by Ed Greenwood
Firmly banishing that memory, Elaith spread out the map of Waterdeep’s underground passages on the tunnel floor. Taking quill and ink from a belt-pouch, he addressed the dwarven spirit for the third and final time.
“Where are the wards of the wizard Ahghairon? Fully describe the locations and natures of all that are known to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The High House of Roaringhorn was even noisier than usual that morn. Fortunately, Beldar’s stout bedchamber door muffled sounds, reducing the tumult to a steady murmur spiked with occasional incoherent outbursts.
Lying in bed staring at his familiar sculpted and painted ceiling, Beldar pondered the probable cause. Perhaps Thann ships had brought a score of fine black stallions from Amn, resulting in a sudden drop in stud fees for prize Roaringhorn racers; or mayhap his elder brother’s betrothed—a pretty, flighty thing whose affections seemed to wax and wane more frequently than the moon—had undergone yet another change of heart. Quite likely it was something as trivial as his mother’s twittering dismay over a rival’s gown, worn yestermorn and too similar to one she’d intended to don on the morrow. In short, the usual nonsense.
It was mid-morning when Beldar checked his reflection in a gilt-edged mirror taller than he was, grimacing at the effect of eyepatch, thin black mustache, and plumed, broad-brimmed hat—not to mention the assortment of bruises and scrapes he’d incurred the last few days. Ye gods, he looked like a villainous pirate from some two-copper chapbook!
Tilting his hat to a more rakish angle, Beldar gave his image a self-mocking salute, touching fingertips to forehead and then tracing a pair of circling flourishes. Scaling the hat to the floor in disgust, he snatched up his gemweave cloak.
Lacking all desire to explain his eyepatch to the family just yet, he took the back stairs, departing the High House of Roaringhorn by the servants’ entrance. The usually bustling courtyard was quiet, but the din from the streets seemed more appropriate to the bustle and strife of the southerly wards than to the quiet, tree-shaded Roaringhorn gardens and the similarly luxurious estates beyond its walls.
The stable doors stood open, and Beldar hastened to them. “A coach, quickly! I’m bound for Hawkwinter Hall,” he called.
The stableboy’s head arose from a stall and shook denial. “Can’t be done, lord. The streets ’twixt here and there be still crowded with folk coming from the City of the Dead.”
Beldar frowned. Were the rumors of Lord Piergeiron’s death true, after all? “From the Deadrest? What befell?”
The tow-headed lad blinked. “You’ve not heard? A brawl broke out yestereve, inside the Deadrest walls—a terrible fray, ’twas! At nightfall, with it still raging, the Watch shut the gates.”
“With people inside?”
“Aye, so! Many died, and a lot more sore-hurt. Some came out screaming and scramble-witted. They say carts by the score took the wounded to Hawkwinter Hall for healing. All manner of mounts and carriages still be going hither and yon—streets’re full.”
“Well, that’ll put a crimp in Taeros’s morning!”
“Oh, he weren’t at Hawkwinter Hall come dawn,” the boy said loftily, obviously delighted to know so much more than dashing Lord Beldar. “Ne’er came home last night, the servants’re saying. Yer friend Lord Helmfast, neither.”
Beldar’s heart plunged. For once, he wasn’t furious servants always seeming to know so much about noble business. Plucking a silver coin from his purse, he waved it at the wide-eyed lad.
“Tell me all, and this is yours.”
The temple bells were chiming their last time before highsun as Beldar swung down from his swiftest horse, lathered from its gallop out and around the city, and in again by the South Gate. He raced up the clubhouse stairs, calling for Taeros as he ran. Of all the Gemcloaks, the Hawkwinter seemed to treasure this haven most highly.
And if not Taeros, well, gathering here for a late—and for some, second—morningfeast was fast becoming a daily ritual.
The door, however, was closed and locked. A note addressed to Roldo Thongolir was pinned to it with a small silver knife.
A Hawkwinter table knife. Beldar pulled it free, spirits lifting at recognizing the firm, neat hand of Taeros on the parchment.
