“Don’t worry about Ruen. I won’t let the drow have him,” Sull assured her.
“Sull, I don’t want you in danger either!” Icelin said.
The butcher shot her a glare that would have melted lesser women. “If it helps the two of you, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. We’re past needin’ to have these kinds of arguments.”
“Sull and I will aid the dwarves however we can, but we’ll be careful,” Ruen said and raised a hand before Icelin could protest. “It’s dangerous, yes, but that part of the bargain is easy enough for me to fulfill. The dwarves obviously need all the help they can get.”
“That’s true,” Sull said. “I don’t like the idea of any of these folk bein’ herded like rats by their enemies. It’s not a fair fight.”
“No, it isn’t,” Icelin had to agree. Joya and her family were good people. They didn’t deserve the doom fast approaching them.
Weariness hit her again. Icelin put her chin in her hand, resisting the urge to lay her head on the table.
The gesture failed to fool Ruen. “It’s time to rest,” he said, standing. He held Icelin’s staff out to her. The red light glowed faintly when she took it. Though she hadn’t had it long, the staff seemed to recognize her touch, knew it apart from any other.
Would the Arcane Script Sphere be the same? Would the goddess’s memory reach out to her? Icelin’s heartbeat quickened at the possibility, the temptation so near at hand.
Ah, Mystra. What great mess have we stumbled into, and will we regret it before the end?
The guards snapped to attention when Mith Barak entered the dungeons, a black glare fixed on his face. “Open the cell,” he commanded the nearest guard.
“My king.” The dwarf hurried ahead and fumbled with the keys. “Be careful. He got hold of some poison somehow. We searched him and chained him, but he might have more of the stuff hidden.”
“I’m not afraid of his godsdamned poison.” Mith Barak shoved open the cell door, slamming it against the adjacent wall. Zollgarza lay on the floor, his hands chained behind him. Mith Barak crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the drow by the tunic. He lifted him bodily from the floor and slammed him against the wall.
The breath whooshed out of Zollgarza, and his face creased in pain, but he did not cry out. He kept his gaze on the floor and did not meet Mith Barak’s eyes.
“We should kill him, my king,” said a rough, feminine voice from the doorway.
Mith Barak swiveled his head to regard his master armswoman. The hatred in his expression did not abate. “No one is to touch him, Dorla,” he said. “Let me be understood on this. Swear an oath!” he shouted when she didn’t immediately reply. “I’ll have a godsdamn oath from all of you! Those who won’t do their duty are free to leave this city.”
Gasps and murmurs echoed from the hall outside the cell, but Mith Barak ignored them. Dorla met his furious gaze and did not flinch or turn away from his wrath. She was his master armswoman for a reason, he thought, but her proud, stubborn gaze only fueled his anger.
He wished they would leave him alone with the drow. None of them understood the danger he posed, not truly. They wanted him dead. He was a curse of ill luck, a bad omen for the battle to come. Mith Barak agreed with them. He wanted nothing more than to rip the drow’s head from his shoulders, but he dared not. He dared do nothing until he knew what sort of dark magic had remade the drow.
“By my oath to your service, my king, I won’t let anyone harm the drow,” Dorla said steadily. “All the men and women here share that oath. We are yours.”
“I know it,” Mith Barak said, nodding curtly. “Go and wait for me at the outer door. Keep one of your men with you. We’ll be along in a moment.”
Dorla raised an eyebrow at we, but she made no comment. She bowed and left the cell.
Throughout the exchange, the drow had not said a word. He kept his eyes on the floor, and to all appearances was as tame as a whipped dog. Mith Barak knew better.
He grabbed a fistful of the drow’s black, greasy hair and jerked his head back, forcing the drow to look at him.
“So it begins again?” Zollgarza said, swallowing. His eyes rolled in their sockets, but he couldn’t escape Mith Barak’s gaze. The dwarf leaned forward until his silver beard touched Zollgarza’s face.
“I’m not here to interrogate you, Zollgarza,” Mith Barak said. “I thought about killing you, but that’s too easy. It’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s why you killed your guard, why you took a man from his wife and son, made him die horribly just by sticking him with a needle.” He released a breath, leaned back, and dropped the drow. Zollgarza crumpled to the floor. He was weaker than Mith Barak expected-or else he was only playacting.
Mith Barak shook his head in disgust as he gazed down at Zollgarza. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to deal with these creatures. To him they looked smaller, more pathetic than they had the last time he’d emerged from his sleep. Yet gather enough of them together and they threatened everything he loved. They leaped from dark corners and slaughtered his men with poison and magic. He hated them, not for what they were-it was in their nature to kill and to feel nothing, to revel in wanton destruction-but because they continued to thrive, to press forward while his city steadily declined. Gods’ laughter, it wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.
“Get up,” Mith Barak said. When Zollgarza didn’t move, he took a key from the pouch at his belt and held it up. “I’m taking you from this cell, Zollgarza. On your feet-I know you can walk.”
The drow fixed his gaze on the metal key in Mith Barak’s hand. “You’re going to kill me, then?” He betrayed no emotion other than curiosity. Slowly, he sat up, braced his feet, and stood. Though bound, he exhibited a grace and strength that reminded Mith Barak how lethal even this small creature could be when free.
We are all simply shells, Mith Barak thought, our inner natures masked until it’s impossible to tell what is real and what illusion.
“Walk ahead of me, Zollgarza,” the king instructed. He followed the drow out of the cell and down the hall to the outer door, where Dorla and one of the guards waited. They kept their features schooled, but Mith Barak felt their hatred for the drow. He saw it in their stiff postures, the way their hands gripped their weapon hilts. They held themselves in check only for the love of their king. Seeing them stretched like that to the breaking point gave Mith Barak yet another reason to despise the drow.
They left the dungeons and ascended to the main caverns. Pools of silvery light splashed on the stone avenues, deserted except for a line of guards deployed at various points between the dungeons and Mith Barak’s private chambers at the back of his hall.
“You planned this well,” Zollgarza said. “No angry dwarf mob waiting to pelt me with stones, just a quiet execution when no one is around to see.”
“We wouldn’t waste stones on the likes of you,” Dorla said. “Nor would we stab you in the back or jab you with a hidden needle. You’ll see your death when it comes, drow. I promise you that.”
Zollgarza chuckled and made no reply.
When they arrived at Mith Barak’s chambers, the king dismissed the guards, except for Dorla. He led the way through a set of double doors and down a short hall to another pair of doors. The one on the right led to his private bedchamber, though he rarely used the room. He opened the door on the left and ushered Zollgarza through.
“You can go, Dorla,” the king said. “I’ll tell you what guards I’ll need when I’m finished here.”
“I’ll be waiting outside this door for you, my king,” Dorla said. “You call if you need me.”
The king touched Dorla’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.
Dorla closed the door behind them. Candlelight shone from six silver candelabra lining the center of the room. They rested on a long stone table with fourteen chairs arranged around it. Maps, parchment, and books covered every available surface of the table. A fire burned in a grand gray marble fireplace on the far side of the room.