The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  The eyes of the patriarch of House Dezlentyr flashed fire, and he growled in disbelief. “Why, you young pup! D’you know who I am?”

  Another thunderous impact made the gallery shake deafeningly around them, as if in reminder that family pride was far from the most urgent matter at hand.

  “I know,” Taeros said coldly, “that you’re a bloated pig-bladder of a man whom someone should have let the air out of years ago!”

  The Hawkwinter sword darted out, sending the patriarch’s rapier clanging out and down into the hall—and then its flat struck Dezlentyr’s broad rump, sending him staggering with a roar of pain.

  He fetched up on against the gallery rail not far from Delopae Melshimber, who gave him a sweet smile, knelt before him as he sneered uncertainly at her—and then caught hold of both his legs under his knees and thrust him up and over the rail.

  Lord Dezlentyr’s landing was marked by a satisfying crash of rending wood, as he demolished no less than three chairs … and in its wake the Gemcloaks and their ladies became aware something had changed in the hall.

  Thunderous impacts were still shaking the great chamber—more and more loudly, as boards and ceiling-tiles fell—but the fighting, shouts, and capering had died away, leaving bewildered faces everywhere. It was as if folk were awakening from a dream—or a mind-magic that had seized them all.

  “W-what befell?” a graying merchant in rich emerald silks asked roughly, staring at the blood all over his hands. None of it was his own.

  A noble lying under the sprawled bodies of two others asked weakly, “I—is it time for the unmasking yet?”

  The Gemcloaks and their ladies traded frowning glances.

  “Is it time for the unmasking yet?” the noble asked no one in particular again.

  Someone burst into sobs as they discovered someone dear to them messily dead. Everywhere bewildered folk in bedraggled finery were emerging from under tables and behind tapestries, to mill around and stare at each other, asking what had happened.

  “Is it time for the unmasking yet?” an unregarded voice demanded dazedly.

  Beyond them, the golden radiance of the shielding-spell grew brighter. Piergeiron, the Open Lord of Waterdeep, was striding unsteadily into the room, leaning on the mighty strength of Madeiron Sunderstone. The dark-robed wizard Tarthus and the flopping-booted Mirt the Moneylender came in their wake.

  “Nobles of Waterdeep!” Piergeiron called, his magnificent voice rolling out across the hall. “The city needs your valor and your blades! Great evil attacks Waterdeep from below!”

  “Is it time for the unmasking yet?” the quavering voice asked no one again.

  “Yes!” Piergeiron roared. “Arise, just as you are—fancy-costumes, finery and all—and go out through yon arch into the other hall and down into the winecellars! For your proud names and your forefathers, strike hard and strike true! Smite and slay those you know not, who seek to ascend into this hall and slaughter us all!”

  The nobles stared at the Open Lord, as the pale-faced Paladinson drew his own sword. The shielding-spell made it flare golden as he swung it on high and cried, “For Waterdeep!”

  All over the hall, monocles dangling on ribbons and faces flushed, old Lords of Waterdeep brandished their own blades, or belt-knives, or chair legs and roared back, “For Waterdeep!”

  Lord Brokengulf was the first to start running, his hired lass sprinting along at his side with his dagger flashing ready in her hand … and then all the nobles were hurrying, men and women both, roaring wordlessly and awakening glow-spells on blades as they went, racing out into the other hall in a howling stream.

  “How does he know foes of the city are attacking?” Naoni demanded with a frown. “You said Beldar didn’t warn—”

  “Mayhap someone else did,” Korvaun replied. “Or perhaps no warning was needed. I doubt yon shielding stops Tarthus from hearing the spell-sent words of other Watchful Order wizards. They always work scrying magics when the Open Lord appears in public, and no doubt saw something sinister.”

  “Speaking of which …” Delopae Melshimber said urgently, pointing across the hall at the gallery above theirs.

  Flame had just blossomed there, spitting from a torch held high by a familiar figure leaning over its rail. The elf all Waterdeep called the Serpent pointed at the last of the disappearing nobles and then spread his hands and addressed those still in the hall, uncertainly hefting belt-knives and swords of their own. “The hall trembles ever-more-perilously around us! And behold: The fine Lords of Waterdeep all flee into the wine cellars, whilst we remain here. What do they know that we don’t?”

