Crypt of the Shadowking (32 page)

Tyveris whirled in surprise to see three of the cityfolk reloading their crossbows. He reminded himself not to underestimate these courageous people.

One of the guards had a ring of keys at his belt, and these made the task of freeing the prisoners quicker. The thieves of the Purple Masks Guild had hidden several caches of weapons in lesser-used parts of the dungeon, and one of these was nearby. Soon Tyveris found he had over a hundred cityfolk crowding the corridor behind him, each with a weapon in hand, be it sword, knife, cudgel, or crossbow. Some of the cityfolk were but children, others were gray and weathered. There were as many women as men. All of them were ready to fight, and none were afraid to die.

One of the prisoners, an older woman with steel-gray hair and eyes to match, said something when Tyveris helped her from her cell that seemed to speak for all the cityfolk. “The wheel is turning,” she said in her worn voice. “The captors become the captives, and the prisoners fly free once again. If one soul perishes in the wheel’s turning, such is the way of things. The wheel cannot be stopped. We must shed our tears, and then go on.”

And go on they did.

“We need to be even more careful now,” Kyana said to Tyveris as once again they started down the corridor. “The dungeon’s central chamber is not far ahead. That’s where there are likely to be the most Zhentarim.”

“‘How many?” Tyveris asked gravely.

“According to Ferret’s reports, at least a score of them,” Kyana said. “The numbers are on our side.”

They encountered another pair of guards as they approached the central chamber, but the cityfolk dispatched them swiftly and silently. Tyveris motioned for the prisoners to hang back while he, Kyana, and Talim crept forward toward the glow of torches.

From Ferret’s reports, they knew that most of the cell blocks were arranged around the dungeon’s central chamber almost like the spokes of a wheel. Tyveris and the two thieves moved silently as they approached the open doorway. Beyond was a walkway with a stone balustrade. Staying close to the floor, the three eased forward until they could peer down toward the large, circular chamber below them. Tyveris barely managed to stifle an oath.

The stone-walled room was filled with guards.

There was not a score of them, but rather five times that number. And all of them were armed. Tyveris could see the stairwell leading up to the tower no more than fifty feet away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles for the sea of guards blocking their way. He looked at Kyana in desperation. The thief shook her head.

“It appears we were expected,” was all she said.

Caledan was not certain how far beneath the Old City they had descended, but he knew they must be deep within the heart of the Tor.

Ravendas moved through the rough-hewn tunnel at a swift pace, Snake following subserviently on her heels. Caledan, Estah, Ferret, and Man stumbled along after Ravendas. Their hands were bound tightly behind their backs with leather thongs; their ankles had been hobbled with heavy rope so that they could not run. A dozen cruel-faced Zhentarim warriors trod behind the four, pushing them roughly onward each time one of them hesitated. Behind the warriors walked Morhion, his face as cold as granite.

Without warning the rocky passageway widened, and the odd party of friends and enemies came to an abrupt halt. They stood in a sort of antechamber, a roughly square room perhaps two dozen paces in width. Acrid, smoking torches lined the walls of dark, jagged stone, and piles of rubble littered the corners. However, Caledan barely saw any of this, for instantly his attention was fixed on the door. The portal dominated the far wall of the antechamber. It was a slab of perfect, unblemished onyx, as tall as two men and as wide as six abreast.

“The crypt of the Shadowking,” Caledan whispered in awe.

“Indeed,” Ravendas purred. “My greatest triumph lies within.” She tossed aside her dark robe and stood before the door resplendent in a silken gown as deep and rich in hue as dried blood. “The time has come.”

She clapped her hands, and two Zhentarim stepped from a dim alcove Caledan had not noticed. By their deep purple robes and the disturbing, misshapen symbols that hung about their necks, Caledan guessed these Zhents were priests of some sort. Between them stood a small figure clad in a velvet tunic. It was the boy, Kellen.

Caledan felt his throat tighten. The boy looked up at him with his wide, dark-lashed eyes. He knows! Caledan thought suddenly. He was certain of it. For a moment he saw a look of pleading in the boy’s deep green eyes. Then Ravendas approached her son and brushed his pale cheek with a solitary finger.

