Stardeep (14 page)

It was… a man sustained by shadow. Not a man hiding in shadow, like the three who’d first attacked. No, this one was dead, but animated by tendrils of darkness that clawed and writhed across his body. It was someone he’d met before.

Stolsin, Grinder of Tribes. The Rashemi barbarian he’d killed in Sathra’s lair. Back from the dead with a little push from Sathra’s necromancy. The barbarian carried his maul, but dusk dripped from the gray stone cudgel as if it were dipped in ink. The tattoos scrawled across the man’s flesh now writhed and twisted, as if ready to animate with tiny, nasty lives all their own.

Gage flipped the dagger, grasped it by the blade, and thiew. His aim was true. The blade punched straight into Stolsin’s left eye.

The beshadowed barbarian opened his mouth to yell or scream, but all that emerged was dripping night. He didn’t cease his relentless march across the forest floor.

The thief jumped up onto the log, then ran along it to the

” great root ball that had come free when the ttee crashed over in whatever wind or rain had ended its days.

Stolsin the Reanimated altered his trajectory like a lodestone. He moved unerringly toward Gage. The thief grimaced with sudden realization; Sathra had used Stolsin’s death to track him into the Yuirwood. When one person kills another, a terrible linkage forms—a linkage a skilled necromancer can follow. Finding him meant finding Kiril, and the sword Sathra apparently desired above all else.

On the other hand, all Stolsin sought was vengeance.

Gage transferred his dagger from gloved hand to bare.

“Today our linkage doubles, Stolsin, because I’m going to kill you again!” His demon gauntlet would win the day and defeat the walking corpse. He hoped. Although he did carry a few vials of alchemical acid particularly good at disrupting leather…

A dark pulse on the hill caught Gage’s attention—black lightning from clear skies smote Kiril, once, twice, then again. The elf was hurled down the slope, a net of gibbering shadow entangling her thrashing limbs.

Stolsin swung his maul while Gage was distracted. Gage slipped back, but the blow caught him on the left shoulder. Agony seized his arm and the dagger dropped from his nerveless hand.

Gage lunged forward with his right hand, the demonic mouth on his gauntleted palm gaping. The tevivified corpse backstepped, avoiding the slap. Gage ovetteached and stumbled to one knee. The maul whistled down, catching the thief on his left leg as he tried to toll clear.

Then he was back on his feet. He winced when he tried to put weight on the left leg. He had retrieved his short blade, this time firmly held in his gauntlet. The demon mumbled curses around the hilt. Gage ignored the vile suggestions.

His foe stood a good chance of flattening him with the

maul if Gage moved inside its reach. It would be less risky if his left hand could properly grasp the dagger, but until feeling returned to it, he had to hold the blade righthanded to stay outside Stolsin’s sweep. To bring his gauntlet to bear against Stolsin, he’d have to do so from a distance.

The reanimated barbarian groaned something, its swollen and dty tongue rasping ineffectually within its gaping mouth. Indecipherable.

“You have seen better days, my friend,” Gage observed, wondering if he could bait a creature whose brain was probably maggot food. More inscrutable groans and grunts followed, with a swipe from the maul that nearly removed the thief’s head.

Gage leaped up onto the log, then off again before the maul splinteted down. The log broke into two pieces under the mighty blow.

When he’d defeated Stolsin last time, he’d been wielding Angul.

A slender thread of worry burrowed up to pierce Gage’s confidence. The thing had already tagged him twice unanswered, and was forcing him to flee with an unholy energy born beyond the grave.

Another shuddering of the light behind the walking corpse let him know Kiril remained in the fight. Whether succeeding or failing, he didn’t divide his attention to ascertain. Stolsin battered the log a few times with its maul, but even its damped brain recognized that smashing through the obstruction, as satisfying as such destruction might be, paled before the opportunity to pulp the thief. The creature made an awkward jump onto the log, crudely aping Gage’s agile leap.

Gage swung his dagger in a wide arc, encountering resistance mid-swing. Stolsin’s foot and lower calf parted from the rest of its body. The undead crashed sidewise onto the log, groaning as it impacted. It rolled off the other side.

Gage grinned and looked over to see where the monstet had landed^ The maul caught him on the side of the head.

