Easy Betrayals (6 page)

“No, I can only perceive the first object that I decide to seek.”

“She could be anywhere,” Belgin muttered. He reached down and picked up the lasso, coiling it at his belt. “I guess I’ll give this back to Noph if—damn!”

“What? What is it?” Miltiades asked.

“We’ve got another problem, Miltiades,” the sharper said. “Why would Eidola abandon the lasso once she’d escaped from it? Magic of this sort is too valuable and rare to leave lying about, after all.”

“She left it here because we were using it to track her movements.”

“And how could she have known that?” Belgin asked bitterly.

The paladin stared at the sharper blankly for a long moment, and then sighed. “Jacob or Rings. She must have defeated one or both of them.” He worked his fists together, slamming metal into metal as he thought furiously.

“Which way now?” Belgin asked quietly.

“Back to the palace,” Miltiades said. “If I were her, I’d double back and try to find a portal that led to someplace else. Besides, that’s where Rings and Jacob are most likely to look for us, if they still live.”

“It’s as good a guess as any.”

They pushed off into the storm again, trying to feel their way back toward the palace. Belgin found himself throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. He hadn’t forgotten the undead things that followed them up out of the hall of doors, and the storm around them seemed to hiss and coil with a sentient malevolence. If I had a lick of sense, I’d leave Miltiades to his vendetta and leave this hateful old ruin miles behind me, he thought.

As if he’d stumbled into an unseen razor of steel, bitter cold and visceral horror slid through the sharper’s heart. The raging storm seemed to recoil as they stumbled into a clearing of unnatural calm, but the wild and random malevolence that shrieked and wailed all around them seemed to coalesce into a single presence, looming in the ash and dust ahead. Belgin opened his mouth to make light of the creeping horror around them, but for once he had nothing to say.

The whirling dust clouds parted, revealing a tattered brown figure dressed in the cerements of the tomb. Eyes of living green flame blazed in its sunken orbits, frozen emeralds dancing in an open grave. Regal trappings of gold, tarnished and ancient, marked the creature as a great lord of vanished Netheril. A grim company of lesser undead flanked the master, their eyes flickering with dim echoes of the malevolence that burned in their lord’s face.

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 sharper 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!”