Fistandantilus Reborn

by Douglas Niles

  “You can stay,” the dwarf said suddenly, releasing his shirt and sighing in what seemed to be exhaustion, or perhaps resignation.

  “Thank you. I’m very grateful,” replied the man. He considered a further question and decided to chance it. “Um … who is it that you were talking to? Or, I should say, to whom do I owe my gratitude?”

  “Why, himself, of course,” said the dwarf with a sly grin.

  “Well, please convey my thanks.”

  “He knows … he knows.”

  The dwarf suddenly burst into activity, throwing several pieces of dry wood onto the fire, pulling out a crude bowl that he set in the coals beside the blaze. Kelryn realized that the dish was in fact a steel helm, probably of dwarven make, that had been ignominiously converted to duty as a soup caldron.

  “And you are Kelryn,” the dwarf noted, as if confirming his own memory.

  “Quite right. And you …?”

  “My name is Gantor Blacksword, but you can call me … call me Fistandantilus!” crowed the filthy fellow, as if he had just been struck by inspiration.

  “Fistandantilus … the wizard?”

  “The same. ’Twas he who gave his blessing to yer staying, he I was talking to.” The dwarf patted his chest smugly, as if the great wizard himself was compactly stored in a pouch beside his skin.

  “But you just said that I should call you by that name, yet you seem to indicate that it belongs to someone else.”

  “It belongs to me!” shrieked the dwarf, hopping to his feet, standing with legs bowed as if ready to do battle. “You can’t have it!”

  “Nor do I want it!” Kelryn hastily assured the dwarf, utterly convinced that the wretch was indeed hopelessly mad. He watched warily as the dwarf, apparently mollified, sat back down. Gantor swept aside his beard and pulled out the loose neckline of his shirt, peering downward, apparently at his own belly, then slyly raising his wide, unblinking eyes to stare at his visitor.

  “And are you of the Thorbardin clans or the hill dwarves?” the human asked, hoping to change the topic quickly.

  “Bah! None of them are worthy of me, though once I numbered myself among the clan of Theiwar. I am of myself, and of Fistandantilus.”

  “But you told me that you are Fistandantilus.” Kelryn, keeping his hand ready near the hilt of his sword, was rather enjoying the verbal sparring. And he was mightily curious about the dwarf’s cloak. What did he have under there?

  “That’s for protection—mine and his.” The dwarf looked out the entrance of the cave, as if he suspected someone might be sneaking toward them. Apparently satisfied, he settled back to stir his soup.

  “May I offer some bread? A taste of ale, perhaps?” suggested the human. He went to the palomino and unsaddled the horse, resting his own supplies in a sheltered niche within the cave. Searching through his saddlebags, he pulled forth some choice selections from his store of provisions.

  The dwarf watched with glittering, hungry eyes as Kelryn ambled back to the fire and resumed his seat on the flat rock.

  “In truth, it’s been many a year since I’ve had the taste of real ale,” Gantor admitted, maintaining his vivid stare. He reached out to snatch the skin as soon as Kelryn started to swing it over, as if he expected that the human would take it back at any instant.

  “Take it. Have the whole thing,” the man urged with utmost sincerity—not from any charitable sense, but rather because he knew the power of ale to loosen the tongue of dwarf or man.

  The dwarf drank deeply, lowering the flask with a satisfied smack of his lips. He was surprisingly fastidious for such a filthy and disreputable creature, for not a drop of the amber fluid trickled over his lips or spilled into the tangle of his beard.

  “Good,” Gantor Blacksword allowed before taking another large swig. The second draft apparently confirmed his initial impression, for he belched loudly, then eased backward to lean against the cave wall, his feet stretched casually toward the fire.

  A dreamy smile appeared in the midst of the dwarf’s mat of whiskers. “Yes, it’s been a long time since we shared a good taste of the barley,” he sighed.

