“If you send anything but help …” said Zemella.
Vortermars laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I’d be a fool to risk getting my hands on the rest of Nyam Hordath’s fortune, wouldn’t I? Xen’drik can keep what it has. Anything that comes out of that black hell bears a curse, eh? You’d all do well to remember that. No, I’ll wait up at the islet. One month. No more. After that. I sail.”
Soon the company was climbing down into three long, narrow craft, filling them with their number. Each craft was manned by two of the freebooters, but they said little, morosely carrying out their instructions from Vortermars. Without further ado, the Sea Harlot swung away along the coast, heading for a rash of small islands a few miles from shore. The three longboats, oared by the Deathguard, slid across the water, blending into the darkness.
Once close to shore, they headed slowly along it, until the pirate at the prow of the leading craft indicated a deeper darkness, a gash in the coastline that was the promised creek. Its banks were choked with thick vegetation, but in this moonless night they were as pitch, gently tossing their branches in a mimic of the sea’s undulations. No sooner had the three craft turned up into the creek than those fronds seemed to close in, shutting out even more light. The shores on either side fell silent, the waters equally still.
Vaddi turned to Zemella, wanting to reach for her hand, but she seemed to be steeling herself against the subtle waves of evil that lapped at their craft. She held her sword before her like a torch, though it was cold, its power dormant. No one spoke, not even whispered.
They rowed their way through overhanging boughs, ducking to avoid their clammy touch, and beyond to a narrow tributary of the creek. It brought them to a mud flat, black as tar, and the pirates had them beach the craft. They hauled the boats ashore, sliding all of them save one smaller one under the trees where they would not be seen.
“We go back to Vortermars,” said one of the pirates to Fallarond. “Wait here until word comes from Thargang.”
“How long?”
“By dawn.”
The pirates wasted no more time in getting back into the smaller craft and were soon rowing steadily back down the creek.
Vaddi looked around, though he could see little in the gloom. “This place has a strange feel to it. It’s so silent, as if all life has left.”
Nyam grunted. “Don’t count on it. Not all the giants are dead, and the drow live here.”
Fallarond nodded. “That is so, although these jungles are very thinly populated. Xen’drik is vast, but our enterprise depends on absolute stealth. We would do best to avoid the eyes of all who dwell here.”
“How?” said Vaddi.
“You won’t like it,” said Zemella.
“What is it?”
She bent down and scooped up a handful of the black mud. “This. We cover our exposed skin in it. Blend with the scenery.”
Nyam groaned, sniffing at the strong stench of the mud. “Is it absolutely necessary?”
“It will make it difficult to see us. You’d be surprised how easily one can see bit of pale skin even from far away.”
“She is right,” said Fallarond.
Nyam watched in horror as the others began the odious task of smearing the black mud over their hands and faces and even parts of their clothing. His long hair and thick beard masked most of his own features, but reluctantly he smeared on the mud and stood beside them, looking more beast than man, only the white of his eyes showing. Vaddi laughed at his predicament.
“You don’t look so good yourself.” Nyam snorted. “Nor do you smell too pretty.”
After that the company could do little but settle among the trees, blending with the bizarre terrain as they waited out the night. Vaddi and Nyam dozed, getting what little sleep they could before the coming journey. Around them the silence seemed to thicken, almost as if the entire company had fallen deaf. No bird or bat flapped above the treetops. Nothing stirred the murk of the creek.
When dawn found them it was so pale that the light hardly changed. Oppressive gray clouds sat heavily over the coast. In a half sleep, Vaddi became aware that vague sounds were coming from the creek. He gazed through the straggling fronds to see the prow of a small craft, two men hunched over in it. One of them steadied the craft, while the other came ashore, bent over, apparently sniffing at the mud flat like a hound. It was one of Vortermars’s pirates and he looked up at the forest, straining for a sign of the Deathguard.
Fallarond showed himself, though for a moment the pirate jumped back in horror, for the elf made a gruesome figure, smeared as he was in mud, as if shaped from nothing else. But the man recovered himself, grinned, and came forward.
“You have word from the town?”
“I do. I spent the night there among the barbarians.”
Vaddi, Zemella, and Nyam joined the group.
“You’d fool the worst of them, that’s no lie,” said the pirate approvingly.
“What have you learned?” said Fallarond.
“No word of the cleric, but there’s rumors of a dark power haunting the southern jungle. They know about it in Storm-reach, and word’s come down the grapevine to Thargang. Said to be powerful. Seems to be centered in a ruined city called Azzahareb. Used to be some place. Built by giants. Men found it and rebuilt some of it.”
“Where is this city?”
“This here creek will take you to the foothills of the mountain range where you’ll find it. Go south for a day. Then you got to climb the passes up to it. It spans a whole lot of peaks and valleys. Word is, in days gone by its towers looked out across the Thunder Sea toward Argonnessen. Always watching its enemies.”
“What of this ‘dark power?’ ”
“Locals whisper the name Zuharrin. The barbarians fear him. They reckon he walks freely in the darkness below. They say he consorts with all manner of horrors, makes pacts with demons, sacrifices his own servants …”
Fallarond turned to Nyam and those of his warriors who were nearest. “I have not heard this name.”
Nyam was concentrating on something. “Zuharrin? No, it means nothing to me. Not that I recall.”
“Like I said, he’s said to haunt Azzahareb. With a big following. Xen’drik’s a good place for secrets.”
“Nothing of the cleric?” said Vaddi.
“The barbarians don’t know of him, but servants of the sorcerer are said to use soarwings to go about their business. In the north, they are said to flock. If your cleric is here, he is likely in Azzahareb.”
“These barbarians you trade with,” said Fallarond, “were they suspicious of you and your questions?”
“Why should they be? They offered the information freely enough. They’re happy to trade with Vortermars. In their interests to protect him and his trade.”
“Do they know we are here in Xen’drik?”
The pirate shook his head and smiled grimly. “Nah. Vortermars won’t betray you, if that’s what you’re worried about. He told me and the rest of the crew to treat you like gold. No one knows you’re here, and covered in that muck, no one will! The barbarians wouldn’t expect anyone to be mad enough to seek out Azzahareb. They keep well clear of it.”
“What of Zuharrin’s forces?”
“Who knows? Whoever haunts Azzahareb keeps well to himself, but no one who’s come near the place has come back. Some treasure hunters outta Stormreach went in lookin’ for some locals and whatever they could bring out. No one’s seen them in months.”
“Very well,” said Fallarond. “Go back to your captain. We will be with you again in one month. Here, in this same place.”
The pirate nodded, turned, and rejoined his companion. Moments later they were rowing swiftly out into the creek and through the fronds seawards.