Aku Ben Vyneer hauled back on the reins, and the plodding camel shuffled to a halt. With an irritated spit, the animal chomped placidly while the rider climbed down. With a wave of his hand, Ben Vyneer gestured for the file of camels and horses following in his tracks to stop. The men of the long caravan wasted little time in setting up camp. Tents rose with the ease of long practice, and small cooking fires were started, the aroma of strong tea soon wafting through the encampment.
A sea of dunes rolled to the horizon on all sides, unmarred by any sign of an oasis. Nearby, ancient pillars and crumbling walls marked the scene of a waterless ruin. Normally Ben Vyneer would have spent the last few hours of daylight in a steady push forward, urging his tired mounts and men to keep moving, determined to cross this waste in as a short a time as possible. After all, there was no part of Estwilde-or all Ansalon, for that matter-that was so dry, so barren, as this inhospitable desert.
But, strangely, Aku Ben Vyneer had an interest more profound than even the pursuit of profit that normally governed his existence. It was this interest, perhaps even obsession, that had caused him to order the caravan to such an early halt. Now he stalked about the bustling camp with visible agitation, shouting orders, barking relentless criticism, increasingly distraught as he waited for one particular task.
Thus his men wasted no time in erecting the tent of bright blue silk-the shelter he had recently ordered, specifically made to house his greatest treasure. Once the tent had been pitched, the men left their master to his own pursuits. Ben Vyneer entered the tent and took his place on a soft cushion that had been placed before a large chest, a chest for which he alone held the key.
How long and hard had been the road that led him to this end? He reflected on the question with deep pleasure, allowing himself a moment of tantalizing anticipation before he released the lock. For years he had bargained to gain possession of this chest and its unique contents, even selling his most beautiful daughter to the previous owner, in a clear and well-stated exchange.
But then, when that owner had reneged upon his promise, Aku Ben Vyneer had no choice. Yesterday he had killed the wretched thief, then stolen this most precious of treasures during the dark of the night. Today he had led his caravan far into the desert before daring to stop and inspect his find.
With an unsteady hand, he reached out to take the key in his trembling fingers. He turned the chip of brass in the lock, scarcely daring to breathe as he felt the catch of the latch release. He forced himself to be calm as he reached out with both hands, holding steadily to the sides of the sturdy chest.
Aku Ben Vyneer opened the lid, prepared to gasp in delight at the beauteous treasure within.
But instead he grunted in sudden dismay. Shaking, he pushed the lid back, leaping to his feet to peer into the shadowy container.
The blue orb remained there, but there was a pasty flaking to the perfect surface that had not been there a few days earlier when Ben Vyneer had last inspected his-at that time future-treasure.
“What is happening, my bauble?” he asked, reaching out a hand to touch the blue surface that had once been such a perfectly reflective turquoise. “Has someone harmed you?”
To his surprise, he felt a tiny tingle of a spark as his fingers stroked the smooth sphere. And then the orb moved, pulsing with a very definite, throbbing expansion of its upper surface.
Ben Vyneer fell to his knees, pressing his face to the carpeted floor of the tent, and it was in this posture that the blue dragon found him when it emerged. The wyrmling wasted no time in killing the nomad with a bite to the back of his exposed neck.
Then, well contented, the blue dragon hatchling settled down to its first meal.
The hooded priests gathered in their damp cellar, within a darkened shack at the terminus of a shadow-cloaked alley amid one of the bleakest of Sanction’s wretched slums. Each member of the cult entered alone, with a careful look back and forth in the dark lane to make sure he wasn’t observed. The surreptitious visitors wore robes of dark gray or brown, each walking silently and alone, casting furtive glances that seemed perfectly at home in this city of evil and greed.
One after another the secret members gathered, passing through the incense-filled stall of the spice shop that ostensibly gave this building a reason for existing. Within, each of the mysterious figures repeated the same process: He went to a trapdoor that was designed to look just like the rotted planks of the floor. After checking again for observers, he silently raised the portal and entered.
Moving down the stairway concealed below, the priest joined his fellows in the secret sanctuary, a room of dank, muddy walls, and worn and ancient benches. But these were mere accessories, unimportant attendants to the thing that had founded this order and was now responsible for drawing the group together.
Pulling the heavy cowls of their hoods forward so that each face was fully lost in thick shadows, they huddled around the sacred orb-the treasure that gave them a focus of faith in the tortured chaos that was Sanction. Though the order of secret priests had been in existence for many decades, an air of expectancy had settled around the members during recent months, and this meeting was one of the results.
The orb was a sphere of perfect blackness resting on a marble dais, raised above the assembly of faithful priests. These hooded clerics murmured quietly, until gradually the sounds rose to a steady, rhythmic chant.
Abruptly a robe was pulled away from a slight figure, and a young woman was revealed. A gag distorted her face, tightly binding her mouth, muffling her frantic pleas and outcries. Cruel bonds wrapped her arms and legs, preventing any movement beyond the frantic twisting and thrashing that she commenced as soon as she was revealed. The woman struggled with a vengeance, her eyes wide with terror as she was stretched on the floor before the orb of darkness. Her bonds were then slashed, but only so that her wrists and ankles could be outspread and fastened with metal-studded straps.
The chanting built slowly, still soft but possessed of an urgency, or perhaps even a hunger, that had been lacking moments before. The helpless victim saw the knife as it emerged from the cowl of a black sleeve. A single scream pierced the gloom, breaking through the confinement of the gag as the blade slashed forward, and then, mercifully, her sufferings were over.
Then the sphere of blackness started to pulse, a rhythmic thrumming that grew in speed and intensity. The priests chanted with frantic hope, all eyes fixed upon the sacred orb. Within the cellar, the sound rose to a keening wail.
The rip came suddenly as something terrible and shiny, serpentine and black, pushed through the surface of the collapsing sphere. Acid spurted, a spume of searing liquid sweeping through a full circle, hissing into flesh and cloth, leaving the priests blinded, writhing on the floor, uttering shrieks that slowly faded to moans, ragged breathing, or utter silence.
These were not sounds worthy of attention in Sanction, so there was none who came to see what had happened.
The black, slime-covered serpent slithered down from the marble dais and crept to the nearest of the priests. This wretch, though blinded and crippled by the acid, was not yet dead, and his groans rose into piteous wails as the serpent began to feed.
Chapter 31
1056 PC
“Fly to me, my kin-dragons, wyrms of Takhisis!”
Deathfyre stood tall atop the smoldering caldron of the volcano, sending out a cry that rang across the breadth of Ansalon. The message was swelled, given strength and volume and range, by the Queen of Darkness herself. Riding the wind, the summons reached far, penetrating every corner of the world.