  Kelryn was about to reply that they’d never shared a drink before, when he realized that the dwarf had not been talking to him. “Does Fistandantilus care for something a little stronger?” asked the man. “I have a small nip of wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  Abruptly the dwarf stiffened, sitting upright and scowling with a menacing tuck of his brows. His eyes, usually so wide, were narrowed to white slits in the wrinkled map of his face. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

  Kelryn silently cursed himself for trying to move too fast. Still, his curiosity would not allow him to backtrack. “You mentioned—that is, I believe you said—that you were here with the wizard, Fistandantilus. I merely asked if he desired a taste of wine.”

  “He’s not here,” the Theiwar declared. Once again his voice became friendly, conspiratorial. “As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Kelryn disingenuously. “I had hoped to make his acquaintance.”

  “You can.” Gantor’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “I know him.”

  The man ignored the contradiction. “Splendid! What does he want?”

  “He wanted me to kill the kender. I knew that as soon as I picked up the bloodstone.” The dwarf nodded in affirmation of his statement. “He told me to use the skull to hit him, and I did.”

  “That was wise,” Kelryn agreed sagely. “He’s not one you’d want to argue with.”

  “No.” Gantor’s beard and hair bristled as he shook his head vehemently.

  The human thought about his companion’s remarks, which he had at first been inclined to dismiss as the ravings of a lunatic. But now he was not so sure.

  “You said something about a bloodstone. Is that how you talk to Fistandantilus? Do you see him or hear him in the gem?”

  “That’s it!” the dwarf agreed enthusiastically. Once more he cast a look to the outside of the cave. “I’ve never shown it to anyone before, but it’s all right. He says I can let you see it.”

  Apparently satisfied by his own explanation, the dwarf reached under his beard, into his tunic, and pulled out a golden chain.

  Kelryn gasped as the bloodstone came into view. Never had he seen so large a gem, and the finespun gold surrounding the stone was worth a small fortune by itself.

  But it was in fact the bloodstone that caught his eye, that held him rapt, almost hypnotized. He could see flickers of light, like tiny magical fires, bursting into brightness within the pale, greenish depths of the polished gem. Despite himself, he felt that cadence calling to him, drawing him to the stone with powerful allure.

  And he knew that he would have the gem—he had to have it!

  “Fistandantilus was a great man,” Gantor declared seriously. “He had many enemies, and they have smeared dirt and garbage upon his name. But he was strong and true. He would have been a light in this dark age of the world but for the treachery of his enemies.”

  “You know all this? You have learned it from the stone?” Kelryn tore his eyes from the gem, staring intently at the addled dwarf. “Tell me!” he insisted, his voice taut with impatience as Gantor hesitated.

  “Yes. It speaks to me, guides me.” The Theiwar spoke eagerly now, clearly anxious that the human understand. “It brought me here a month ago and bade me wait. And so I do, though he has not told me why.”

  “You were waiting for me,” Kelryn asserted, once again looking deep into the stone, hearing the summons, knowing the will of the one who spoke to him from there. Gantor had been brought here by the will of the bloodstone, put in this place so that Kelryn Darewind could find him. The man was utterly convinced of this fact.

  “But why you?” asked the dwarf, puzzled.

  Kelryn made no reply, except to grasp the hilt of his sword in a smooth, fluid gesture. In an eyeblink, the blade was out, silver steel gleaming red in t
he firelight, the weapon striking forward before Gantor could move. The man lunged, cursing the awkward posture of his attack but unable to postpone his response to the presence, the irresistible summons that he felt within the enchanted gemstone.

  As it turned out, his clumsy attack was more than adequate. The Theiwar waited, as still as a statue, as if he himself had been commanded or compelled to do so. Only after the sword cut through the bristling tangle of the beard, sliced into the throat, and the dwarf slumped with a gagging burst of air and a gush of blood did the man understand.

  Like Kelryn himself, Gantor Blacksword had only been doing what he had been told.

  Chapter 11

  A Cult of Darkness

  314 AC

  Fourth Misham, Reapember

  “Bring in the new supplicants,” Kelryn Darewind declared, leaning back in the thronelike chair he had had installed in the nave of his ornate temple.

  “Aye, Master!” Warden Thilt snapped to attention, bringing the claw of his baton upright beside his face. Kelryn smiled, knowing that his lieutenant clearly understood his wishes and his intentions.

