They stopped in the middle of a packed earth road, twenty or so paces before the rough stone facade of the cavern's wall. The street traffic broke around them like a wave.
Ordinarily, the fact that Skullport existed in a huge cavern was easy to forget. The city was so large and the darkness so thick that Cale had not seen a wall or ceiling in cycles. But standing before the craggy face of the city's northern border, he remembered that Skullport existed at the whim of the gods of the earth and stone, in a fragile bubble nearly a league below the surface. He thought it likely that if Azriim and the other slaadi succeeded with whatever they were planning, Skullport's bubble would burst.
And Varra would suffer the same fate as the city.
"Which way, Mags?" Cale asked. "Riven?"
Ten or more large cave mouths opened at ground level in the cavern's wall, each easily large enough to allow a cart's passage. In fact, the last wagon of a caravan was vanishing down the leftmost tunnel at that very moment.
Riven shook his head.
"The slaad wasn't specific enough," said the assassin. "I don't know which tunnel."
Stepping forward out of the heaviest of the traffic, Magadon knelt on his haunches and stroked his chin, looking from one tunnel to the next, as if searching his memory. Wheel ruts scored the packed earth in front of each tunnel, and Cale couldn't tell them apart. Innumerable smaller tunnels opened at all heights along the rough rock face but Cale ignored them as impassable for a cart. Bats and stirges wheeled in the air above.
"This way," Magadon said, standing and nodding in the direction of the third tunnel from the left.
"You're certain?" Cale asked.
"Yes," the guide said, and that was good enough for Cale.
But apparently not for Riven.
"Let's make certain," the assassin said. He grabbed a passing goblin laborer by the scruff of its homespun shirt and lifted it from the ground. The creature squeaked in agitation, legs flailing.
"Quiet," Riven ordered it.
The goblin ceased squeaking and instead hissed at Riven through its stained fangs.
"Puts me down, human," it said in a high-pitched voice, its Common rough and awkward, "or I'll finds you asleep and cuts out your other eye."
Riven scowled and the creature recoiled. The assassin produced three gold pieces from his pouch and flashed them before the goblin's eyes. The creature grabbed at the coins but Riven pulled them out of reach.
"What's it you wants, one-eye?" the goblin asked.
Cale looked around to see whether they had drawn attention. To his alarm, he saw that one of the Skulls had moved nearer to them to observe. It floated above them, its empty gaze seeing everything.
"Riven. . . ." Cale said, gesturing toward the ceiling.
Riven's gaze followed Cale's. Seeing the Skull, he slowly lowered the goblin to the ground, but kept his grip on its shirt.
"These are yours," Riven said to the creature, again flashing the coin while eyeing the Skull sidelong, "when you tell me what I want to know."
A cunning look came across the goblin's red-skinned face. It rubbed its hands together greedily.
"Asks me, hole-in-face."
Riven said, "Less than half an hour ago, a single wagon went into the tunnels. It had a score or more of gray dwarves as guards."
The goblin nodded and said, "Me sees that one."
"Which tunnel?" Riven asked, giving the goblin a shake.
"You gives more," the goblin replied.
Riven's gaze went hard.
"I'll give you two more," he said.
The creature smiled in satisfaction, and licked its lips. Riven took out two more coins and held them before the goblin's face.
"And I'll drive each of these through your eyes and into your braincase, you little vermin. Speak, now."
The goblin's eyes went wide.
"That one," it said, and pointed toward the tunnel that Magadon had indicated.
Riven released it and flung the coins into the crowd. The creature let out a shriek and scrabbled after the gold.
Above, the Skull turned away from them and floated back to its high perch.
"Wanted to be sure, Mags," Riven said to the guide, by way of apology.
"Keep moving," Cale said, and they hurried down the tunnel, all the while under the watchful gaze of the Skulls.
* * * * *
The stink of the duergar drove Azriim to distraction. He thought they must bathe once per month, at best. And their clothing! He wondered how anyone could long tolerate the coarse mushroom-fiber tunics and lizard-skin leather trousers they wore. Even their armor, while obviously well-crafted, looked boxy and inelegant.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that soon all of the gray dwarves would be dead. He hadn't even bothered to remember their leader's name, only that the foul creature was an ally of Kexen and served Zstulkk Ssarmn. In fact, the whole clan of duergar to which the guards belonged had pledged its service to the yuan-ti slaver.
Pulled by two of the sure-footed, pony-sized cave lizards endemic to the Underdark, the lone wagon in the caravan rumbled its way north through the twisting but smooth-floored tunnel. Stalactites hung from the low ceiling, and ledges and curtains of stone marked the walls. Phosphorescent lichen lit the road ahead. Water dripped from the ceiling to pool in the recesses of the floor, natural cisterns to quench the thirst of travelers.
Thirty-three duergar-including Azriim in the form of a duergar-guarded the enclosed cart. Dim glowballs hung in rope nests from the sides of the wagon, bouncing with each bump in the road, lighting the caravan like a beacon. Within the cart lay the bait: the magical items Azriim and his broodmates had stolen from the Xanathar.
Four of the gray dwarf warriors walked point perhaps thirty paces in front of the cart, crossbows cocked and loaded. The remainder of the duergar warriors stomped loudly along beside, before, and behind the cart, axes and hammers bare, scowls visible even through their beards. The four duergar mages, each armed with a wand provided to them by Azriim (and taken from the Xanathar's stash; Azriim enjoyed the irony), moved amongst them.
Dolgan, in the form of the Amnian ship's captain who had commissioned the caravan, paced along beside the cart, looking as dull-witted as usual. Azriim lingered near the rear of the troop, eyeing the walls above and listening for noise from behind. He knew where Ahmaergo had set up the ambush-less than an hour's travel ahead-but he couldn't be certain how, when, or where Cale and his companions might appear. As best he could, he wanted to time their appearance with that of the dwarf's ambush. With a combat between two of the most powerful, influential factions in Skullport taking place in a main trade tunnel not far from the city, and with ample magic use occurring, Azriim thought it a virtual certainty that the Skulls would appear in force. By his estimation, Skullport's guardians would appear quickly once the combat began in earnest. He simply wanted Cale and his companions to find themselves in the middle of the hell storm. Watching them die would have been a joy. But alas, it would not be. Azriim and his broodmates would remain on the battlefield only until the Skulls began to show.
Smiling, he reached out with his consciousness, connected to Dolgan, and continued through the tunnel ahead, until he felt contact with Serrin.
* * * * *
Serrin, dressed in the flesh of one Maxil, a human male warrior in service to the Xanathar and late of Skullport, crouched with his "comrades" in the darkness of one of the many narrow side tunnels that opened off a main cavern. An entire network of thin, winding tunnels intersected in the large, open cavern that Ahmaergo the dwarf called the killing field. It was in that cave that Ahmaergo intended to ambush the caravan.