That worked when she was awake.
But when she slept, the fears could prowl through her mind.
In one dream, she ran through the stone maze of the Shadow Ways with Gunther and Delwen. Both her friends had been able to run fast, and they had been right behind her as the Drakocenti closed around them.
And then Moriah was running alone through the darkness.
Frantic, she turned back, intending to go after her friends, but it was too late. Their dying screams rang in her ears. With a furious curse, tears stinging in her eyes, Moriah fled.
Gunther and Delwen stood in front of her, blood dripping from their torn throats.
“Why didn’t you come back for us?” whispered Gunther. The blood ran down the halfling’s throat and chest.
“We would have come back for you,” said Delwen.
“I would have,” said Moriah. “But the Drakocenti killed you before I could come back. I hunted down the mercenaries who killed you, I did that, I…”
“What good does that do?” whispered Delwen. She had been so pretty in life, and she rotted before Moriah’s eyes, becoming a decayed, leathery corpse, little different than the others Moriah had seen in the Shadow Ways. “What good does any of it do?”
Moriah’s reeling mind shifted, and a new dream filled her thoughts. Again, she ran through the Shadow Ways, but this time she wore the armor and cloak of the Wraith, the alter-ego she had created for her war on the Drakocenti. Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande ran before her, and they raced into the depths of the earth, trying to reach the Great Eye before Cyprian opened it.
They were too late. Dragon fire exploded from the ground, consuming Cintarra and burning it to ashes.
Moriah jerked awake, heart hammering in her chest. The shutters to her bedroom were closed tight, but some sunlight leaked through them. The middle of the morning, she thought. Her throat was dry as dust, and she turned her head. A carafe of mixed wine and a clay cup sat on the table next to her bed, and someone had collected her clothes from the floor. Giselda, most probably. Moriah felt guilty, and then grateful as she took a long drink of the wine, easing the harsh edge in her throat. Should she get up? No, it was too early, and she felt so damned tired.
She finished the wine and fell back asleep.
A dream of another nature swept through her mind.
The door to her bedroom opened, and Sir Rufinius strode inside, tall and strong and broad-shouldered, with icy blue eyes and thick black hair. He stepped to her bed, and suddenly he was as naked as she was. Then he was atop her, and she moaned and clung to him. Moriah looked at his face, and she was looking at Sir Niall, and she grinned and lifted her face to kiss him…
Moriah jolted awake for a second time, flushed and sweating and irritated with herself. She wasn’t some timid virgin to dream of a handsome knight in her bed.
Well, she supposed that was half right, anyway. It was the strain of the past year, she thought. Some part of her mind knew that it would be pleasant to let strong arms enfold her, to lose herself in an embrace. But for God’s sake, Sir Rufinius? She liked and admired the Swordbearer, but his father was Archbishop Caelmark. If Rufinius had ever been with a woman, likely he had needed to pray and fast for a few days first.
And Niall Lordsbane?
She hadn’t liked or respected him when they first met. Moriah had thought him a rural simpleton, a fool who had stolen a pig and turned himself in because it was the right thing to do. The sheer stupidity of it still boggled her mind. Didn’t he know the world had no mercy for fools? Yet she had seen him fight with valor at Rhudlan. Moriah knew that she had played her part in Rhudlan’s defense, using the power of the Wraith’s armor to keep siege ladders away from the wall. Sir Rufinius had led the defense, and the Swordbearer had fought with bravery.
Yet Niall had possessed neither the magical armor of the Wraith nor the power of a soulblade, and he had still been a pillar of the defense, flinging himself where the fighting was the hottest again and again. The men had loved him for it, and Niall had been oblivious to that fact, which made them respect him even more. He had stopped Lhanwyn from handing the town over to the Dragon Cult. And Niall had kind eyes, and strong arms heavy with muscle, and…
Moriah got up and stalked around her bedroom, glaring at the dim sunlight leaking through the shutters. She knew what kind of woman Niall Lordsbane liked. Someone like Pompeia Corinium, blond with plump lips and an oversized bosom. Pompeia had wrapped Niall around her finger like a ribbon, though not nearly enough to make Niall betray the Prince. In the end, Niall had a profound honesty to him that both baffled and intrigued Moriah…
Still annoyed, she crossed back to her bed and fell asleep. Another few hours, and she would get up and begin her preparations.