I hope you’ve already eaten, the note read, for instead of the usual bellyfilling, we’ll be meeting at Master Dyre’s worksite on Redcloak Lane. Seek chaos and ruin—of late, our shared banner. If you’re not there by five bells past dawn, we’ll proceed without you.
Taeros had signed it with his usual rune. Beldar frowned at that mark. Redcloak? The site of their mock battle? What business could await there? And why was this addressed solely to Roldo, when it concerned them all?
Five bells past dawn had come and gone, but not by much. If he hurried, he might be able to catch his friends, or learn whither they were bound, and follow.
He gave the parchment a wry smile. Didn’t every leader go about his business much the same way?
A few workmen were hauling rubble out into carts standing in Redcloak Lane and morosely probing what was left of the stone foundations. Their work had exposed the cause of the collapse: a new tunnel connecting with the old, damp wellhouse underway Dyre had walled off.
The guildmaster shoved at the ladder they’d put down into the new tunnel, making sure it was steady. Nodding, he took up a lantern and led the way down into the gloom, sure-footed as a cat.
His daughters followed ably enough with their own lamps, closely followed by their trio of lordlings: the fair-haired Helmfast lad, as protective of Naoni as any wood-nymph her tree; the smart-tongued Hawkwinter; and the sour-faced one in the black cloak whose name Dyre kept forgetting.
Then they were in the tunnel, turning their backs to where the collapse had blocked it and striding beyond reach of daylight—where Dyre all but forgot the others, barely noticing when one of his daughters slipped past.
“Not dwarf work,” he mused, lantern held high to study the fitted stones of the passage where they arched overhead, with nary a crude lintel-slab in sight, “but close to it.”
“Korvaun …”
Naoni’s voice was soft and steady, yet it held a note that lifted the hairs on the back of Dyre’s neck. He charged toward whatever danger threatened his daughter; may young Helmfast be fleeter of foot or be damned!
Arriving first, he pulled up short alongside Naoni, and after a stunned moment, slid a steadying arm around her waist.
A burly, battered body lay sprawled on the stones—a dwarf. More than that Dyre couldn’t say, for the dead face had been battered beyond recognition … but there was an all too familiar rune carved bloodily into the corpse’s forehead.
Beldar found it surprisingly easy to win past the workmen. One looked up, saw his glittering red cloak, and pointed with his hammer at a ladder sticking up out of a pit.
Beldar nodded thanks, took a torch from a sand-bucket bristling with them, lit it from the lantern sitting hard by, and climbed down into the darkness.
After his last and exceedingly unpleasant underground experience, he was relieved to find himself in a stone-lined tunnel: well-built, dry, and smelling of not much more than damp earth. He started to walk briskly, hoping to catch up with his friends.
Very soon he saw the glimmerings of several distant lanterns, and quickened his pace.
Just as he was about to call out a greeting, he passed the mouth of a side-passage. A dark shape exploded out of it.
Beldar grabbed for his sword, but—
The world whirled around him. He fought for balance, and somewhere in his flailings lost hold of his torch. It whup-whupped into the wall and exploded into sparks at about the same moment Beldar’s back slammed bruisingly onto flagstones, smashing the wind out of him.
He gasped for breath in the sudden darkness and then went very, very still. There was no doubt at all about the nature of the cold sharpness pressed against his throat.
“I’ve got him!” a familiar voice called from just a
bove him. “Bring a lantern!”
“Korvaun?” Beldar gasped in disbelief. “Helmfast, is that you?”
There was a long silence, during which two lights approached.
“Aye,” Korvaun said at last, and the steel was gone from Beldar’s throat as Taeros and Starragar, lanterns held high, stopped and stared down at him.
“How’d you know where to find us?” Starragar snapped.
Beldar frowned. Did they think he couldn’t read? Surely they hadn’t planned to undertake some sort of adventure without him!
“You left a note on the clubhouse door,” he replied, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
His fellow Gemcloaks exchanged dark glances. Their manner was beginning to grate on Beldar’s nerves, already frayed over the last few days. He struggled to his feet unaided, and gave Korvaun Helmfast his best glare. “You ambushed me. Why?”
