Easy Betrayals tddts-8 Page 5

  Thy hour is done, mortals. The creature's whisper rasped inside Belgin's mind like the husk of a dead insect. No man may walk the streets of Ularith and live to tell the tale.

  "Stand aside, ancient one," said Miltiades firmly. "Our mission here does not aggrieve the dead of Ularith. We seek a fugitive who has fled to this place, and we shall leave the instant we have captured or slain her. Do not hinder us in our mission."

  You dare to make demands of me? The skeletal face was incapable of expression, but the eyes burned colder and brighter than before. A nimbus of black power sprang into being around its yellowed talons, old and strong magic wielded with undying precision. You dare?

  "Miltiades, perhaps we could state our case a little more diplomatically-" Belgin began quietly, finally finding his tongue.

  The paladin ignored him. "Ancient one, I serve Tyr.

  Justice is the only power I bow to, and I must do as Tyr commands me. I do not willingly intrude upon your sleep."

  What do I care what upstart godling you serve, or what purpose brought you here? Your petty mortal affairs are of no concern to me. You claim to serve a power of justice, human; now hear the judgment I render against you. You and all who follow you will remain here in unending death, guarding that which you have defiled with your intrusion! From the cold depths of the city around them, rank on rank of the dead warriors appeared, advancing in lifeless unison. The lich-lord raised its hand, black death streaming from its talons.

  Miltiades sighed and lowered his warhammer. Slowly, he removed his silver helm, baring his dark mane to the howling dust. He stepped forward to meet the advancing dead, virtually defenseless. "Claim me for your minion if you can, then," he said.

  "Have you lost your mind?" hissed Belgin. Bronze glaives and grinning death pressed in close on all sides.

  Very well, the lich agreed. It spoke a word of ancient power, and the black nimbus at its hands lanced forward in an ebon spear, striking Miltiades in the center of his chest. Cold black flames danced over the paladin. Before Belgin's eyes, the smooth muscles and firm features of the Phlanian withered into dry, sere bone as the paladin's shining armor darkened with the tarnish of ages. Miltiades stood before the Netherese lich, a skeletal remnant of the warrior that he was.

  "Miltiades," whispered the sharper in horror.

  I command you, the lich hissed. Claim now your companion for me.

  "No," stated the paladin. His withered limbs seemed to lengthen and grow, clothing him in flesh once more as the patina faded from his armor. In the space of a moment he stood as a man again, his armor gleaming bright in the darkness and murk of the ruins. "I slept for six hundred years in the darkness of death, called forth from my tomb to serve Tyr when I was needed. I know what it is to be one of the ancient dead, the long and hollow wait in the darkness, the aching for the flesh long rotted away. You have no power over me, lich. Now, I ask you, let me and my companion pass."

  The undead lord stood in silence a long time, its minions motionless by its side. Slowly it lowered its hands, and the cold fire in its eyes seemed to dim. I see that you speak the truth, warrior of Tyr. You have until sunrise to finish your business in Ularith. Any who remain here when the sun rises in the morning will never leave this place, regardless of Tyr's will in the matter.

  "We will not disturb your sleep again," Miltiades said quietly.

  The lich and its minions made no reply, instead fading back into the endless sandstorm. As they vanished, the storm seemed to abate in violence, the wind dying down to a steady moan as the cold and fierce watchfulness silently relented.

  Belgin blew out a big breath and slumped against the wall. "I don't want to be here anymore, Miltiades," he said earnestly.

  "Nor do I, Belgin."

  "What was that all about? Six hundred years of death, coming out of your tomb to serve Tyr? You're as hale and hearty as anyone I've ever met."

  "It wasn't always so." Miltiades replaced his helmet and retrieved his hammer. He took a few steps down the street, and then paused as he realized that Belgin wasn't following. The sharper stood by the old wall, arms folded across his chest as he awaited a longer explanation. The paladin sighed and continued, "This is my second life, Belgin. I first lived in the service of Tyr more than six hundred years ago, in the days when Phlan was young. I met my death then, in battle against the enemies of my god. But Tyr saw fit to call me back to his service as an undead warrior. Three times I rose from my crypt to quest for Tyr, only to return to my sleep when my mission was accomplished. But at the end of my last quest, Tyr rewarded my service by restoring me to life again. I have lived now five years since that day."

