Easy Betrayals (8 page)

Miltiades’s hood nodded. The paladin didn’t care for Belgin’s suggestion of a disguise, but he’d reluctantly agreed after the sharper had pointedly asked how many other paladins in shining armor he saw stomping around in Skullport’s streets. “She must have friends here. I’ve heard that the so-called Unseen lurk somewhere in this dismal pit. Well start with them.”

“Any idea of how to find them, Miltiades? They must be called the Unseen for some reason, after all,” Jacob pointed out.

The big fighter brought up the rear of their small party, keeping a sharp eye out behind them. In order to conceal their Tyrian armor, both Jacob and Miltiades had borrowed dark cloaks from ally drunks who’d never need them again. While Miltiades steamed and stewed in his shroud, Jacob grinned ear to ear, obviously enjoying the stealthy approach.

“Question one of these wretched villains scuirying by,” Miltiades said. “Noph’s lasso ought to elicit the answers we need. Sooner or later, well find one who knows something.”

Belgin rolled his eyes, but assented. “Fine. It lacks subtlety, but well try it your way. I suspect that flashing gold in one of these alehouses would only mark us as targets, anyway.” He eased the rope into his hand and measured it carefully. Together, the three men waited in the mouth of a dark alleyway, watching the mindless dead come and go. Dozens of humans, drow, and more monstrous creatures passed while they watched, but almost all traveled in pairs or small groups, watching the streets carefully. Two times the three men lassoed solitary corsairs when no one else seemed to be paying attention, but the fellows they caught knew nothing of Skullport’s Unseen. Jacob whistled merrily and bound them in the filth-strewn alleyway, out of sight of the street.

After a half-hour or so, a proud mageling sauntered down the street at a moment when no one else seemed to be near. At a nod from Miltiades, Belgin threw the lasso at her without a word. The braid seemed to leap out of his hand, directing itself into a tight loop as it settled silently over the mark. “Come here, and do not resist!” Belgin hissed. The mage stiffened and started to raise her hands, but the magic of the lasso trapped her.

Snarling in rage, she plodded toward the alleyway. “You have no idea who you’re trifling with, fool! When I get free—”

“You will remain silent and answer only the questions I put to you,” Belgin said. The fox-faced woman broke off abruptly, but her eyes were daggers of ice. “Have you ever heard of the Unseen?”

“Yes,” the mage grated angrily.

“Do you know where they can be found?”

“No.”

“Feel free to respond in something besides monosyllables,” Belgin said wryly. “Do you know of any way we could find them?”

“Yes.”

Miltiades snorted. “So how can we find them? What’s the best way?”

Struggling to resist, the mage winced and tried to mumble. The lasso of truth dragged her words forth. “There is an alehouse called the Broken Pike, several hundred yards up the street. In the back room, a man named Marks buys and sells stolen baubles. He only pretends to be a fence, though; in truth he is a doppelganger who keeps his ear to the corsairs’ tales. I know that he reports to others. Apply this damned lasso to him, and hell have to lead you to the Unseen.”

“How do you know this?” Belgin asked suspiciously.

The woman glared at him. “I’ve used my magic on their behalf from time to time. Marks is the man I dealt with, and he paid me well.”

“Are you a doppelganger, too?” “No,” she grated.

Belgin looked at Miltiades and set one hand to his knife hilt. The paladin shook his head and quickly struck the mageling with one blow of his hammer, knocking her out. She crumpled to the ground, and the sharper released the lasso’s hold, coiling it in his hands.

“Do you believe her?” Jacob asked warily.

“So far Noph’s lasso has proved impervious to deceit,” Miltiades said.

Belgin nudged the unconscious sorceress with his toe. “What about her? She seems a bad enemy to leave on our trail.”

“Doubtless she has committed many crimes, but she aided us in her quest. It would be unjust to reward her with death.” Miltiades hid his hammer under his cloak, and turned into the narrow street. “Come, we’ve wasted enough time. Every minute we delay increases Eidola’s chances of escaping us altogether.”

The streets of Skullport were silent and almost deserted. From time to time a zombie or skeleton would stagger past, engaged on some dark mission that kept its dead limbs moving, but the deeper Belgin followed Miltiades into Skullport, the fewer people he saw. Leaning out over the alleyway, the ramshackle buildings on either side narrowed the space overhead to a mere arm’s length, enclosing them in a dank tunnel of shuttered windows and sagging porches. Thin, black mire oozed around their feet as they slogged from one dim circle of lantern light to the next.