And this time, the darkest dream of all filled her thoughts.
She was fighting before the walls of Rhudlan again, in the cloak and armor of the Wraith. Goblins and ogres surged at her, the blue-skinned goblins shorter than humans, the hulking ogres armored in steel plate. Moriah fought and fought, using the armor of the Wraith to deliver stronger blows than she ever could have otherwise, but the goblins and the ogres kept coming…
No. Not goblins, not ogres.
Orcs, red-skinned orcs in chain mail and spiked helmets, thousands of them. Behind them flew black banners adorned with red symbols that looked like angular, stylized crimson spiders. The Heptarchy had returned, and Cintarra burned, the great city turning to ashes as the red orcs rampaged through it, killing its people, women and children lying slain on the streets behind them…
With a gasp, Moriah awoke, breathing hard, her hands trembling with reaction.
“Damn it,” she muttered. She would have preferred the amorous dream with Sir Niall to that nightmare.
Because the Heptarchy frightened her down to her bones.
Merovech and the Dragon Cult did scare her, yes. Only a fool would not fear the mad Dragonmaeloch and his army of cultists, goblins, and ogres.
But the Heptarchy was something different, something darker.
All her life, Moriah had assumed there was nothing across the ocean. No ship could cross the twisting currents of the sea, after all. Then the gate to Owyllain had opened. Owyllain was a kingdom across the sea, true, but you needed a magical gate to reach it. It wasn’t as if you could sail to Owyllain’s chief city of Aenesium.
Then Moriah had emerged from the Shadow Ways with the Shield Knight and the Keeper and the others, only to learn that invaders from across the sea had attacked Cintarra while Moriah had battled Aeliana Carhaine. And not just mere raiders, but the first vanguard of a mighty empire ruled by urdmordar who had set themselves up as goddesses. All her life, Moriah had heard tales of the terror and might of the urdmordar. To learn that there was an empire of them, one that had found a way to sail across the otherwise uncrossable sea…that scared her in a way that few things had.
A threat from the unknown.
She had seen the fear reflected in Helmut’s eyes. He had more reason for it. The urdmordar had kept halflings as slaves for thousands of years. As cattle, really. The urdmordar had eaten halflings the way a man might eat nuts or dried fruit, as a casual snack. Most of the halflings in Andomhaim were descendants of the freed slaves of the urdmordar.
Moriah was not one to put deep credence on her feelings, but she knew, deep in her bones, that the Heptarchy would return. And Cintarra and all Andomhaim needed to be ready to face them. The Dragon Cult had to be destroyed so Andomhaim was ready to battle the new threat.
She turned her head and looked at the window to see the dim sunlight fading, and Moriah felt a hard smile go over her face. She couldn’t defeat the Dragon Cult by herself, but she could do a few things to keep Cintarra safe.
Starting by rooting out the traitors within the walls.
Moriah got to her feet as someone knocked at the door.
“My lady?” It was Giselda’s voice. “Are you awake?”
“Yes, come in,” said Moriah
absently, noting the location of her armor and sword if it turned out armed men were with Giselda. That was a bit paranoid, but Cyprian, the Regency Council, and the Drakocenti had all wanted her dead, and Moriah was still alive. A little paranoia rarely went amiss for a thief turned spymaster.
But the paranoia proved unnecessary. The door swung open, and Giselda bustled inside. She looked a great deal like Helmut, with the same blue eyes, though her curly hair was brown, not gray. Under one arm she carried Moriah’s clothes from yesterday, freshly washed. She set the clothes on the bed, looked Moriah up and down, and clucked her tongue.
“Another restless night, my lady?” said Giselda.
“You could say that,” said Moriah.