  Belgin shuddered despite himself. "You're six hundred years old?"

  "Six hundred and fifty five, I suppose. But hundreds of those years passed unknown to me as I slept in death, awaiting Tyr's next call."

  "A few days ago, Noph asked me what I'd lost in becoming a pirate. I told him I'd lost my sense of wonder, my ability to be surprised." Belgin shook his head. "Well, what do you know? I'm astonished. How could you do it, Miltiades? What did Tyr ever give you to justify six centuries in the tomb, hoping that you might serve him again?"

  The paladin offered a deprecatory smile. "Whether you know it or not, Belgin, everyone serves something greater than himself. With some souls it's money, or power, or even doubt, but for those who can find faith, death holds no terror." He looked up at the sky, then studied the ruins nearby. "I've lost track of the hour," he said, changing the subject. "The lich who watches this place struck me as the type of creature who does exactly what he says he will. Let's not tempt fate."

  "Agreed. It looks like the storm's clearing some. There's the palace of portals again." Together, Belgin and Miltiades trotted over to the building. It was still dark and windy in the ancient city, but at least they could now see twenty or thirty yards through the dust and sand. At the palace doorway, Belgin paused to chalk a simple rune on one pillar. "In case Rings or Jacob come this way," he explained.

  "Good idea." Miltiades led the way as they retraced their steps back down the narrow stairs they^d climbed in pursuit of Eidola. Whispering a prayer to Tyr, the paladin created a soft, silver glow from the head of his warhammer, illuminating the black passageway. "Keep your eyes open, Belgin. The dead who pursued us might still wait below."

  In the soft shadows, the steps under his feet caught Belgin's eye. "Wait a moment, Miltiades," he said. Turning, he stooped to examine the stairs they'd descended. "Look here. There's a layer of old dust, marked by three trails leading up-our own, the trail of a woman in riding boots, and a ragged set of prints of feet in cloth wrappings. The column we rolled down the stair covered this with a new layer of dust and debris. Here are the tracks we just made now as we came down the stairs… and here are the woman's prints again, over the debris but under our latest track."

  "So Eidola did come this way, after we'd rolled the stone down these steps."

  "Exactly. She doubled back, as you guessed she would."

  Miltiades straightened. "I didn't realize you were such a tracker."

  "Another of my old talents, I guess." Belgin slipped past the paladin and descended the stair, now watching for the doppelganger's trail. At the bottom of the flight they clambered over the heavy round stone and the ancient skeletons that lay crushed beneath its weight. Belgin circled the scene twice before picking up the faint impressions of Eidola's footsteps in the sand-blown floor. He followed the track into the hall of pillars as Miltiades watched warily for any new threats. "Hmmph. This is odd."

  "What's that?" asked the paladin.

  "The woman's footprints vanish here, replaced by a new set. A tall but lightly built elf, I'd say, probably male; the feet are too wide for an elf maid, I think."

  "Eidola must have changed again. But why an elf?"

  Belgin shook his head. "I've no idea. Here, she-er, he-went this way." The track meandered past dozens of portals, finally pausing in front of one, where it ended altogether. The sha
rper looked up at Miltiades. "He stopped here and then stepped through this portal."

  "It's nothing but blank stone now."

  "Well, I'll see about that," Belgin said. He studied the cryptic runes and hieroglyphs surrounding the stone archway, delicately tracing them with one finger. "Does the name Halaster the Mad mean anything to you?"

  Miltiades gaped in amazement. "Halaster the Mad? This can't be!"

  "It actually translates as 'The Domain of Haalvar the Mad,' but yes, that's what it says. Why? Do you know of him?"

  "He is the wizard who created the dismal maze known as Undermountain, below the city of Waterdeep. Tyr curse that wretched Eidola! She's found a way home in the middle of all this ruin." Miltiades set his jaw in determination. "Can you open this door, Belgin? If Eidola returns to Waterdeep, we are lost. We'd never find her in a city that large."

