Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 04] - Errand of Mercy Read online

  “My lord,” said the sergeant later. “All is ready.”

  Garkim coughed, then slowly got to his feet. It was already dawn. His soldiers had finished cleaning out the house. A large pile of blanket-covered debris and a row of limp, ragged bodies occupied the center of the street.

  Lord Garkim looked down at his uniform. He was as filthy and bloody as the bodies in the street. It did not matter. Nothing like that mattered to him most days now.

  He nodded to the sergeant, who stepped back and faced the frightened crowd. “Citizens of the Imperial Reaches of Doegan!” the sergeant shouted in Maran. “Listen to the words of Lord Garkim!” He said “DOH kun” as some of the Mar did, instead of “DOH eh gen” with a hard g, as did the Ffolk. He then turned and nodded to Garkim, who was ready.

  “These people you see dead before you were your neighbors!” Garkim cried in Maran, both arms raised the way Mar tribal elders did at clan meetings. “Look at them! Look at their faces! They lived among you, spoke with you, shared food with you! Now look at them! You ask yourself, why did we do this? Why did we kill them?”

  He swiftly strode over to one of the blankets covering things pulled from the one-room house. He seized a corner and whipped the blanket back. He knew what lay beneath it. “See this! Look at what they ate this morning, as they prayed to the monsters that lead their Fallen Temple!”

  Women and children looked down and shrieked; some fainted or ran. Grown men choked and drew back, swallowing. Hundreds of dark eyes rimmed with white stared down at the half-eaten meal that lay in the dust of the street. The soldiers glanced at it, then turned away with grim faces. They already knew who it had been.

  Garkim flipped the blanket back down. Hundreds of wide eyes looked up at him. “You know me!” he shouted, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “You remember that I was a boy here! I am one of you! I tell you that this”—his hand swept down to the blanket and the thing it covered on the street—“this is the work of evil, the work of monsters, not the work of my people! It is not your work! You must fight with me against the wickedness of the Fallen Temple! We must throw it down! If you go this way, you will lose your soul! You will not be Mar, nor even human! Be on guard against this evil, and help me destroy it!”

  He felt exhaustion settle over him with chains of iron. His headache, ever present in the depths of his consciousness, grew in intensity. He wiped his face with his arm and noticed that his skin stung as if he were sunburned. He’d forgotten already about the fire runes. He waved to the sergeant, who pulled a small bottle from a pouch on his belt, unsealed the stopper, and walked down the row of ragged dead, emptying the contents of the bottle on them. Smoke billowed out where the liquid touched the bodies. Moments later, the dead burst into flames that consumed rags, hair, blood, and flesh alike. The soldiers and tarok stepped back from the pyre as oily black smoke rose over the street and into the dawn’s bright light, carrying its stench across the awakening city and all within it.

  Lord Garkim turned to leave. He stepped on a bit of debris brought out by his soldiers from the den of death. He looked down, then bent to pick it up.

  It was the head of a broken hammer.

  Garkim nodded and took it with him.

  Lord Garkim was bathed and dressed in time to attend the regular mid-morning councilors’ meeting at the ministry building, adjacent to the palace. Word of his morning activities had preceded him. The other councilors were eager for any news he bore.

  “You say that you and your men entered the house—” said the gray-bearded Lord Erling, Thorass as precise as ever.

  “I went in alone,” Lord Garkim corrected. “My men stayed outside to catch those who fled and to locate other escape routes, of which there were two. They later apprehended a man living across the street, another cultist who hid fugitives in his cellar.”

  “Did you use that improved form of invisibility on yourself and your men during your approach, the spell I recommended?” Lady Hetharn leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. A rivulet of sweat trickled from the corner of her brightly painted lips and coursed down over the first of her chins.

  “Let Lord Garkim finish his story,” said the Council General with a sigh. “We can save technical questions for a bit.”