Giselda gave a shake of her head. “Comes from sleeping during the day, I think.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Moriah in a dry voice. She took the clothes and started to get dressed. “I’ll make sure to ask the Prince’s enemies to carry out their nefarious plots during the day. That way I can sleep at night. I’m sure they’ll oblige.”
“Elena took the message to the lord archbishop’s court for you,” said Giselda.
Moriah paused. “Was there an answer?”
“Only that if you find evidence, the archbishop will act upon the matter,” said Giselda. “But I am only a simple halfling girl, and such great matters are beyond my understanding.”
“I’m sure,” said Moriah. The answer was more or less what Moriah had expected. If Moriah found irrefutable proof that Zimri Talvus and his friends were traitors, the archbishop would arrest them.
Still, even if Moriah didn’t find proof, she might be able to kill another emissary of the Dragon Cult. That would help the war. Merovech Valdraxis had brought only so many men through the rifts from the Frankish Empire, though the war might take a long time if Moriah had to kill Merovech’s spies one by one.
Moriah donned in the coat, trousers, and boots of a Cintarran nobleman. From a distance, she would look like a minor noble hurrying to some intrigue or another, or maybe just visiting a brothel. The clothes were loose enough, and her build was lean enough that she could pull off the disguise. Someone like Pompeia Corinium would never have been able to manage it…
The sour thought both surprised and irritated her, and Moriah pushed it aside. That damned dream had twisted up her mind more than she had expected.
“My lady?” said Giselda.
“I’ll be gone all night,” said Moriah, picking up a satchel and slinging its strap diagonally across her chest. In the satchel was the tight-rolled bundle of her wraithcloak and the metal hexagon of her dwarven scout armor. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Depends on how long the evening’s business takes.”
She headed for the door.
“Have you eaten yet today?” said Giselda.
Moriah stopped, sighed, and looked back at the halfling woman. “There really isn’t time.”
“You aren’t taking proper care of yourself,” said Giselda. “You can hardly serve the Prince if you collapse from exhaustion before you even leave the Palace.”
She had a point. Fortunately, she had also brought food Moriah could eat quickly, bread and cheese and some wine. Moriah ate and drank in haste, thanked Giselda, and then left the Prince’s Palace before the gates were closed for the night.
As night fell over the streets, Moriah walked to the domus of Lord Zimri Talvus.
The house was in the Eastern City of Cintarra, not far from the Prince’s Palace, reflecting both Lord Zimri’s wealth and the fact that Zimri’s distant ancestor had been one of the first knights to follow the House of Gwyrdragon to Cintarra. No doubt that knight would have been horrified to learn the path his descendant had taken or perhaps would have been ruthless enough to applaud Zimri’s ambitions. The house was built in the traditional Cintarran style – a rectangular domus five stories tall, with an interior courtyard and a tall tower rising from one side of the building. Guards in tabards stood at the main doors and the servants’ entrance. There were twice as many guards as there had been a few weeks ago. That was Moriah’s doing, alas – killing Sir Orderic in front of Zimri had led the lord to increase his security.
But he still didn’t realize that Moriah had a secret entrance into his domus.
She walked past the domus without slowing and headed to a warehouse in the dockside quarter. Moriah owned the warehouse under a false name, and she used it as a safe house, a refuge, and to store items she didn’t want to keep in her apartment at the Prince’s Palace.
It also had an entrance to the vast stone maze of the Shadow Ways.
Cintarra was an old city and had stood at the mouth of the river for centuries. But the human city of Cintarra was merely the latest settlement on this site. Orcish warlords had once ruled here, and so had dark elven nobles. Before that, the high elves had built the city of Cathair Cintarr, and both the dwarves and the dvargir had delved underground fortresses beneath the earth.
Because of that long history, when the first Princes of Cintarra had dug catacombs and sewers beneath their growing city, they had stumbled into the underground maze created by millennia of warfare. The labyrinth was dubbed the Shadow Ways, the secret paths beneath the streets, and they descended far, far into the earth. On occasion, bold adventurers descended into the darkness, seeking buried treasures and riches. Sometimes they returned as wealthy men. Sometimes they returned empty-handed.
More often than not, they didn’t return at all.