  "What of Rings and Jacob?"

  "We can't wait. Eidola is only a few minutes ahead of us. If we hurry, we can catch her before she finds her allies in the Undermountain or escapes to blend in with the city throngs. Unless we stop her now, she can tell any tale she likes of her abduction when she returns. Who could suspect her?" The paladin doffed his helm and ran a hand through his hair.”I don't want to leave Jacob and Rings here, but I don't see an alternative. If we don't see any chance to follow Eidola on the other side, we'll come back here and try to find our companions before sunrise."

  "All right," Belgin said after a long pause. "Stand back. IH need to work a spell." With a sidelong glance at the paladin, he slowly and deliberately wove his hands together and hummed the words of one of his few useful enchantments. Never thought I'd have a use for this again, he thought bitterly. The Art's soiled by my hand. Beneath his eyes, the ancient marks seemed to glow and brighten, revealing a delicate tracery of azure that limned the doorway. The blank gray stone seemed to vanish as a sheet of impenetrable blackness ghosted into view, yawning like a tomb. But I still remember after all these years, Belgin thought, no matter how I try to forget. What does that make me?

  Miltiades nodded his thanks and readied himself to enter the gate. Belgin halted him with one hand on his shoulder. "Just a moment." Kneeling on the floor, the sharper cleared a large space on the floor and retrieved a piece of chalk from his belt pouch. He scribed a large mark, with an arrow pointing at the portal and a cryptic word beneath it. "Rings and Jacob will know which way we went, if they find this place," he said. "Now we can go.

  Ready for battle, the paladin and the sharper stepped through the blackness.

  "At least the thrice-damned storm's letting up," muttered Rings, blundering through knee-deep sand and shattered walls of old brown stone. He'd fought his way clear of two more encounters with the ancient dead who watched the city, becoming completely disoriented in the process, but as the storm abated, the withered brown mummies had taken their rest. The dwarf didn't consider himself superstitious or particularly sensitive to the supernatural, but he could feel the retreat of the evil presence that haunted the ruins. Whatever it was, it was content to watch for a time.

  He came to a narrow intersection and considered the streets in front of him, trying to choose. "Which way now?"

  "Rings!" The dwarf whirled at the shout. Staggering through the sand-choked alleyway to his left, Jacob appeared, sword in hand. The curly-haired warrior bled freely from a nasty cut high on his head and favored his left leg with an awkward limp, but his clear blue eyes showed no sign of defeat. "I thought you dead!"

  "Me, too," the dwarf answered. He raised his axe defensively, eying the human suspiciously. "You're not Eidola in disguise, are you?"

  Jacob looked up sharply, then winced. "Damn. Forgot about that. You might be Eidola, too."

  "Well, I know Fm not," Rings growled, "But I guess you'd have no way to know if I'm telling the truth. Now, how would Belgin sort this out?" He thought a moment, and then said, "Open your gorget and show me that you don't have a rope around your neck, and I'll do the same."

  Jacob rolled his eyes, but he complied. Rings grunted, then undid his own collar to show that his own neck was bare. "Satisfied?" the Tyrian warrior asked.

  "That'll do. Any idea where Belgin and Miltiades are?"

  "No, but I was thinking that I'd start with the last building they went into."

  Rings nodded. "They're probably long gone, but it's worth a look. Which way is it?"

  "I thought dwarves didn't get lost," Jacob laughed coldly.

  "Underground we don't," Rings snapped. "At night, in a sandstorm, in a set of ruins I've never seen before today, yes-I can get lost."

  "The palace is straight ahead," Jacob said. Hefting his heavy war blade again, he set off down the street, moving fast. Rings had to trot to keep up with his long-legged stride. He glowered at the human's back, but Jacob paid him no more attention.

  The Tyrian's intuition was correct; they traveled about fifty yards down the alley and found themselves at a narrow courtyard or portico. The back side of the column-bordered palace loomed over an open space littered with broken masonry. Rings looked around nervously, but there was no more sign of the undead.

  "Look here," said Jacob. He pointed at a disordered line of shallow dimples in the sand, crossing and recrossing a small but steep drift. "Someone's footsteps."

