You have chosen the dark path, but you have the courage to walk it, Fizban had said.
Did he? Tas wondered. Sighing, he hid his face in his hands.
“No, Tas!” Tika said, shaking him. “Don’t do this to us! We need you!”
Painfully Tas raised his head. “I’m all right,” he said dully. “Where’s Caramon and Berem?”
“Over there,” Tika gestured toward the far end of the cell. “The guards are holding all of us together until they can find someone to decide what to do with us. Caramon’s being splendid,” she added with a proud smile and a fond glance at the big man, who was slouched, apparently sulking, in a far corner, as far from his ‘prisoners’ as he could get. Then Tika’s face grew fearful. She drew Tas nearer. “But I’m worried about Berem! I think he’s going crazy!”
Tasslehoff looked up quickly at Berem. The man was sitting on the cold, filthy stone floor of the cell, his gaze abstracted, his head cocked as though listening. The fake white beard Tika had made out of goat hair was torn and bedraggled. It wouldn’t take much for it to fall off completely, Tas realized in alarm, glancing quickly out the cell door.
The dungeons were a maze of corridors tunneled out of the solid rock beneath the Temple. They appeared to branch off in all directions from a central guardroom, a small, round, open-ended room at the bottom of a narrow winding staircase that bored straight down from the ground floor of the Temple. In the guardroom, a large hobgoblin sat at a battered table beneath a torch, calmly munching on bread and swilling it down with a jug of something. A ring of keys hanging on a nail above his head proclaimed him the head jailor. He ignored the companions; he probably couldn’t see them clearly in the dim light anyway, Tas realized, since the cell they were in was about a hundred paces away, down a dark and dismal corridor.
Creeping over to the cell door, Tas peered down the corridor in the opposite direction. Wetting a finger, he held it up in the air. That way was north, he determined. Smoking, foul-smelling torches flickered in the dank air. A large cell farther down was filled with draconians and goblins sleeping off drunken revels. At the far end of the corridor beyond their cell stood a massive iron door, slightly ajar. Listening carefully, Tas thought he could hear sounds from beyond the door: voices, low moaning. That’s another section of the dungeon, Tas decided, basing his decision on past experience. The jailor probably left the door ajar so he could make his rounds and listen for disturbances.
“You’re right, Tika,” Tas whispered. “We’re locked in some kind of holding cell, probably awaiting orders.” Tika nodded. Caramon’s act, if not completely fooling the guards, was at least forcing them to think twice before doing anything rash.
“I’m going over to talk to Berem,” Tas said.
“No, Tas"—Tika glanced at the man uneasily—"I don’t think—”
But Tas didn’t listen. Taking one last look at the jailor, Tas ignored Tika’s soft remonstrations and crawled toward Berem with the idea of sticking the man’s false beard back on his face. He had just neared him and was reaching out his small hand when suddenly the Everman roared and leaped straight at the kender.
Startled, Tas fell backwards with a shriek. But Berem didn’t even see him. Yelling incoherently, he sprang over Tasslehoff and flung himself bodily against the cell door.
Caramon was on his feet now—as was the hobgoblin.
Trying to appear irritated at having his rest disturbed, Caramon darted a stern glance at Tasslehoff on the floor.
“What did you do to him?” the big man growled out of the side of his mouth.
“N-nothing, Caramon, honest!” Tas gasped. “He-he’s crazy!”
Berem did indeed seem to have gone mad. Oblivious to pain, he flung himself at the iron bars, trying to break them open. When this didn’t work, he grasped the bars in his hands and started to wrench them apart.
“I’m coming, Jasla!” he screamed. “Don’t leave! Forgive—”
The jailor, his pig eyes wide in alarm, ran over to the stairs and began shouting up them.
“He’s calling the guards!” Caramon grunted. “We’ve got to get Berem calmed down. Tika—”
But the girl was already by Berem’s side. Holding onto his shoulder, she pleaded with him to stop. At first the berserk man paid no attention to her, roughly shaking her off him. But Tika petted and stroked and soothed until eventually it seemed Berem might listen. He quit attempting to force the cell door open and stood still, his hands clenching the bars. The beard had fallen to the floor, his face was covered with sweat, and he was bleeding from a cut where he had rammed the bars with his head.
There was a rattling sound near the front of the dungeon as two draconians came dashing down the stairs at the jailor’s call. Their curved swords drawn and ready, they advanced down the narrow corridor, the jailor at their heels. Swiftly Tas grabbed the beard and stuffed it into one of his pouches, hoping they wouldn’t remember that Berem had come in with whiskers.
Tika, still stroking Berem soothingly, babbled about anything that came into her head. Berem did not appear to be listening, but at least he appeared quiet once more. Breathing heavily, he stared with glazed eyes into the empty cell across from them. Tas could see muscles in the man’s arm twitch spasmodically.
“What is the meaning of this?” Caramon shouted as the draconians came up to the cell door. “You’ve locked me in here with a raving beast! He tried to kill me! I demand you get me out of here!”
Tasslehoff, watching Caramon closely, saw the big warrior’s right hand make a small quick gesture toward the guard. Recognizing the signal, Tas tensed, ready for action. He saw Tika tense, too. One hobgoblin and two guards... They’d faced worse odds.
The draconians looked at the jailor, who hesitated. Tas could guess what was going through the creature’s thick mind. If this big officer was a personal friend of the Dark Lady, she would certainly not look kindly on a jailor who allowed one of her close friends to be murdered in his prison cell.
“I’ll get the keys,” the jailor muttered, waddling back down the corridor.
The draconians began to talk together in their own language, apparently exchanging rude comments about the hobgoblin. Caramon flashed a look at Tika and Tas, making a quick gesture of heads banging together. Tas, fumbling in one of his pouches, closed his hand over his little knife. (They had searched his pouches, but—in an effort to be helpful—Tas kept switching his pouches around until the confused guards—after their fourth search of the same pouch—gave up. Caramon had insisted the kender be allowed to keep his pouches, since there were items the Dark Lady wanted to examine. Unless, of course, the guards wanted to be responsible—) Tika kept patting Berem, her hypnotic voice bringing a measure of peace back to his fevered, staring blue eyes.
The jailor had just grabbed the keys from the wall and was starting to walk back down the corridor again when a voice from the bottom of the stairs stopped him.
“What do you want?” the jailor snarled, irritated and startled at the sight of the cloaked figure appearing suddenly, without warning.
“I am Gakhan,” said the voice.
Hushing immediately at the sight of the newcomer, the draconians drew themselves up in respect, while the hobgoblin turned a sickly green color, the keys clinking together in its flabby hand. Two more guards clattered down the stairs. At a gesture from the cloaked figure, they came to stand beside him.
Walking past the quaking hobgoblin, the figure drew closer to the cell door. Now Tas could see the figure clearly. It was another draconian, dressed in armor with a dark cape thrown over its face. The kender bit his lip in frustration. Well, the odds still weren’t that bad—not for Caramon.