Whispered exhortations sheathed in gloom poured from Sathra’s outstretched fingers and enveloped Kiril and her blade. Within the midnight embrace, cold prickled Kiril’s skin from a hundred wraithlike hands, growing from merely unpleasant to life-sucking agony in moments. The elf screamed. Where in the Hells was Angul’s balm? Didn’t she yet hold the blade? His flame was hardly visible in this tumbling dark, but his presence yet touched her consciousness.

“Help me, damn your blunt edges!”

The blade, dulled and cold, trembled at her words. Strength continued to pour from her exposed skin into the murmuring clutch of dead shades. Why wasn’t he helping her?

“I’m dying, you rusted reject from a halfling’s smithy! I—”

The sword trembled again, as if straining… then ignited with cerulean incandescence. He pulled power from a source that had always seemed inexhaustible. Whether that strength had its origin within Angul himself, or in some external font of moral power, Kiril had never before wondered. The sword was always equal to every task, capable of keeping its wielder alive no matter the threat.

Was Sathta’s power of shadow inimical to Angul, or was he, after all these yeats, dtawing to the end of his enchanted lifespan?

Angul’s certainty sought to whelm in her once more, becoming the balm she’d fought to hold heiself aloof from during the last decade. Het newfound doubt about the weapon’s longevity transformed her usual sentiment of dread to relief. The blade was still up to its old tricks. She wanted—

No, she needed to ask Sathra about Nangulis! But that

desire was washed away in Angul’s all-encompassing belief that nothing he—and by extension his wielder—did required explanation.

The necromancer’s shadowy influence burned away in blue celestial fire, revealing the light of day and a surprised-looking Sathra. Kiril stood up where the necromancer’s last blast had flung her. She intoned Angul’s words. “Suffer not abomination, nor she who gives up her soul to evil.”

Kiril sprinted back up the slope, her sword’s fire pumping her limbs with boundless energy.

Sathra spoke anew, her voice a series of unfathomable vocalizations that smoked into reality, her hands frantically waving in rhythm with the foul syllables. Kifil recognized enough spellcasting to identify the cadence of a magical escape.

Sathra wasn’t quick enough.

The career of the most-feared crime lord of Laothkund ended in the snowy eaves of the Yuirwood.

An interminable sea of discomfort slowly focused, finally shrinking to the size of his skull. Dull throbs, the stings of scrapes and cuts, and three sharp pinches told him the position of his body; he lay in a splayed posture, facedown on a hard surface. He tasted dirt and bark in his mouth.

He yet lived! Gage throttled his first instinct to groan. Better not to reveal that life hadn’t fully departed if enemies lurked nearby. He opened one eye the merest slit to reconnoiter the situation.

Stolsin lay not far from him, cut into three or four bloodless pieces. Closer stood Kiril, tending a small fire. Her pet construct perched on her shoulder. He sucked in his breath when he recalled his last few conscious moments. The elf’s head turned. She gazed at him, one eyebrow going up in speculation. She said, “You awake?”

Gage considered. Better not to dissemble, just in case. He let out a loud groan and let his eyes flutter open. When the pain tedoubled, he realized he wouldn’t have to put up much of an act.

“What happened? That damn walking corpse clipped me with his hammer. Last thing I remember.” He levered himself up so his back was supported by a log. A very familiar log. A log much the wotse for wear. He’d be happy to see the last of it.

“I’ll tell you what happened. A whote came out of nowhere and tried to kill me—which is ptetty flecking odd since you told me Sathra was dead!” Kiril moved until she stood a foot from Gage, her eyes narrowed and wild. Xet flew up from her shoulder, chiming a rebuke at her sudden movement.

The thief held up his left hand. “Hold on! You think I lied to you? I thought Sathra was dead—I left her as good as. How could I know someone would pull her out of the sewer and fix her up?” It was as compelling a scenario as he could invent on the spot. He was good at it, but would the enraged elf buy his story? More importantly…

“Did you ask her the questions you wanted, Kiril?” Gage asked, anxiety straining his faked credulity. “Did you ask about Nangulis?”

The elf clenched both her fists, neithet of which, luckily, was wtapped around her sword. She yelled, “Blood, no!” and slammed a fist down on the log next to Gage. He winced despite himself.