  "They must be fresh. The wind would've covered them if they'd been here long." Rings followed the steps to a gaping dark archway in the stone building ahead. By one side of the door a crude chalk mark caught his eye. "We're on the right track. That's Belgin's mark."

  Jacob glanced around and then ducked his head to descend the narrow steps beyond. Rings followed carefully, axe at the ready. At the bottom, the steps opened out into a long, low chamber lined with stout columns. Moving slowly, the two fighters advanced into the chamber, examining their surroundings. "I think these are more portals," Jacob said after a long moment.

  "Looks like it," Rings answered. "I guess the old Netherese had an aversion to using their legs. There must be dozens of these things."

  About halfway across the chamber from the stairway, they found an archway marked with a chalk symbol and a set of dwarven runes beneath it. Rings studied the archway in silence for a long time, ignoring the fighter beside him.

  "Well? What is it?" Jacob asked irritably.

  "Belgin and Miltiades went this way, chasing Eidola."

  "What's the rest of the writing?"

  "The word to open the gate," Rings said. "Are you ready?"

  Jacob's eyes were far away. Rings almost repeated his question before the Tyrian absently nodded. "Go ahead."

  Rings turned back to the portal and spoke the word Belgin had marked for him. Before his eyes, the gray stone seemed to shimmer and vanish, replaced by a curtain of seamless black. "It's'open," he said, glancing back at Jacob.

  He was just in time to see the fighter's blade punch into his chest.

  Rings grunted with the impact, blinking in disbelief. Steel grated on bone as Jacob withdrew his sword, red for almost a foot of its length. Rings tried to raise the axe of his fathers to strike at his slayer, but the weapon seemed impossibly heavy, and it slipped from his grasp to fall ringing to the floor. "You bastard," he gasped once, and then the breath fled from him. With a groan he toppled to the cold stone floor, blood fountaining from his wound.

  Jacob raised his sword again and met his eyes. The curly-haired fighter smiled coldly. "Thanks for reading the trigger. I don't know a word of Dwarvish. Why don't you stay here and take a breather, and I'll go on ahead and see how Miltiades and Belgin are faring."

  "Why?" rasped Rings. Weakly he pushed himself up with one hand on the floor, the other clamped over the ghastly injury.

  "Let's just say that Eidola's an old friend." Jacob eyed him clinically, then lowered his sword. With brutal efficiency he lashed out with one boot and kicked Rings's supporting arm out from under him, crumpling the dwarf to the floor again, then kicked him hard five times for good measure before he stopped. "Damn. You got blood all ov
er my boot," he remarked.

  Then he stepped over the small, still form and ducked into the portal.

  Blackness and cold, an instant of silence that seared Belgin's senses, and he was through the portal again. Shivering, he swept his flank with his rapier, ready for any threat. They stood in a chamber that might have been a Netherese crypt ages ago, but it had been plundered and looted decades or centuries in the past. What was so important, so dangerous, that these dead princes were buried thousands of miles from their home? the sharper wondered. The colorful murals had flaked and peeled from exposure to the outside air, and what little statuary remained had been smashed and vandalized. The stone sepulchre in the center of the room lay broken and empty, and the doors at the far end of the chamber were torn from their hinges.

  Miltiades stood beside him, scanning his side of the room. His hammer still retained his spell of illumination, and its soft silver glow cast gray shadows against the ruined walls and broken vaulting. "I'd guess that these places were built to house liches through the dark ages of undeath," he said quietly.

  "Liches?" Belgin recoiled a step, even though he could plainly see that no such creature had inhabited this particular tomb for long years. "Why do you say that?"

  "Netheril's archmages ruled that land. Knowing that the time of their natural deaths were upon them, maybe they arranged for the construction of tombs that would keep out looters and defilers and hide them from their living rivals but allow them to leave when they so chose."

  "The Netherese were in the habit of deifying their rulers," Belgin said. "It would make sense. The desert temple was the center of a cult of death priests who watched over their lords' sleep and awaited the day of their undead resurrection. I wonder how many of these places still exist?"