Korvaun slid his dagger into its sheath. “My apologies.” His voice was flat and cool. “We heard footsteps and decided to lie in wait for whoever—or whatever—was following us.”
Beldar lifted an eyebrow. “Admirably cautious.”
“We’ve good reason,” Taeros said bluntly. “The Dyre girls are with us—and Master Dyre’s apprentice was murdered while following them.”
Beldar frowned in bewilderment. “And you thought to find his killer here?”
“There’s little chance of finding him at all,” Starragar said. “Some sort of necromantic rune carved into his forehead blocks magical inquiry. A popular spell, it seems; there’s another corpse in the tunnel yonder sporting the same rune.”
A little chill wandered down Beldar’s back. The mad priest Golskyn, his burning-eyed sorcerer son, the Dathran …
“Magic’s nearly endless in form and variety,” he murmured. “I know an outlander mage well versed in dark arts.”
Again his friends shot looks at each other. Starragar thrust his head forward. “Oh? And how came you by this … acquaintance?”
“My brother took me to her as a prank, years ago,” Beldar explained impatiently. “She mumbled the usual dire prophecies and grand promises. What of it, if she knows a way around those runes? I’ll take something personal from this body you’ve found; it might help her find the killer.”
“Worth trying,” Korvaun admitted. He looked at Taeros, who handed Beldar an intricately worked iron medallion.
“We’d planned to take it to the Warrens in hopes someone could name the owner,” the Hawkwinter explained.
“Your corpse is a halfling?”
“Dwarf.”
Beldar waited for Taeros to elaborate, but his friend merely regarded him. With unfriendly eyes.
Suddenly he understood; Lark must have already reneged on their deal.
“What did she tell you?” he demanded.
His friends gave him only silence. After it had lasted long enough to become uncomfortable, Taeros asked, “Just when did you take up beating unarmed women?”
Shame and relief swept over Beldar together. If this was the sum of their complaints, a simple half-truth should set them at ease. “She bore a stolen charm: Silver, on a silver chain. I tried to take it from her. Though I’d no intention of striking her, my hand … connected, ere she fled. I deeply regret this mishap and will tell her so at first opportunity.”
Taeros absently reached for his chest, at just the place where a charm might hang, and Beldar knew his words had hit their mark.
“And where’s this charm now?”
Beldar shrugged. “Find the wench, and you’ll find your property.”
Starragar scowled. “She said much the same of you.”
For a long moment Beldar regarded his boyhood friends, realizing they’d become strangers all. With all the dignity he could muster, he said, “If you think me a liar and thief, put me to the test. Surely at least one of you has a truth-seeker.”
Starragar stripped a ring from his hand and all but threw it at Beldar. “Put it on. You’ll be compelled to answer three questions truthfully.”
Beldar donned the ring and waved at the other Gemcloaks to proceed.
Korvaun winced. “Blast it, this isn’t right! Never once has Beldar Roaringhorn given any of us cause to doubt his word! Never once has he forgotten a debt or failed to stand beside his friends!”
He turned to Beldar. “Take off the thrice-damned ring and tell me straight out you don’t possess the charm or know its whereabouts—and I’ll believe you.”
Beldar regarded Korvaun, held up his hand so the ring was prominently displayed, and said flatly, “I don’t have it, I don’t know where it is, and this ring is far too garish and made of brass, which is utterly, unforgivably common. Is that truth enough for you?”
“Please accept our apologies,” Korvaun said. “There should be no talk of truth-spells among us.”
“It’s forgotten.” The Roaringhorn tossed the ring back to Starragar. “I’m off, then. What say we meet at the club come sundown?”
“Agreed,” Korvaun replied.
The other Gemcloaks just nodded, content to let Korvaun speak for them. At that moment, a truth hit Beldar hard. The Gemcloaks now looked to Korvaun—steady, decent, honorable Korvaun—rather than to him.
Loss—almost grief—stabbed at Beldar. Forcing a smile onto his face, he gave the dwarf’s medallion a jaunty swing, wheeled around, and started the long walk to the Dathran’s lair.