The swordswoman took a deep breath, visibly getting hold of herself. She continued. “No, she came upon me too strong. The only way I could stand against her was to kill her. That, and Angul got the better of me.”

“Yeah,” agreed Gage, “I know how that goes.” He watched her clench her fists and eyes, het mouth a tight line, as she decided to believe his story. He relaxed fractionally.

The fact was, he was having second thoughts about his involvement. How could he have known, when he agreed to steal the blade, that Angul was far more than a simple piece of enchanted steel? How could he have known the sword was Kiril’s entire reason for living?

Gage had committed petty larceny, and not-so-petty larceny, from the vaults of the fabulously rich and probably crooked. He had killed, but only those whose hands were stained with years of evil—he’d never knowingly cut the life from an innocent. By his own lights, he was a motal person, one whose skills allowed him to tread the edges of the law, but one whose actions, in the balance, wouldn’t endanger his soul’s final destination.

He didn’t spend all his money on whores and hounds, as did some of his companions, nor did he use his strengths to take advantage of the weak and credulous.

In short, Gage didn’t think of himself as a bad guy. Which was an image he found increasingly under siege as he continued supporting the facade he’d created to interact with Kiril…

He shivered and put the unpleasant topic from his mind. He’d deal with the ramifications of his actions soon enough. Not a strategy most people would recommend for success, but one that had served him well enough in the past. Him, but rarely those around him.

“So, what now?” he ventured.

“Now we get you fixed up and continue to Statdeep. We’re not far from the Causeway. I’ll have my answers soon.”

Gage almost told her the truth then. Instead, he nodded and said, “First, let me collect my daggers. Wouldn’t want to tun low later.”

Aglarond, City of Emmech

The Umber River flowed down from the heart of Thay, splitting the Dragonjaw Mountains between its tall and rugged ranges to the notth, and the bate-sloped griffon nesting peaks to the south. The river plunged into the wide Tannath gap, passing the great Aglarondan fortress at Emmech before emptying into the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Emmech was a large, ramshackle town with a military air, its rough stone buildings huddling around a far older castle, Fortress Emmech. The fortress bristled with towers and parapets, and its wide hollows housed a significant portion of Aglarond’s Army of the Lion; the last Thayan invasion down the Umber River wasn’t so long ago that fear of the Red Wizards had passed, despite recent trade agreements. The fortress’s most important structures were the two strong towers on either side of the Umbei, which could raise from the river floor an ensorcelled chain to bar the passage of watercraft.

Raidon first saw Fortress Emmech in hazy evening light, as the caravan cleared the last descending limb of the Tannaths,

and the fiver valley opened into the distance. They traveled the so-called “Umber River Road,” a pitted, crumbling ribbon of rarely level, often snow-packed ground bordered by unscalable cliffs on one side and a river-filled chasm on the other.

Quent told Raidon that morning that the river was an oft-traveled trade route of late, for those willing to pay the Thayan tax. On the other hand, the adjoining “river road” was too dangerous for regular business. Unless your name was Quent and you wanted to shortcut the competition and avoid said tax, the caravan chief boasted. Even if that meant potentially facing the wtath of Red Wizard patrols.

The monk was certain two lives lost to river raiders was too high a price to pay for avoiding the Thayan river levy, but he held his tongue.

The catavan wound its way down the slope to the river gates, such as they were. The real defense of the town obviously lay behind the towering fortress walls, not here at the periphery, though a few token guards stood to attention when the caravan moved to gain entry. The guards looked over the wagons, then asked for a perfunctory trade fee in return for being allowed inside. Quent paid and asked, “Does Lord Demelin still command the fortress?”

One guard spit and replied, “Sure.” Another nodded, but the rest were already moving back to the guard house. Interest in the caravan lapsed once it was determined Quent wasn’t sponsored by any concern out of Thay.

Inside, the caravan quickly found the bazaar. This late, traffic was sparse, and many trade carts and temporary shops had already shuttered their wares behind lengths of dark tarpaulin, sail cloth, or wooden planks. Some merchants swept up while others packed away goods. Here and there, wily Emmechers wrangled for day-end deals.

With the help of everyone but the scouts Hark and Sulvan, who took their pay and departed for the dock quarter, the