“Your time draws near, my son,” Ravendas said in her crystalline voice. Kellen nodded slowly but said nothing. He clutched a set of polished reed pipes tightly in his hands. Mari, Estah, and Ferret regarded the boy with surprise. None of them had known Ravendas had a son. But they still don’t know the full truth, Caledan thought bitterly. “There is one last thing,” Ravendas said. She stepped forward and reached inside Caledan’s leather jerkin, drawing out the set of pipes that he had concealed in an inner pocket. “I know you still have not discovered the secret of the shadow song, but then, I do not care to take unnecessary chances.” She dropped the pipes on the stone floor and ground them under her heel until they were nothing more than splinters.

Caledan could not help but wince. That was the first set of pipes he had ever made, and the truest. He had brought them along as a last-ditch hope, in the event he somehow managed to discover the secret of the shadow song.

“You’re a fool, Ravendas,” Caledan said harshly. “You’ve always been a fool. You’ll do anything for power. But it’s a desire that blinds you.” He nodded his head toward Snake. “So how do you intend to kill her, Snake?” he asked in a cutting voice. “I suppose you don’t need her or the Zhentarim any longer, now that the crypt has been found. Ravendas would just stand in the way of your ultimate plans, wouldn’t she? Why don’t you just kill her now and get it over with?”

“I am afraid you are quite mistaken,” Snake replied in his sibilant voice. His eyes were flat, his face emotionless.

“Stop this idiocy!” Ravendas snapped. “I will hear it no longer. All my servants obey my will and my will alone, Caldorien. As will you.” A blotch of color touched each of her pale cheeks.

She is uncertain, Caledan thought. He had planted the seeds of doubt in her heart, and they had taken root.

“Tell me, my lord steward,” she said, turning to the green-robed man. “Is there any truth to this base accusation? Do you intend to cross my wishes?”

“By all the powers that be, I swear not I serve only to see the Nightstone placed in your hand, my Lord Ravendas. That is my sole purpose.”

Ravendas nodded in satisfaction. “You see?” she said smugly to Caledan. “I own him, as I own all of you. Once the power of the Nightstone is mine, I will own far more. Now the door must be opened.” She lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Morhion. “You, mage, shall perform this momentous task for me.”

Morhion nodded, stepping toward the onyx door. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes. He spoke a single guttural word of magic, and a small, silvery ball of light burst into existence before him. Caledan watched as thin, glowing tendrils began to stretch from the orb of light. Like silvery threads, the tendrils caressed the door and began to trace their way across its dark, flawless surface.

Caledan realized that the silvery threads were outlining strange symbols and weird runes. In moments the entire door was covered with their glimmering decoration. Morhion spoke another word of magic, and the ball of light vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. The magical tendrils faded, yet a curious luminescence remained. The symbols and runes could be faintly observed.

For long moments Morhion studied the ancient writing. Finally he nodded. He gestured to a dark, perfect circle in the center of the doorway, a place where the smooth stone was untouched by rune or sigil.

“The circle is as dark as the moon is this night,” Morhion intoned. He gazed at Ravendas. “One who desires to enter need only touch it.” He stepped away from the door.

Caledan saw Ravendas hesitate only briefly. Then she thrust her chin outward and boldly stood before the door.

All that lies beyond this portal, I claim for my own,” she proclaimed. She reached forward, laying her hand full upon the dark circle.

There was a sharp sound like ice cracking, and Ravendas took a startled step backward, staring at the door. The writing on the portal flared brilliantly. Then it went dark. A faint, sharp line appeared in the portal’s center. The line darkened, growing into a crack. Then, propelled by some unseen force, the two halves of the onyx slab swung silently inward. A puff of stale air rushed out of the open doorway, bringing the smell of death. Beyond lay only impenetrable darkness.

“The portal is open,” Morhion spoke softly.

“Then let us enter the crypt of the Shadowking.” The fear had left Ravendas’s face, replaced by a look of exultation. She took a torch from the wall and stepped through the portal.

“Follow,” Snake said harshly, and the warriors pushed the four companions through the portal. Caledan felt a momentary chill as he passed through the doorway, then he blinked in surprise. He could see. He had expected the room to be utterly dark, or at most to be faintly lit by the single torch Ravendas carried. Instead the vast chamber was filled with a peculiar, ruddy illumination.

