The fire crackled and hissed within the stone hearth for several long moments before the burly fighter answered. Majandra listened with great interest. Unlike the rest of their group, Kaerion had refused Vaxor’s offer of healing, instead popping the wax seal on a clear flask and drawing a few swallows. After that, he’d bound his remaining wounds and stalked oft. Beyond recounting the events that had transpired, he’d hardly said two words since entering the University grounds.
“No,” Kaerion said in an even tone, “I’m sure it was the Brotherhood. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”
This last was said with a rueful smile, one of the few Majandra had seen the fighter allow himself. The effect was devastating—even with the deep scratches that cut across his chin—and the half-elf found herself dreaming up a hundred different ways she could bring such a smile to his lips.
“Well then, if the Scarlet Brotherhood is behind the attack, what should we do?” asked Bredeth.
The young noble paced restlessly about the confines of the chamber, anxiety present in every move. The group looked at Phathas, but it was Vaxor who responded.
“What we do next is get some rest. We’ve been up almost all day and night, and we have plenty to do in the coming hours. Because of tonight’s events, it’s clear that the city is no longer safe. We must push up our scheduled departure. Bredeth, you and Majandra should contact the caravan masters after you’ve had a chance to sleep. Tell them to be prepared to leave by tomorrow morning. Phathas, Gerwyth, Kaerion, and I will make sure that all of our provisions are stocked and ready to load on the wagons. Agreed?”
Majandra found herself nodding tiredly along with the rest of the group. Lack of sleep and fatigue had begun to take their toll. She smiled wryly at the probable reaction of the caravan masters, who would no doubt shriek and complain until more gold was thrown their way, but that experience would have to wait until she’d closed her eyes for just a few hours.
Stifling a yawn, she shuffled past Phathas, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and was rewarded with a tired smile. Despite the old man’s kindness, she found herself wondering, not for the first time, if he had the strength to complete the journey.
How much will this expedition cost us?
“Unforgivable!” Durgoth shouted into the dimly lit room, noting with smug satisfaction the faces that flinched before the sound of his voice included those of the two thieves’ guild members. In truth, he wasn’t all that angry—anymore. Anger had long-since given way to pragmatic cunning, yet he still raked the assembled cultists and their newfound allies with the fiery edge of his gaze. Fear was a useful tool, and one he wielded like a master.
“But lord,” Sydra replied in an uneven voice, “our targets possessed considerable strength. Rarely have I encountered such power as when I battled the old mage. He was exceptionally skilled—even for a master wizard.”
He listened to the sorceress’ pathetic excuses with an impassive mien. The fact that she addressed him with a noble honorific amused him greatly, but she needed to understand what the rest of his followers already knew: He wouldn’t tolerate failure.
“I was under the impression,” Durgoth said, his voice lashing out like a whip, “that the Guildmaster offered me his very best. Apparently, he was mistaken.”
“Not so, blessed one,” a voice spoke from the shadows.
It took Durgoth a few moments to locate Eltanel’s black-cloaked form. The thief moved confidently forward, pushing past several cultists who stared wide-eyed at the man who so brazenly challenged their master.
Durgoth couldn’t help but smile at their reaction. The thief continued forward, wounded pride evidenced in every motion, and for a moment the cleric wondered whether the man would be foolish enough to strike at him. He was about to signal the golem that stood ever vigilant at his back, but the dark-skinned thief stopped several paces away and stood with hands clasped behind his back, stance easy and open.
“What happened tonight was unfortunate,” Eltanel said, taking a moment to glare at his companion, who returned his scowl measure for measure, “but it was not a complete loss.” He brought one hand forward, holding several thin scroll tubes. “I managed to acquire these before our friends gained the upper hand.” The thief shot another look at Sydra before handing the scrolls to Durgoth.
The cleric accepted the offering with a cold smile. This Eltanel was a cunning one. In a manner of moments, the thief had managed to distance himself from tonight’s defeat, subtly place the blame on his companion, and allow himself to look like the only one who had succeeded in any way. He would bear watching.
“My thanks, Eltanel, for your efforts. Perhaps I spoke too hastily. It appears that Reynard was partially correct in his assessment.” Durgoth watched as the sorceress’ golden eyes flashed angrily at the other thief. There, he thought with satisfaction, with one phrase he had widened the gulf between the two thieves and insured that Sydra would kill herself to prove better than Eltanel.
Satisfied, Durgoth turned his attention back to the rest of his followers. “It is true that our enemies have great strength,” he said, pitching his voice so that it carried to the farthest corners of the room. “But the wise man may use the power of his enemies to his own advantage. This is what we will do. With the information we have gained this evening—” at this he cast a benevolent glance at Eltanel—“we will have a better idea of the location to which our foes will travel.”
“But what about the prophecy?” a voice shouted from the center of the assembled cultists, eliciting a supporting murmur from the group.
“The prophecy has led us here,” Durgoth snapped. He noted the identity of the speaker and absently reminded himself to have the man’s tongue cut out for his insolence. “I have faith in the will of Tharizdun, and it is his will that has guided us here.”
He glanced out at the assembly with satisfaction. Invoking the name of the Imprisoned One had brought them to silence. He could see the gleam of faith in their eyes. They would follow his lead unquestioningly.
“Our enemies seek the tomb of Acererak, as do we. There will no doubt be great danger on the journey, and we shall let our foes spend their strength overcoming these perils. They shall lead us to the tomb, and when they stand exhausted at the gates of the wizards resting place, we shall sacrifice them to appease the dark god’s hunger. Once our enemies have been vanquished we will be able to collect the key and release Tharizdun from his eternal prison.”
This last he delivered triumphantly, hands raised above his head in the traditional blessing. The group responded instantly, chanting the Eight Dark Names of Tharizdun. Durgoth lowered his hands slowly before him, and the assembled cultists fell to their knees in homage to the dark god.
The cleric watched as Sydra and Eltanel left the room, no doubt to report their findings to the Guildmaster. It was important for Reynard to know exactly with whom he had made a deal. It would make it that much sweeter when Durgoth bent his power to destroying the city—including the scum who lived in its shadows—in the name of Tharizdun.
Durgoth smiled in anticipation and closed his eyes as the prayers of his followers swelled over him in waves.
Everything was proceeding perfectly.
Part 2
9
Gray clouds hung like a shroud over the sweeping grasslands of Nyrond, casting a chill shadow on the line of wagons and horses that crept along the rough road. Wet snow and freezing rain fell hard from the sky, driven by the bitter lash of the wind. Even the thick-skinned oxen, normally dull and placid as they pulled their wagons, bent their heads beneath the wintry blasts and let out deep-throated grumbles of protest.