“I don’t like the feel of this place,” Belgin said softly. “Something’s wrong here.”

“It took you this long to figure that out?” Jacob snapped.

“Peace, Jacob. Belgin is right,” Miltiades said. He slowed and stopped, searching the street with his piercing gaze. In the flickering light of the next lamp, a ramshackle old building boasted a faded sign marked by a rusty polearm, maybe twenty paces ahead. The paladin frowned and tightened his grip on his warhammer. “The Broken Pike is just ahead. Come on.”

Belgin followed, but as he glanced down at the ground to pick out his steps, he noticed a soft silver shadow dancing and moving across the dark mud and rotted wood. At the same time, a gelid malaise settled over him, his bones aching with preternatural cold. It’s behind me, he realized as the dancing shadows grew darker, more sharply defined. Mouth dry, he turned like a sleepwalker to gaze on the thing that stalked him.

A grinning skull hovered in the air behind him, limned by a cold silver fire. Everything its argent flames illuminated seemed to acquire a faint dusting of hateful frost, boards splitting from the sudden cold, black mire frosting over in a filthy rime of ice. “Miltiades!” Belgin gasped in horror, recoiling from the apparition. He stumbled and fell, scrabbling backwards through the freezing muck as the silent skull approached. Beside him, Jacob whirled and shrank away in fear, backing into a dark alleyway. The thing ignored him and continued.

Sensing the cold and the wrong, Miltiades whirled to confront the creature, shedding his black cloak with one swift motion. “Stay your approach, creature of evil!” he barked, holding his hammer forward. “Leave us be! You have no power over the just.”

“Miltiades of Tyr,” the skull sang, its voice as thin and hateful as the keening of a banshee. “You have interfered with the dead of Skullport. Now you must pay for your disobedience.”

“Miltiades! What’s it talking about? What does it want?” Belgin gasped.

“I defied the spirits that hold this place in thrall the last time I visited,” Miltiades rasped. “It seems that they’ve been waiting for my return.”

With two swift bounds he closed with the silver death’s-head and struck it with his hammer, but the weapon seemed to glance from the thing with little effect. From the blank eye sockets two sickly green rays sprang forth, blasting Miltiades back against the right-hand building with bone-jarring force. The paladin fell in a clatter of armor.

Howling, Jacob sliced at the thing with his sword but missed. Belgin attacked with his rapier, but the narrow point seemed to slide off the old bone like a pat of butter skittering across a hot pan. The skull ignored them both and struck at Miltiades again with the twin emerald rays, pummelling the holy warrior as he tried to find his feet.

“I can’t stop this thing!” the sharper cried.

Beside him, Jacob backed up a couple of steps, glancing around. “More trouble coming up the alley,” he announced. “I’ll handle it.” The curly-haired fighter abandoned the floating skull and dashed back the way they’d come.

Belgin tried to stab the creature again, but his rapier glided away under the influence of some magical force each time he struck at the skull. He risked one quick glance down the street. Whate’ver’s down there, Jacob had better handle it. I’ve got my hands full here. He saw nothing but impenetrable shadows and ruined buildings in that direction, and before he could make out what Jacob was up to, the skull thing turned on him.

“Sentence has been passed on Miltiades of Tyr. Do not interfere,” it stated coldly.

Belgin stared, frozen to the spot by the creature’s black gaze. Nearby, Miltiades groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The skull’s jaws gaped open as if in laughter, and it turned away from the sharper to finish off the paladin. I’ve got to do something! Wait… the building. That might work! The silver skull drifted beneath the overhanging porch to peer down at the paladin, almost as if it had a spectral foot to set on Miltiades’s neck. For a moment, it drifted just underneath the rotten roof timbers of the buildings porch. With desperate strength, Belgin whirled and kicked hard at a rotten post, cracking it. A second kick knocked it free.

In a roaring crash of wood and debris, the porch collapsed, burying the skull under an avalanche of old timber. Belgin reeled back from the destruction, coughing

from the dust and mold until his legs gave out. In between wracking gasps, he noticed Miltiades standing unsteadily, one hand clamped over a streaming wound in his side. The paladin picked his way over toward the sharper, hauling him upright.

