Scyllua hurried up the steps to the inn’s common room and strode inside. She found Fzoul Chembryl warming his hands by the hearth, attended by six of his handpicked bodyguards. The Chosen Tyrant of Bane glanced to the door with a small, cold smile.
“Ah, there you are, Scyllua,” he said. “How do your preparations proceed?”
She knelt before him and lowered her head. “We have thrown a cordon around the city, Lord Fzoul. I have ordered our soldiers to entrench for a siege.”
Fzoul nodded, looking back to the fire. “How long do you think it would take us to reduce the city by siege work?”
“It depends on the magic the Great Lord sees fit to place in my hands, my lord. With the spellcasters and monsters under my command now, we could undermine a wall or destroy a tower and mount an assault in a tenday. If we directed more powerful magic to the task-enslaving a dragon to destroy a gate, perhaps, or summoning earth elementals to pull down a wall-we could storm the city within a day. If our spies’ reports are accurate, we can overwhelm the garrison once we breach the walls.”
“I agree with your assessment.” Fzoul drew back from the fire and pulled on his heavy gauntlets. He wore a breastplate of black mithral emblazoned with the emerald fist of Bane and carried a large mace at his hip. From time to time he liked to take the field in command of his armies. “However, there is a new complication. I have learned that the daemonfey and their infernal legions are even now engaged in a great battle against the armies of Sembia and the Crusade of Evermeet.”
Scyllua looked up at his stern features, her attention sharply focused. “Who will win?” she asked.
“My divinations are inconclusive. The issue seems to be in doubt.” Fzoul flexed his hands in the gauntlets, working his fingers into the leather and steel. “I think that it would be useful to issue promises of support to whichever side wins. If Sarya defeats this attack, I do not think the Sembians will throw good coin after bad. They will abandon the middle Dales, and Sarya will remain the mistress of Myth Drannor for some time to come. If I show her that I mean her no harm, I think she will keep herself quite busy on her southern frontiers. On the other hand, if the elves triumph, it would be good to demonstrate that I have an interest in what happens in the middle Dales… and that I must be given a seat at the victors’ table when the fighting is done.”
“What of Hillsfar, my lord?”
“Why, wait and watch, my dear Scyllua. The mere fact that they seek to treat with me indicates that they fear defeat. And as our Great Lord teaches us, to fear something is to give it power over you.” Fzoul motioned for her to rise, and turned away from the fire. “Bring in the Hillsfarian,” he told the sergeant of his guards.
They waited together in silence for a short time before the guards returned, leading a short, stocky man with broad shoulders, a shaven head, and a dark, pointed goatee. He wore a fine red coat with a broad lace collar, and his wide mouth was set in a carefully neutral expression. “Lord Fzoul,” he said with a bow. “I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I have come to request your terms.”
“Terms?” the tyrant replied. He arched an eyebrow. “I do not see the need to bargain with you, High Warden. I will obtain everything I require in a few days anyway.”
The Hillsfarian remained calm, though a small trickle of perspiration beaded on his brow. “Then we might as well make the best resistance we can. You may indeed be able to take our city, but if we have nothing to lose by fighting to the last man, you may find the price of your victory steeper than you like.”
“I am not without compassion,” Fzoul said, baring his teeth in a predatory grin. “Should you submit absolutely and immediately, I will spare the lives of Hillsfar’s citizens.”
“We are hesitant to throw ourselves on your mercy, Lord Fzoul. Most of my compatriots would frankly rather die than be dispossessed of everything they own and sold into slavery. In the absence of reasonable terms on your part, we cannot capitulate.” Gearas licked his lips, and added, “It is customary to offer something in exchange for being spared the costs involved in a siege or assault.”
Fzoul stroked his chin, studying the shorter man intently. “That is true,” he admitted. “Very well, then. First, I require the dismissal of the Red Plumes from Hillsfar. You will be allowed to retain a small city guard and constabulary, under the supervision of my officers. Second, Hillsfar must cede all claims to the coastal lands from ten miles west of this spot to Zhentil Keep, including the ruins of Yulash. Third, your city will pay me tribute once per year… two hundred thousand gold crowns should suffice. Fourth, the former First Lord’s Tower is to be rebuilt as a temple to the Great Lord Bane. I will appoint its high priest and clergy. Finally, I require the immediate delivery of First Lord Maalthiir. I will appoint a regent to govern in his place.”
“I am afraid that we cannot comply with your last condition, Lord Fzoul.”
The tyrant of Zhentil Keep scowled furiously, deadly wrath awaking in his eyes. “Are you certain of that?” he asked in a cold voice.
“Maalthiir has decamped. He left the city almost a tenday ago. I do not think that he intends to return.”
Fzoul snorted in dark amusement. “I suppose that does not surprise me. So who governs Hillsfar in his stead, High Warden?”
“The Council of Lords is the acting authority in the city, Lord Fzoul. They share power with the remaining Red Plumes.”
“I see. So which of those powers do you serve?”
“I am a lord of Hillsfar.”
“Weren’t you high in Maalthiir’s service? Why did you not follow your master into exile, Lord Gearas?”
The high warden grimaced. “The First Lord departed abruptly, Lord Fzoul. He did not give me that opportunity.”
“And so your fellow lordlings have rewarded you for your faithful service to Maalthiir by making you their envoy to me.” Fzoul’s dark eyes danced with malice. “Go back to your council of lords then, and convey to them my terms. You have one day to indicate your acceptance.”
The high warden knew when he had been dismissed. He bowed again in silence, and left the Golden Manticore. Fzoul watched him go.
“A pity that I shall not have the opportunity to banter with Maalthiir one more time. But I suppose that he has chosen a fate for himself almost as hopeless as anything I might have concocted. The knowledge of what he has lost will consume him alive, and he will spend the rest of his days waiting for the time when he is found out.”
“Should I make ready to attack tomorrow, my lord?” Scyllua asked.
“You will not need to, my dear. I have offered generous terms, and Hillsfar has no choice but to capitulate.” Fzoul folded his arms over his chest. “For more than one hundred years Hillsfar has been the fiercest rival of Zhentil Keep. Now we have laid them low, Scyllua. Whatever else comes out of this season of chaos, I am already content with my gains.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
18 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Araevin stepped into a world of stinging dust and baking heat. He started coughing immediately and threw one arm over his eyes as he staggered away from the gate. The portal stood in a broken wall of black stone on the side of a steep hill. He reached out to steady himself, and found that the stones were hot to the touch. Overhead, the skies churned with black clouds, lit from within by searing flames. A harsh wind like the blast of a furnace scoured the landscape, driving streamers of the bitter dust past the shattered ruins around him.
“Where am I?” he muttered between coughs.
The ruins might have been some sort of keep or watchtower long ago, but had become little more than a foundation of heavy stones abraded smooth by dust and wind. He had to wonder who had thought to raise a portal in such a place. Jorin and Maresa staggered through the portal next.