The Dathran handed back the dwarf’s medallion, shaking her head.
“Nothing.” Surprise laced her voice. “Not a face, not a name. Again, naught. What sort of magic have you been bringing Dathran?”
“I was hoping,” Beldar replied grimly, “you could tell me.”
“It’s elven magic, you ignorant hag,” murmured Elaith Craulnober, answering the question floating up from one of his gently glowing scrying bowls.
Strictly speaking, the rune was Netherese, but the long-ago mage who’d crafted it had based his Art on elven lore. Of course, few elves these days knew such ancient magics, and fewer still would use them.
Elaith had no such scruples. Moreover, he’d added a twist to the rune, binding a rebounding spell to it so any attempt to magically seek the killer would be turned back against the seeker, revealing his identity.
Yet another incantation had empowered the rune still more. Elaith uncorked a tiny vial and tapped a pinch of its glittering powder into the scrying bowl. The ripples took the noble and the witch away, replacing them with a miniature map of the city, lit by a lone red spark.
Its radiance marked just where their conversation had taken place. The area around it began to expand, bringing to mind the way the ground loomed up at one riding a giant eagle to the ground. In moments Elaith was regarding a close, clear view of the witch’s lair. Softly glowing footprints marked a path from her rooms up a stair to a hidden door and out into an alley Elaith’s henchmen knew well.
With a small silver ladle the Serpent dipped some fluid from the bowl into a crystal goblet. Dipping a finger into that liquid, he traced circles around the goblet’s edge, coaxing an eerie note from it.
All of his agents wore rings adorned with flat silver ovals that sang in unison with the crystal, awakening a magic that sent anyone wearing them a mind-vision of the telltale map. It would only loom large and clear enough to read in the minds of those close to the site.
The water in the goblet began to boil, without heat or steam—the signal that his message had been received and understood. Elaith poured the contents of the goblet back into the scrying-bowl and waited to see which agents’ faces took shape in the swirling water.
When three faces became clear, a smile touched a corner of his lips.
Lord Beldar Roaringhorn was said to be an excellent swordsman. The coming battle would sorely test his skills. It should, therefore, be most amusing to observe.
Or very, very short.
Beldar Roaringhorn plodded up the dark stone steps, the Dathran’s words ringing in his ears. Nursery tales and h
edge-wizards’ claims notwithstanding, magic wasn’t going to answer all secrets and banish all troubles in a trice and a twinkling of stars.
“What a large surprise,” he murmured mockingly, as he came to the tiny chink of light around the door out into the alley. Slipping out into the familiar refuse, Beldar wondered where, in this city of myriad secrets, he should go now to lay bare this latest mystery.
The route to the Dathran’s lair was a blind alley, with no other way out other than a warehouse door somewhere to his right that had long ago been buried in a huge heap of shattered stone and rotting wooden shards tossed down in a clumsy rebuilding.
So it was hardly likely that the three figures advancing purposefully down the alley with blades drawn and hard faces fixed smilingly on him were here for trading purposes—or to consult the Dathran, for that matter.
They were here for him.
Beldar’s hand wavered between swordhilt and eyepatch as he watched the foremost flex long and slender arms. Both held long, hooked swords that had been tarred to quell their shine. The movement pushed back the hood of his foe’s half-cloak, revealing a face that was far from human.
A silver beard tufted the chin of a long, narrow face topped with a crest or shock of stiff hair or … or something. Eyes as gold as a sun elf’s bore slitted vertical pupils. It seemed as if a proud elf had tumbled into bed with a dragon and in time had somehow borne—this.
His gold-eyed foe also boasted things no elf had ever possessed: massive shoulders and faint silvery scales. The two bullyblades flanking him a respectful—cautious?—step behind looked human enough, but hardly more welcoming.
Oh, naed. Beldar gave them a bright smile and an airy wave—and spun around to sprint back to the hidden door.
He was through it in moments and racing back the way he’d come. There were crashings of shifting rubble under hurrying boots behind him.
Beldar half-ran and half-fell down the slippery stairs, shoulders and knees bouncing bruisingly off stone, and lurched to the waiting skull.