  Lord Garkim cleared his throat. “As I entered, I accidentally triggered the trap-runes on the doorframe, which admitted only other cultists. None of the group were wizards, so they somehow have access to such magic. The protective devices I had on loan from the armory shielded me from the flames, for the most part. Thereafter I was able to drive out some of the cultists and disable the others. The bodies were burned to prevent re-animation. We used a bottle of liko agnar, the liquid fire that Lady Hetharn’s laboratory kindly provided for our department.” He nodded to the lady, who smiled back with unconcealed pride.

  “Disable?” Lord Erling said, confused. “You disabled them? I had thought you said you… well, that you—”

  “I killed them, yes,” said Lord Garkim readily. “However, because these cultists often animate their dead, it is as if killing them does not really kill them. I sometimes think I am merely disabling them until we can burn the bodies and truly destroy them. Then, and only then, are they dead and gone.”

  The short silence was broken by a subdued Lady Hetharn. “I am glad that your family was moved into different quarters last year, so that they were not there when… when those of the Fallen Temple—”

  “Yes, and I share your relief, believe me,” Garkim said with feeling. “I am sorry, however, that we could not save our Captain Taergen from the fate visited upon him after he was kidnapped. My men and I will see to his proper burial tomorrow with full honors in the Field of Heroes. You are all, of course, invited to attend.”

  The other lords at the table nodded assent. Some swallowed and looked ill. Others stared in tight-lipped silence at the head of the broken hammer on the tabletop before Lord Garkim. All tried to imagine what sort of people would chop up a man and eat him for their morning meal.

  Another sigh escaped from the Council General. “Let us move along,” he said quickly. “We have eight dead cultists, one in custody, and no leaders or clues to their plots. Lady Hetharn advises me that we cannot connect any of them to the killing of the soldier and mail-rider outside Eldrinpar’s walls the other day—yes, Lady Hetharn?”

  “That was most likely the work of aerial monsters.” Lady Hetharn spoke quickly and knowledgeably, back in her element. “There were no tracks beyond the immediate area, and the prints and claw marks we found suggest that giant eagles or griffons were the cause. They must have been attracted by the scent of the horses. We still need to perform certain divinations to—”

  “Lord Garkim.” The voice out of thin air killed all conversation on the spot.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Garkim, sitting back in his chair. He forced himself to relax, or at least to appear so.

  “Go into the Vault of the Stone Arch, and prepare to greet those who arrive there. Bring them to the palace and ensure their comfort.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Garkim crisply. After a pause to make sure there were no other commands, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “My ladies and lords,” he said to the others, bowing swiftly, then left the Chamber of Councilors, striding down the corridor for the stairs.

  He shrugged as he went. The gods only knew who he was supposed to meet at the vault. The mage-king never explained himself, and it was useless to try to read his mind; his thoughts could not be read by anyone. No doubt this was a byproduct of his long use of the bloodforge. Lord Garkim frowned as he descended the steps to the main hall of the ministry building. The people at the vault were doubtless just another ‘official complaints’ delegation from the Free Cities or Edenvale. But why did he have to greet them? Garkim reflected. What was it that the emperor had actually said about this trip? Go into the Vault of the Stone Arch, and—

  Garkim stumbled on the stairs, nearly falling in his
shock. He saw the truth: Go into the vault, the mage-king had said! No visitor could get into that building without proper authorization, which meant the visitors were… they had to be…

  Near panic, Lord Garkim ran down the remaining steps, then raced for the great hall’s doors leading out to the bright morning street. The visitors were coming through the Stone Arch. The gate to Undermountain was opening!

  Garkim ran outside, shouting for the startled grooms by the royal stables next to the ministry. A saddled horse was brought for him in just half a minute, though Garkim cursed every second of the delay. He snatched the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and with a shout was off at a gallop. Pedestrians scattered from his path as he bolted through the crowd, urging his mount toward his destination.

  The gate in the Stone Arch had not been activated in decades. The visitors were coming from that buried horror of horrors, Undermountain, far to the northwest. Doegan had known little contact with the old lands of the north, but the howling depths of Undermountain, the cavern of horrors, were legendary everywhere.