  There was a silken edge to the Serpent’s voice that suggested magical persuasion was at work—powerful magic, judging from the chorus of angry and frightened yells that rose in response, and the general stampede after the nobles.

  The wizard Tarthus glared up at Elaith Craulnober, but he merely smiled, stepped back into darkness, and vanished—as another thunderous crash shook the hall.

  “The hall’s coming down,” Korvaun said in sudden understanding, “and the elf, bless his black heart, is getting the people out!”

  A fierce grin engulfed Taeros’s face. “Then it’s the tunnels for us, after all.”

  They worked their way swiftly through the chaos. The stream of running tradesmen and crafters was melting to a trickle, leaving a handful of revelers whose avarice was more powerful than Elaith’s compulsion. Greedy hands plucked swords and daggers and gems from those who’d never need them again.

  Then Faendra Dyre stiffened and cried, “Father!”

  The man who’d just come staggering out of the dust-filled archway into the other hall was dazed, his face covered with lines of dusty blood, and he did not seem to hear her. Yet under the stone-dust that made him almost entirely gray-white, it was Varandros Dyre clearly enough.

  “Come on,” she said, in a voice that was almost a sob, and flung herself at the stairs back down out of the gallery. The others exchanged dismayed glances and followed her.

  “Dyre! What happened to you?” Jarago Whaelshod rose from snatching a dagger out of a sprawled noble’s sheath and blinked at the stonemason.

  Karrak Lhamphur was hastening down the hall with two swords in his hands to join them and the words, “Who’s this?”

  ‘This’ was the highcoin-lass Nalys, a lit lantern in her hand and a worried frown on her face, stepping out of the dust to seek Varandros. He wheeled around, embraced her with a fierce grin, and growled, “Lead us, gel! The winecellars!”

  She nodded, smiled, turned—and the three New Day stalwarts plunged into the swirling dust a pace ahead of Faendra’s rush across the hall and shouts of, “Father! Father!”

  A fresh booming swallowed her cries, and with an ear-splitting crash brought down the uppermost gallery onto the one below, all along one side of the feasting hall.

  The wizard Tarthus shouted something to Madeiron. The Lord’s Champion snatched up Piergeiron as if he was an infant rather than a tall and well-muscled man, and hurried back through the arch with Mirt and Tarthus close behind.

  And the dust swallowed them.

  The smiling weaponmaster stepped away from the sewer-wall he’d been leaning against.

  “Here we stand, all mustered as the Master commanded! And may I add my pleasure at hearing of your safe recovery, Tincheron. The Master can call on powerful healing.”

  Golden eyes remained cold, and massive silver-scaled shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Indeed,” the half-dragon said curtly. “You know your orders?”

  “Hunt down and slay every monster-man we see. Otherwise, butcher older nobles and all guards wearing the livery of noble houses. No heirs, and no servants.”

  “Correct. As we’re being so talkative, Lurlar, know that Lord Craulnober doesn’t want the noble houses destroyed, only weakened. Younger nobles are far more … pliable.”

  “Corruptible,” sneered one of the roughblades Lurlar had mustered.

  “So we’re n
ot murdering nobles,” Lurlar offered, “but ah, pruning them—gardener-like.”

  “Precisely. Come, efficient gardeners!”

  Beldar Roaringhorn ducked around a pillar and drove his blade into the throat of a man who had horns like a bull thrusting straight forward from his temples.

  With a bubbling roar of agony, the man spewed blood and went down. A torch guttered out nearby, plunging that part of the sewers into near-darkness. Everywhere men were running and stamping and grunting, and steel was skirling on warsteel. Off to the left, lamps bobbed wildly, and all around Beldar, men who were part monster were rushing and pouncing. As he watched, one stepped from pillar-shadows Beldar would have sworn were deserted and slapped a tentacle around a noble’s neck, twisting with brutal force.

  The old lord—Beldar didn’t recognize him; probably a drone-uncle like Beldar himself might become, if he ever lived so long, not that the gods were likely to grant that—died in a red-faced, eye-bulging instant. Two monster-men swarmed the body for knives and coins almost before it hit the floor.

  A blade thrust past Beldar’s shoulder, so close that he heard the cloth of his tunic whisper as it was cut. Then something that looked like the maw of a lamprey spiraled at his face … and he was fighting for his life. Again.

