and knew the babe was hers, with her red-gold hair and eyes like midsummer blueburst.”