Thieves used the Shadow Ways to travel unseen, risking the dangers of the place in exchange for secrecy. Moriah, Delwen, and Gunther had used the Shadow Ways for years. Then they had found the scout armor and the wraithcloak in one of the deeper levels, and the possibility of greater riches had excited Gunther and Delwen. Moriah had been uncertain, but she had allowed her friends to sway her…and then the Drakocenti had found them.
The regrets rose in her mind, and Moriah pushed them aside. She had work to do.
Moriah locked the warehouse door behind her and then drew out her scout armor from the satchel. She held the metal hexagon to her chest and tapped it, reaching for her mental link to the magical armor. The bronze hexagon unfolded and enveloped her torso in a cuirass of metal plates that fell to her knees. A masked helmet covered her head, and metal gauntlets sheathed her hands. The armor was far stronger and lighter than normal steel, and the gauntlets let her hit much, much harder than she could have otherwise. Additionally, the helmet had one other power that proved useful in the Shadow Ways.
It let her see in the dark.
Moriah descended into the Shadow Ways, making her way through the catacombs. She kept to the upper levels, the old catacombs dug by the Princes. These were usually safe enough, though sometimes kobolds found their way up here, or creatures from the Deeps entered the maze and started preying upon the people of the city…or anyone foolish enough to enter the Shadow Ways. Moriah kept her hand near her sword hilt.
A mile’s walk brought her to an old funerary chapel. For the first century after the founding of the city, the lords and wealthier merchants of Cintarra had preferred to inter their dead in funerary chapels built beneath the earth. Priests would descend to the chapels to say masses for the dead, but the engineers had accidentally unearthed the rest of the Shadow Ways, and the custom came to an abrupt halt.
Dust lay over the funerary chapel. Six stone sarcophagi with leaden covers rested on the floor, the lids worked in the likenesses of armored knights or noble ladies. Niches lined the walls, some of them holding funerary urns, others empty.
Moriah strode to one of the empty niches and reached into a gap in the stonework. Her fingers grasped an iron lever, and she pulled. The hidden door opened with a metallic click. Moriah slipped inside, making her way up a narrow flight of stairs. The steps ended in another stone door, and Moriah tugged another lever.
The hidden door opened, and Moriah found herself in the cellar of Lord Zimri Talvus.
She eased forward, listening, her ey
es scanning the gloom of the cellar. It was always possible that Zimri had realized how she had gotten into his domus. The smart thing to do would have been to seal up the secret door. The smarter thing would be to set a trap for the Wraith when she returned.
But save for casks of wine and sacks of grain stacked against the walls, the cellar was deserted.
Moriah crossed the cellar and glided up the next flight of stairs to the kitchen. The kitchens were spacious, with wide counters and multiple ovens. They were also deserted. Zimri and his household would already have eaten their evening meal, and the cooks were gone to bed. A narrow door opened into the courtyard, and Moriah peered through one of the windows next to it. The courtyard was deserted. Only two of the thirteen moons were out tonight, and the silver light falling into the courtyard was dim, shadows falling everywhere.
It was perfect.
Moriah slipped into the courtyard and circled it, keeping within the shadows cast by the ornate colonnade that circled the base of the domus. She had robbed Zimri’s house before she had killed Sir Orderic, and so she remembered its layout. On the top floor of the domus, five stories above the courtyard, a light burned in one of the windows, the shutters open to admit the night breeze.
She judged the wall for a moment, nodded to herself, and jumped up and started to climb.
It was easier than she would have expected. The outside wall of Zimri’s domus had been built of dressed stone, smooth and polished. The interior wall overlooking the courtyard was rougher, and Moriah found abundant handholds and footholds. Additionally, her gauntlets allowed her to grasp the stone far more firmly than she would otherwise. With them, she could have ripped one of the building stones from the wall. Of course, she would immediately have fallen to her death, so instead, she focused on climbing.
The rumble of men’s voices came to her ears as she approached the window. Moriah braced herself below the window, listening.
“And what assurances can you give me?” came the familiar, somewhat petulant voice of Lord Zimri Talvus.
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