  Still, the mage-king had asked Lord Garkim to greet the visitors and ensure their comfort, which implied they would be friendly. As he rode for the vault, Lord Garkim sincerely hoped this was the case. Anyone coming from Undermountain would be a formidable opponent. To let such a being roam the city freely would be worse than allowing a thousand serpents into one’s bed.

  Chapter 2

  Out of the Gate, Into the Fire

  A light breeze from the sea stirred the fronds of the palm trees lining the streets outside the high-domed vault of the Stone Arch. The four guards at the top of the Vault’s granite steps came to attention when they saw a sweating Lord Garkim jump from his horse, leaving it untethered in the street, and race up the steps toward them. The guard sergeant stepped forward uncertainly to challenge him.

  “The password is zal tran kor mok!” Garkim barked, hurrying past the larger man. “Guard the entry!”

  The guards backed off, looking at one another in astonishment. The guard sergeant shouted for two of their fellows down the street to join them, and they took up positions of greater alertness, their weapons drawn and readied for an unknown foe.

  Ikavi spat other passwords at the guards at the second doorway, then stood impatiently as the two huge bronze doors there remained closed a little longer. His eyes took in the white pillars, the nervous soldiers, the huge solemn statues to either side of the inner door, the curling paper on the wall with its brief regulations for guarding the vault.

  One of the two massive doors creaked as it slowly opened inward. No one was visible on the other side. Ikavi waited, teeth grinding, as the door opened fully. Just beyond the doorway was a huge, squat, doglike statue sitting on its haunches, in a narrow hallway that curved off to the left and right away from Garkim. The stone dog was as thick as a bull and the height of a man, its expressionless eyes looking in Lord Garkim’s direction.

  The dog’s stone lips abruptly moved as if they were flesh. “You may pass,” it said, then returned to its state of immobility.

  Garkim stepped through the door and heard it slowly shut behind him. He hurried on to the left, toward the final set of doors. “The gate in the Stone Arch is opening!” he shouted.

  “The arch gate is opening!” called an invisible guardsman somewhere above. Whispers and a metallic rustling echoed through the curved hall, then—nothing. Magical silence reigned.

  Lord Garkim reached the far doors on the inner wall and pulled up short. “Let me pass,” he said, panting from exertion.

  The doors vanished. He went through the doorway, then heard a rush of air behind him. The hall through which he had passed was now sealed and trapped with magical stone and iron.

  Garkim walked into a vast, bright hall, octagonal in shape, with thick, round pillars reaching along its walls to support the high dome above. Rippling colors reflected from the marble walls, nearly drowned in the sunlike brilliance of the magical light pouring down from the ceiling. Metal nails in Garkim’s boot soles clacked and echoed until he came to a stop and eyed the great chamber. It appeared to be empty except for a lone object standing in the center of the room’s colorful tile-mosaic floor.

  Only forty feet away was a dirty gray arch carved from a single slab of rock, covered with glyphs and runes. Garkim had seen this chamber several times before on routine visits. The elaborately etched stone had not changed, nor had the “door” of rainbow light that filled the space beneath the arch. Garkim glanced at the floor, noted his location on the complex mosaic, and stepped back a pace. He allowed himself a deep sigh. He’d apparently made it in time.

  The flickering rainbow curtain inside the Stone Arch faded; a ripple of darkness filled the space instead. Lord Garkim flinched. He had never seen a gate in operation. The inside of the gate was now an opaque black surface. His right hand strayed to the hilt of the long sword strapped to his belt, but he forced his hand down to his side. It would be damaging to betray fear with guards watching him from above.

  Someone stepped out of the gate into the great domed chamber. It was a man, as large and broad-shouldered as a soldier of the Ffolk, in bright silver plate mail and an open-faced helm that revealed a long mustache, long dark hair, and square face. He entered leading with his bright round shield in his left hand, head down, shoving forward hard as he did so in case anyone tried to block his way. A long-handled warhammer came up in his right hand, ready for an overhand strike. Garkim had never seen armor and weaponry so elaborately engraved and decorated. A great warrior, indeed. The shield, which seemed to glow, had a balance and scales engraved upon it.