“Where’s Jacob?” Miltiades said. “We need to get off this street.”

“He saw something behind us ,” Belgin rasped, but the act of speaking sent him into another paroxysm of coughing. When he looked up again, wiping his mouth, a pair of new silver skulls approached, these glowing with an azure blaze.

“Belgin of Edenvale, you have interfered with the dead of Skullport,” one began. Its companion spoke in chorus: “Miltiades of Tyr—”

From the alley mouth beside them, a brilliant bolt of lightning stabbed forth, forking to impale both guardians on white skewers of energy. In the blink of an eye both were blasted to shards in a rolling thunderclap that left Belgin’s ears ringing and his eyes dancing with spots. “What now?” he groaned.

Miltiades shook his head. “I know not.” Grimacing in pain, he straightened and faced the darkness, hammer held lightly in one hand. His silver armor gleamed like a brand of faith in the stinking mire and rot of the dismal street. “Who goes there? Show yourself!”

“I should have expected you to start a war with the powers of Skullport the moment you returned, Miltiades,” a woman’s voice replied. Stepping into the light, a tall woman of exquisite beauty and iron determination appeared, tapping a slender wand in her hand. Despite himself, Belgin blinked in astonishment. It wasn’t every day that he was rescued from certain death by beautiful women. “Come quickly. We must move fast to elude more of the skull guardians,” she said.

Belgin gathered up what dignity he could and looked to Miltiades. “You know her?”

The paladin simply nodded. “She is Aleena Paladinstar.” His eyes darkened. “A friend, but one who has much to answer for.”

“Good,” said the sharper. Td get bored if anything ever became easy or obvious.” He began a sweeping bow to the lady before him, but as he moved tearing pain lanced through his chest. Gasping in surprise at the bright blood that fumed from his mouth, Belgin collapsed in the street, darkness whirling in to blanket him.

Silver light danced above him, cool, supernal. He felt light as a feather, almost as if he’d slipped free of some heavy shackle. I’m dying, he realized. He didn’t feel much fear, only a little sadness. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been expecting it, after all. That was the manner of the bloodforge’s curse—you could be fine all day long, only to keel over dead at sunset. Belgin had seen it often enough. If he’d had the strength, he would have laughed until he cried. All the heartache, all the trouble, of the Kissing Shark’s last voyage and Entreri’s damned contract, and I was going to kick off anyway. There must have been a better way to spend my last days.

“He’s fading fast.” A woman’s voice, distant and concerned. “Cure the affliction quickly, or well lose him.”

“I know, I know. But it’s not a mundane disease. It’s a magical curse, the effect of growing up in a land ruled by a bloodforge.”

“If I counter the curse, can you then heal him?”

‘Tyr willing, I think so.”

Motion now, someone dumping him unceremoniously on a rickety wooden table. Belgin gazed up at the smoke-stained roof-beams of a tavern, impossibly far away. What better place for me to die than in some dismal alehouse? Irony on irony. I’m almost sorry I won’t see how this turns out. The woman spoke words he knew, working a potent spell designed to undo curses. He wanted to tell her to save her magic, that the priests of Edenvale had tried that measure long ago, but he couldn’t find his breath. Then Miltiades spoke loudly, calling on the power of his god, as his hands descended to rest on Belgin’s chest.

Silver Hghtning jolted his chest, although his eyes saw nothing but a soft glow. The sharper gasped and bounced from the table in reaction, then drew a great cold breath that seemed to go on forever. It had been years since he could hold so much air in his lungs. Flinching, he waited for the inevitable fit to rack him again… but this time, it didn’t come.

“Belgin? Can you hear me?” Beside him, Miltiades helped him to sit upright. Taut with worry, the paladin peered into his face. “Speak, man! Tyr’s power has made you whole again.”

“I can breathe,” Belgin whispered. He couldn’t believe it. He felt weak as a kitten, drained and exhausted, but with some hidden sense he could feel that the wreckage that had cluttered his lungs and stolen his wind for so many months was gone. He sucked in another great gasp of air just to enjoy the sensation. “Miltiades, what did you do?”

“Not I, but Tyr,” the paladin answered. He stood and smiled. “The bloodforge disease that ravaged you could not be defeated by magical healing nor undone by simply removing the curse. But both spells together succeeded where either one alone would have failed. Through me, Tyr cured the disease, but only after Aleena here defeated the curse.”