  Thilt stalked down the aisle of the temple. Rows of golden columns rose from the floor to either side of the man, pillars that were lost in the heights where, so far above, arched the marble ceiling. Two acolytes—dressed, like the warden, in golden kilts and chain-mail jerkins—pulled open the huge silver doors and barked commands. Standing to the side of the entry, Thilt called out numbers, and one by one the recruits to the Temple of Fistandantilus dropped to their knees and began to crawl toward Kelryn.

  The high priest, for his part, leaned back in his seat and watched as the file crept forward. A nice lot, he thought, counting a dozen men and a few women. They would swell the ranks of his congregation nicely, adding still further to the influence of the sect of Fistandantilus in the Seeker-ruled city of Haven.

  The first supplicant was a man, and even though the fellow knelt at his feet, Kelryn could see that he was a strapping specimen, broad-shouldered and sturdy. When the man raised his face, the high priest saw that a jagged scar, crimson and angry, slashed down the side of his face, giving him a perpetually menacing scowl.

  Finally Kelryn rose, standing before the kneeling supplicant. The priest lifted the golden chain from around his neck, allowing the crimson-speckled bloodstone to dangle before the man’s eyes. His eyes lit with hunger at the sight of the gem, fixing in an unblinking stare as the gold-framed jewel slowly swung back and forth a few inches from his face.

  “Do you swear by the new god Fistandantilus to offer yourself to his temple, body and soul and mind? Swear you to follow the dictates of his faith and to unfailingly obey the commands of his appointed servants? And do you accept me, Kelryn Darewind, as high priest of his faith, and will you follow my orders as the very words of your god himself?”

  Kelryn intoned the ritual oath in the singsong cadence that had become so familiar to him over the last few decades. He had created the rote phrases himself—it had been one of the first things he had done, once he decided to install himself in this city of theocrats—and he was quite proud of the questions and the wording.

  “Master, I so swear!” pledged the scarred man.

  “By the power of the dark robe, I commend you into our ranks,” declared Kelryn, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, smiling thinly as the supplicant’s face was suffused by a glow of inner happiness.

  “Now, rise. Take yourself through the door of red. You will serve our god in the ranks of the Faithguards.”

  “Thank you, Master. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!” cried the recruit. He stood, and Kelryn thought for a distasteful moment that the fellow actually intended to embrace him. Perhaps the expression on the high priest’s face was enough of a deterrent, for the supplicant merely stammered something, bowed, and started for the indicated door, one of three exits on the side of the chapel.

  “In the Sect of the Dark Robe, we show our gratitude through our actions, through faithful service to the church!” Kelryn snapped as the man made his way to the red door. The high priest hoped his stern words would forestall any other such displays from the remaining supplicants.

  The ceremony continued, with the next few men also being sent into the ranks of the Faithguards. These recruits swelled the number of Kelryn’s private army to more than one hundred strong, dedicated and ruthless fighters all. The Faithguards were charged with the protection of church property, property that was increasing in extent and value on an almost daily basis. The armed acolytes also served to discourage the efforts of nearby sects that seemed to present too much of a threat to the cult of the black robe. More than one temple in this district had been mysteriously burned, its faithful priests found strangled, flayed, or charred in the ruins.

  Several of the supplicants were young men, too slight or benign to serve in the Faithguards. These were assigned to temple duties, cleaning and other servant tasks. One would become the high priest’s house servant, replacing a lad that Kelryn had been forced to torture and kill only the previous week, when that youth had fancied himself a manly lover and had dared to visit the quarters of the temple maidens.

  Even now Kelryn scowled at the memory of the lad’s insolent disobedience. Everyone in the church knew that those sanctified quarters were reserved for the maidens only, except for Kelryn Darewind himself. The priest made a mental note: He would have to warn the new recruits about the restrictions, since he wanted very much to avoid a similar infraction. Indeed, he had rather liked the previous boy, so much so that the high priest had actually required the aid of a burly Faithguard before Kelryn had been able to muster the resolve to gouge out the lad’s second eye.