  Blood was everywhere underfoot, slick and slippery, and the bodies were—

  Naoni tripped over huddled death for perhaps the twelfth time, stumbled, and fetched up bruisingly against a wall. Everywhere men were crossing swords in these tunnels, shrieking, shouting and dying, and there was no sign of Father or those who’d been with him, lost in the wild rush from the feasting hall down into these tunnels. Faendra was streaming silent tears but kept her lower lip firmly between her teeth to keep back her sobs —and held her dagger out and ready.

  The dull, rolling boomings went on, slower and more ponderous, but showers of dust and grit fell at every echoing impact. Torches and lanterns flickered here and there in the gloom, and spell-glows of magical weapons flashed where stronger lights had failed.

  They were in a warren of intersecting tunnels, the wine racks far behind. The Gemcloaks kept close together, fighting off nobles, frightened merchants, and what seemed like half the thieves in Dock Ward. The vicious half.

  A man lunged out of a side way to topple a barrel, sending apples rolling underfoot. Korvaun and Taeros both flailed arms, cursed, and fell.

  The man sprang forward, extending impossibly long arms. The fingers of his hands became long, slender biting snakes. One almost sank its fangs in Faendra’s face but bit only hair as she shrieked and ducked away. Another struck at Lark’s cheek, but Delopae’s wicked dagger reached out of nowhere to slice away its tongue and part of its snout, trailing blood and venom, and the man roared in pain.

  A moment later, Roldo and Starragar had ducked under those snake arms and buried their blades in the monster-man’s ribs. He sagged to the unseen floor, sobbing and gurgling.

  Naoni stumbled on rolling apples, went to her knees, and down the passage saw a cloak catch fire from a torch. It flared up brightly, casting light across a face she knew. “Baraezym!”

  As he drove his belt-dagger deep into the burning man’s throat, her father’s surviving apprentice heard her and peered toward her in astonishment.

  Two creatures who seemed more wolf than man, but with large crab-pincers instead of paws, promptly burst out of another passage and pounced on him.

  “Get to Baraezym! Save him!” Naoni shouted, pointing, and Starragar ran past her, wincing as he crushed an apple underfoot and wrenched his ankle in the doing, and sprinted down the passage. Taeros scrambled up and after him, running hard.

  “Faen?” Naoni gasped. “Are you—?”

  Her words were lost in the sudden roaring charge of a man who came out of the darkness behind her, slashing at her with one long, furry arm that had the claws of a great bear.

  Naoni and Faendra screamed as Korvaun slashed furiously from his knees, forcing the bear-man into a twisting sideways hop just as Lark sprang past, dagger flashing.

  Throat laid open, the bear-man gurgled, staggered, raked the wall vainly with his claws … and died.

  Fresh screams erupted down the tunnel, and someone far off shouted the name of a noble house like a battle-cry.

  Then Korvaun roared in pain, steel clanged on steel very close by, and Naoni flung herself away and rolled in blood and apples, to come up facing—

  Roldo Thongolir and Lark, furiously stabbing a man who looked like any back alley sneak-thief—except that rows of fanged mouths adorned both his bared forearms.

  “All right back there?” Taeros called.

  Lark turned with thief-blood all over her face, stepping back to let the dying man fall, and panted, “We’ll live, Lord Hawkwinter. How fare you?”

  “We’ve got Baraezym, but he’s hurt. Starragar saw Karrak Lhamphur, alone and running that way.”

  “That” way was unknowable in the ill-lit gloom, of course, and Naoni found Faendra and clung to her as Korvaun and Taeros met and clasped hands, both breathing hard.

  “All well?” Starragar inquired, half-carrying a stumbling Baraezym.

  “Fighting is brisk,” Phandelopae Melshimber replied almost proudly. “Any sign of Master Dyre? Or of any end to this foolishness?”

  Her only answer was the approaching wail of a red-faced, portly noble, running for all he was worth. Four men in the dark breeches and jackcoats of Purple Silks servants were chasing him, long knives in their hands.

  Another noble stumbled out of a side-passage with his own dark-coated pursuers close behind. The first lord burst right through the Gemcloaks, sobbing in despair—and Korvaun and Taeros closed together in his wake to meet the darkcoats with ready swords.

