The tent town was almost a permanent fixture, a fringe district of Amruthar, judging by the packed, grassless earth beneath the tents. Most of the residents were here only to sell their goods, then move on to another town to acquire more inventory. However, the place also served as a more or less permanent home to some of the city’s poorer residents who couldn’t afford lodging inside the walls.
Galvin, Wynter, and Brenna picked their way among the inhabitants, watching the evening activities as they went.
“Okay,” Wynter stared as he helped Galvin drag the dwarves. “So Maligor has an army of gnolls. I don’t think a thousand gnolls could take this place. There are too many wizards here to fight back. His target has to be outside the city. Besides, if you could find out about the gnolls by simply going to dinner, you can be sure all the wizards around here know about them.”
“It’s puzzling,” Galvin admitted. “In any event, we need to get a close look at Maligor’s place.”
“Get those slaves outta here!” an old woman barked as one of the dwarves lobbed a clod of dirt in her direction. Her companions cackled and encouraged the dwarf to try again.
Galvin and Wynter pulled harder. They passed by a large group of campers who obviously knew each other. The men had circled around a fire for a game of chance. Near them, two women in brightly colored scarves danced about a campfire. The conversation was abundant and covered the weather, the day’s business, and the city’s tax policies.
One group was even discussing Maligor’s gnolls.
The travelers and their slaves selected a spot on the edge of the tent town where they could talk freely and weren’t likely to be invited by their neighbors to share in any festivities. Wynter used crude hand signals, indicating the dwarves should sit. They refused, of course.
When he merely shrugged and ignored them, the dwarves finally sat, looking defiant. Brenna edged forward cautiously and began working the knots loose from about their waists. She held her breath; the slaves hadn’t bathed in a long while. When she had finished untying them, she backed away, put her hands on her hips, and inspected them.
“If we take them to Aglarond, I can get them cleaned up and give them a few gold pieces,” she said.
“If we make it back to Aglarond,” Wynter added, surprised the dwarves weren’t bolting.
“We’ve more things to worry about than the dwarves,” Galvin said as he stretched out on the ground. Brenna lay down a few feet away from the druid and watched him.
“I’m just glad I was able to buy a few slaves their freedom,” Wynter said softly, not wanting any nearby campers to hear. He vividly described the condition of the pens to Galvin, then waited for a response, but the druid had had enough conversation for the day and pretended to sleep.
Nine
Asp clung to the shadows outside Maligor’s tower. The nearby gnoll guards paid her little attention, knowing it was healthier not to question the spirit naga about her business.
She rested back on her snake’s lower body, leaning her shoulders against the cool, smooth stone wall and twitching the end of her tail through the dewy grass. In her pale, slender hands, she cradled a large weasel. Asp ran her fingers through its silky fur and hissed softly to the creature. The weasel seemed to enjoy the attention and lay still for the naga’s caresses.
“Maligor will be proud of me,” she hissed in a barely audible tone. “I’ve watched him closely. I, too, can create darkenbeasts.”
The naga slithered farther along the wall, away from the guards and toward the rear of the tower. Setting the weasel down amid a thick clump of grass, she scratched its neck and lay on her belly to watch it sniff a patch of clover. Then, reaching in her pouch for the powders she had “borrowed” from Maligor, the snake-woman sprinkled them on the weasel’s back and began mumbling the words she had heard Maligor recite.
She kept her voice soft, not wanting to draw the attention of the guards or any slaves who might be milling about. The weasel’s nose began to quiver, finally sensing danger. The moment it started to bolt, Asp’s tail shot through the grass like a striking cobra and fastened itself about the animal’s back legs to hold it in place.
The frightened weasel tried to squirm free, but the naga persisted with the spell. By the time Asp had finished with the words, the creature had begun the horrid metamorphosis.
The weasel shed its hair as its skin bubbled and oozed. Asp quickly drew her tail away and slithered back a few feet. The thing cried out, almost like a human infant, as its bones stretched, making loud popping and cracking sounds. Talons formed at the ends of its front feet, yet its back feet remained those of a weasel. Then its jaw elongated; rows of long, jagged teeth filled its misshapen mouth. The thing continued to grow until it was as big as a bull and appeared a cross between a weasel and a lizard.
The naga gasped and covered her mouth in surprise. Even though she had used the same words, the spell wasn’t working as it had when Maligor cast it. This darkenbeast was too big and was retaining many of its weasel features—its hind legs, ears, stubby tail, and round, frightened eyes. Its skin was covered with festering boils, as if the thing were diseased. For a moment, the naga considered calling for the Red Wizard, hoping he could correct her miscast magic. Then she realized he would be angry because she had cast a spell he had not yet taught her.
Nervously she eyed the creature as it continued its transformation. Webbed wings covered with short gray hair grew from its sides. The darkenbeast, whimpering loudly in pain from its transfigurement, turned its hideous head toward Asp, its crimson eyes glowing with hatred. The thing hopped toward her, flapping its deformed wings and nearly succeeding in rising from the ground. The naga gathered herself to her full height and prepared to defend herself with magic.
But the darkenbeast stopped inches from her. Its stench was overpowering and kept her from concentrating to cast any enchantments. The naga held her breath and looked into the monster’s face. Suddenly she realized that the thing was waiting.
“Attack the peasants,” she hissed, mentally picturing the camp outside Amruthar’s northern gate.
The darkenbeast turned and lumbered away, then awkwardly took off into the night sky toward the city’s northern edge. The creature was hardly graceful, as Maligor’s creation had been. Instead, it was clumsy and unbalanced, and the naga hoped someone would kill it quickly so it wouldn’t return to her and cause problems.
She slithered into the tower, casting a last glance at the diminishing form of her misbegotten darkenbeast.
In the tent town, Wynter listened to the dwarven slaves talk among themselves. Their deep voices sounded pleasant enough, and he wished he knew what they were saying. They had been hungry, devouring an entire sack of fruit that Wynter had purchased for them. Brenna had tried speaking to them in several languages, hoping the dwarves would understand something. She told Wynter she wasn’t sure if the slaves spoke only Dwarvish or if they were playing ignorant.
“It doesn’t matter,” Wynter said. “They’ll be free soon… as soon as it seems safe to let them go. I just wish I could tell them that.”
Brenna smiled and decided the least she could do was help clean up the dwarves. She uncorked her waterskin and padded toward them. Suddenly she heard a commotion coming from the direction of the gate. Turning, she saw the guards on the gate lining up across the barbicon, drawing their longbows.
Screams from the merchants nearby filled the air, and in the gathering darkness, the enchantress saw a grotesque flying creature diving toward the center of the tent town.
“Galvin!” she shouted as Wynter galloped past her toward the attacking beast. The centaur had his staff held out before him like a lance, and merchants jumped out of his way as he charged through.