  The last three of the supplicants were female. The first, a toothless hag who leered up at the priest with an expression of fawning adoration, was assigned to the sweepers; she would join a group who maintained the temple grounds and the high priest’s mansion, insuring that the Sect of the Black Robe presented a gleaming and impeccable facade to this city of so many and varied temples. The second was a younger woman whose large, beaklike nose gave her a rather homely appearance; she was assigned to the Faithguards, and Kelryn knew that the men would make good use of her. No doubt within a few years, if she lasted that long, she would come to resemble the hag he had just assigned to the sweepers.

  The final supplicant—positioned at the end of the line by Warden Thilt, who knew his master’s tastes—was a young woman of unblemished skin, golden hair, and clear blue eyes. He had her maintain her kneeling posture for a little longer than was necessary and took great pleasure in her smooth voice as she stared into the depths of the bloodstone and reverently chanted the vows.

  “You are assigned to the Temple Maidens,” Kelryn declared, his voice already thickening with desire. “Pass through the white door. You will find a garden there, wine and fruit as well. Sample the food and drink as you wish. Then remove your robe and wait for me.”

  “Yes, Master,” she intoned, and the high priest pulled away the bloodstone so those blue eyes would rise to regard him. He nearly fell into them, so pure was their color and so willing, so devoted, their expression.

  This one really was a beauty, he thought, and he made a private vow that he would take his time with her. Too many times in recent years he had found a treasure like this, only to ruin her with his uncontrolled passion on their first encounter. Afterward, such tarnished beauties were useful only to the Faithguards. Sometimes, in fact, an unfortunate girl had been so frightened and disillusioned by her first encounter with the high priest that he had been forced to sacrifice her in the temple dungeons. Not that such executions were not without their own form of pleasure, but Kelryn Darewind was a pragmatic man and knew that his recruits were always more useful to him alive then dead.

  Yes, he repeated silently, I will be patient with this one, that she may please me for a long time to come.

  The woman walked to the white door, and Kelryn stared hungrily, watching t
he smooth curves of her body shifting gracefully beneath the gauzy cotton of her robe. He thought momentarily of dispensing with the rest of the day’s business, but quickly he discarded that notion. He could be patient, and there were important matters of the church that needed his attention.

  He flopped back into his chair, reflecting that it had not always been so. Had it actually been fifty years ago that he first arrived in this rich, lively, and utterly corrupt city? Kelryn knew it had, though none who saw him would have guessed his age to be much more than three decades. Indeed, he knew he looked very much the same as he did when he had ridden out of Tarsis so many years ago.

  Now, however, when he thought back to those days, it seemed that he was recalling an experience from a different life. His hand closed around the stone that pulsed within his fingers, and he knew he owed a great transformation in his own life to his chance encounter with the dwarf, now a half century dead, on the Pax Tharkas road.

  Except that he did not believe, had not even believed then, that it was really a chance encounter. It was the stone—or, more accurately, the spirit that throbbed within the stone—that had brought Gantor Blacksword into his path, that had summoned Kelryn up the steep gully to the Theiwar’s smoldering fire.

  The bloodstone had known that the raving dwarf had served his purpose. A pariah to his own kind, terrified and suspicious of everyone else, Gantor had been unable to carry the powerful artifact into the centers of life and vitality that it craved. Kelryn Darewind, on the other hand, with his easy social grace, his handsome smile, and his flowing, charismatic speech, had been a much better choice.

  When the man first held the stone, he had felt its compelling power; even more, he sensed that the artifact was appealing to him personally. Then, when he had replied, had offered his acquiescence—for a price—he understood that the gem had respected Kelryn’s strength. The stone needed the man, and the man needed the stone. Together they had helped each other for many years.

  And Kelryn Darewind, for his part, had no complaints as he proclaimed himself a high priest. He knew he was a tool for the power within the stone, but he had been quick to grasp that his role called for him to maintain a position of great wealth and high status. He had strong men who would obey his every command and as many women of all ages, shapes, and sizes as he could possibly desire. And there had been another benefit as well, one that he had not perceived for many years after the founding of his sect. But now the truth could not be denied: Since he had been carrying the bloodstone, he had not been subject to the ravages of age that were the lot of every mortal man.