  Garkim put his right hand slightly out to his side and waved back, in a warding gesture. Do not attack, he telepathically told the guards above. Then he opened his mind to receive the stranger’s alien thoughts.

  “Identify yourself!” the warrior ordered Garkim. He spoke Faerûnian Common, not the Thorass Garkim had expected, but Garkim had studied many languages. He nodded agreeably before answering. The fighter was a religious warrior and gave few second chances. The visitor stepped away from the gate, which was still black. More warriors were coming, Garkim understood.

  “Be at peace!” Garkim called in Common, making no unnecessary movements. “Do not approach me. Stay near the gate. You are in—” He hesitated. A second warrior, a young man in gold-scale armor, came through the arch. This one led with his long warhammer, punching it forward to clear his way. Finding no opposition, he spotted his fellow and took up a position on the other side of the arch, both warriors swiftly scanning the room for other threats.

  Garkim stifled a gasp as he received their thoughts. They were holy warriors of Tyr, the ancient god of justice! Did they know of…? No—no, they were here seeking someone, a kidnapped woman….

  “You are in no danger where you stand,” Garkim called out, putting strength in his voice. “Stay close to the gate and do not approach me immediately. My name is Lord Ikavi Garkim.”

  “Is this the Utter East?” shouted the golden warrior. Strands of carrot-red hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead.

  Garkim noted the gate inside the arch was still black. “It is,” he replied. “From where do you hail?”

  “We came from Undermountain,” the silver-armored warrior replied, turning his full attention to the councilor. His hammer was still ready to strike. “It would be wise to answer us truthfully. Are there traps in this room, around us?”

  He can tell if I am lying. He reads my voice as I read his mind. “Yes, there are traps,” said the councilor. “You are in no danger if you follow my instructions. Do not approach me.”

  “You said that already,” said the golden warrior, looking up at the brightly lit dome far above. “We—” He stopped and turned, hearing a footfall.

  A third armored warrior came through, leading with a bright two-handed sword. He glanced left and right, saw his allies, and traded places with the first warrior at the latter’s motion. Moments later, a fourt
h man walked out of the blackness beneath the stone arch. He was an older man in loose-fitting leather clothing, a long, thick staff held out in a defensive posture before him. His long, silver hair was tied back in a pony tail. He stayed behind the other three, but glanced back at the gate and moved aside.

  A wizard, he is a wizard. Wait—the others don’t know what he really is. He is a secret wizard, posing as a staff-armed warrior. He hopes he will not have to drop his disguise as a fighter. A youth and another wizard are behind him. Garkim nodded thoughtfully. “Are more of your party coming through the gate?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the first warrior shortly. “Now, tell us exactly where we are.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Garkim slowly, gathering the last of their thoughts. The next man through would be a novice, a trouble-prone sort tolerated by the others despite his clumsiness. A wizard-woman, a noble, would be the last person to enter through the gate. This group was bent on finding someone here, a kidnapped woman with whom Garkim was unfamiliar. They had already fought many powerful monsters guarding the gate’s other end in Undermountain, and they had expected to fight hundreds more monsters here. They were astonished but still relieved to find only a well-dressed man inside a marble rotunda full of light—but they expected their host to sprout fangs and wings at any second. Garkim carefully drew a breath.

  “Well?” demanded the first warrior.

  “You are in a building that is called the Vault of the Stone Arch,” Garkim began. “We are in the city of Eldrinpar, in the Imperial Reaches of Doegan. Further greetings must wait, however. Follow my instructions if you would leave this area safely. Look down at the mosaic floor on which you are standing. You must not cross the great circle of flowers made from red and yellow tiles that you see. Ker—” He cut himself off; he had almost used the golden warrior’s name. It wouldn’t do to let them know he could read their minds. “Keep inside that circle, and no harm will come to you. Sir—you with the golden armor, you are very close to the edge.”