The crypt of the Shadowking was a vast, circular chamber. The floor was fashioned of the same flawless dark stone as the doorway, and the perimeter of the tomb was lined with massive buttresses of basalt, thirteen in number. The spandrels between them were carved with nightmarish friezes, the bas-relief gargoyles leering evilly down at the companions. Beneath each stone buttress was a shallow alcove. Those few into which Caledan could see were filled with burial offerings: one with ornate jewels, another with casks of wine and cups of gold, still another with ivory figurines, servants to wait upon the dead in the afterworld. The Shadowking may have been Talembar’s foe, but he had been a king also. Talembar had given him a burial deserving of royalty.

Farther into the chamber stood a circle of huge columns, surrounding the center of the crypt like a ring of sentinel giants. The tomb was deathly silent. The stale, ancient air seemed to smother all sound, as if it resented the intrusion of living beings in a place where nothing had stirred in a thousand years.

When they reached the ring of columns Ravendas stopped. She clapped her hands, a signal for the Zhentarim warriors and priests to withdraw from the crypt. The Zhents, especially the warriors, seemed more than willing to leave the eerie chamber.

“Don’t get any rash ideas,” Ravendas said to Caledan. “What will transpire within this circle is not fit for simple eyes to behold, so I have sent my servants away. But they will guard the portal with their lives. I needn’t remind you there is only one exit from the crypt.”

“I really don’t think we’ll be going anywhere,” Caledan said sarcastically, glancing meaningfully at the rope that hobbled his ankles.

With a gesture of mock politeness, Ravendas gestured for the others to follow her. They passed between two of the gigantic columns and entered the circle within.

Caledan could see now that there were seven of the massive columns, each resting on an enormous basalt plinth as big as a small house. The surface of the columns was without carving or sigil, except for a single word that had been incised into the stone of each column perhaps twenty feet above the floor. Caledan squinted at the words through the hazy crimson light, but he could not discern them.

He let his gaze drift upward. The columns supported a domed ceiling about a dozen fathoms above his head. A mosaic covered the ceiling, but in the half-light all Caledan could see were pale, cruel-looking eyes staring down at him from above. He noticed a dark, jagged line running across the center of the domed ceiling. It was a crack, the single flaw he could detect in the construction of the crypt.

In the very center of the tomb stood a dais of basalt bearing a huge sarcophagus of flawless onyx. Upon the coffin’s lid was carved a figure that could only represent the Shadowking. The figure was manlike in shape, but massive and twisted, the gnarled arms ending in claws, the legs in cloven hooves.

But the face of the Shadowking was the face of a man Unlike the rest of the figure’s body, the visage was smooth and perfect, even beautiful. This was how the sorcerer Verraketh had looked before dark magic had twisted him into the being of maleficence called the Shadowking. His features were crowned by a pair of dark antlers springing from the unfurrowed brow of the death mask, a bestial symbol of violence.

Caledan could not help but shiver. Within that sarcophagus lay a being of terrible malevolence. But the Shadowking is a thousand years dead, he reminded himself.

“Cheerful-looking fellow, isn’t he?” Ferret whispered. Caledan winced. How could the thief joke at a time like this? “By the way, did you notice those words on the columns are written in Talfir?” Ferret said softly. “I thought you might be interested to know….”

Caledan stared at the thief in surprise, then he jerked his head up to look at the runes carved high on the basalt columns. He squinted through the dimness and saw that Ferret was right. By now the ancient language was familiar enough to recognize, though he cursed himself for being unable to read it.

He thought back to that day when the phantom of Talek Talembar had appeared on the windswept cliff top. What had the phantom told him? What were the words he had used? The exact words?

For a long time his mind was empty. He almost swore aloud in frustration. Then abruptly, like a dam bursting, the memory came to him. It was as if Talembar was speaking once again, only this time inside his mind.

…thou might look for its echo in the place where last it

was played….

“Ferret,” Caledan whispered hurriedly, his voice barely audible. “I understand the secret of the shadow song. Don’t ask how. There isn’t time for that. But I need those pipes the boy has.”