  The next few breaths were frantic and bloody, with Taeros shouting in pain from sliced knuckles, a jackcoat sobbing as Korvaun ran him through, and steel striking against steel savagely enough to send sparks flying.

  A jackcoat fell and rolled in under Taeros, seeking to topple him for easy stabbing. The Hawkwinter came down hard, but Lark jumped onto the thief’s knife-wrist, and it was Taeros who struck first.

  The man convulsed and sagged, dead or dying, and Roldo Thongolir bounded over him at the next jackcoat, whose blade was reaching for Taeros. The man struck aside Roldo’s arm and blade with one hand and stabbed at Roldo’s face with the other, slashing mainly hair and scalp as Roldo twisted desperately, knowing he was doomed to take the backslash.

  Lark hurled herself feet-first into the jackcoat’s chest, spinning him away. As she fell on Roldo, Taeros surged up to stand over them and drive back the next jackcoat.

  Just behind them, Naoni screamed as a dagger slashed viciously through her sleeve. Her attacker had slipped around the fray, and was now stumbling helplessly forward as Faendra rolled hard into his shins. He grabbed Naoni’s shoulder and dragged her down with him, hard, and then stabbed—

  Nothing, as Delopae’s knife caught his and held it, quavering, for just long enough as the noblewoman landed on him, for Lark to come scrambling over apples back to the man and sink her knife into his left eye.

  Quite suddenly, jackcoats were fleeing into the gloom and there was no one left to fight. The Gemcloaks and their four revel-dates gasped and panted in the gloom, staring at each other.

  “Well,” Korvaun gasped, finding breath, “that was … impressive. Lark, remind me never to stand against you in battle.”

  “Aye,” Starragar agreed, “Well done, Lark and all of you. Quite the warriors … we all are, coming to that. How many—”

  “We can count the dead later,” Faendra told him fiercely. “I want to find my father and get him safely out of all this. Is anyone hurt?”

  “If someone’ll bind my ready-cloth around my fingers,” Taeros panted, “I’m good to go on.”

  Baraezym screamed suddenly. Roldo and Starragar cursed and flung themselves toward him—in time for Varandros Dyre’s last apprentice to bounce limply at their feet
and his slayers stalk forward over his body, advancing to attack.

  There were two of them, misshapen nightmares of horns, jaws and great bone-hook talons, far more monsters than men. Roldo’s sword broke in his first angry slash, and a talon tore open his tunic and sent him reeling. Both beasts reached for Starragar, and Taeros and Korvaun sprang hastily forward, swords flashing, only to fall in unison as a snakelike tail lashed across their ankles.

  One beast sprang over them, pouncing on the lantern Naoni was trying to re-light, and as she screamed and talons lashed at her face, Lark Evenmoon leaped in to hack them aside.

  The creature squalled in rage and pain, stabbing down with its great bone-hook at Lark’s unprotected side.

  A tall, dark-gowned figure flung herself out of the gloom to shield Lark, taking that fearsome thrust through her own flank with a groan.

  Writhing in agony, Phandelopae Melshimber struck at her slayer with her dagger—wild slashes that sliced only air.

  Two swords, thrust with all the snarling strength Korvaun and Taeros could put behind them, burst through the monster’s shaggy breast and struck sparks when they clashed together. Lantern-oil that had spilled on Baraezym’s body flared into dancing life and Roldo and Starragar could see to hack the other beast down.

  Starragar let out a scream of his own as he saw the bloody bone-hook drawn out of Delopae and flung down his blade in wild and clawing haste to get to her. “I—are—”

  Phandelopae Melshimber struggled to speak, her eyes fierce, but all that came out of her lips was blood. She lifted a hand, trying to clasp Starragar as he cradled her and sobbed, “I should never have asked you here this night! Delopae! I should never …”

  Quite suddenly, the light in her eyes went out and her wavering hand fell back.

  Starragar Jardeth burst into tears—and horrified glances were exchanged above him as their black-clad friend sobbed over a corpse—by the light of another one, now burning in earnest.

  Beldar Roaringhorn was tired of hearing death-screams and heartily sick of fighting down the urge that raged in him, telling him to run, to save himself for greater things.