Stardeep (6 page)

But it was. The amulet had, before this moment, shown a white tree silhouetted in brilliant cerulean. Now the treelike symbol seemed shrunken, as if the encroaching darkness clenched it with savage pressure.

He couldn’t imagine what had caused the change—his actions? Had leaving Telflamm caused this?

Growing up, he often gazed into the stone aftet his mother’s departure. He always imagined the treelike symbol was emblematic of an ancient grove of trees his mother sometimes described.

A place she had called “Yuirwood.”

Conviction crystallized. He would seek this place, this Yuirwood. What other reason did the amulet have fot changing color, if not a sign declaring his destination?

City of Laothkund, Shadow Tongue Lair

Gage passed into an expansive, obsidian-tiled chamber. It was wide like a temple, similarly solemn, and equally quiet. Ahead, two broad stone pillars framed his path in the direction of the chamber’s far wall. Each square column bore a blazing, smokeless torch, lending bright, if uneven light to the front of the room. The columns blocked the torchlight from finding the chamber’s rear, which was lost in depthless shadow. Except for the blue glimmer that lured Gage.

He passed into the shadowed end of the chamber and moved to the rear wall. His eyes adjusted, and he saw a fortune to rival a dragon’s horde.

Boxes of rare perfumes that never arrived at the Nobles’ Quarter.

A wide gold vessel filled with depthless liquid whose smell hinted at an ocean without bounds.

Paintings of dead masters, bricks of gold, rings of platinum, casks of vintages a hundred years old—the vault held treasures so tempting Gage was nearly overwhelmed. But none compared with the value of the singular magical sword

that was his objective. He gained the far side of the chamber; he found that which he sought.

The blade, still in its scabbard, leaned vertically on its tip within a glass cabinet. Blue fire flickered on the pommel and limned the entire scabbard. The blade wanted to be noticed.

He took the time to carefully search the floor around the cabinet, the seams between the glass panels, the wall behind the cabinet, and the ceiling above. He smiled—no dastardly traps waited to pait life from body of an offending thief.

Gage flipped the case open with his right hand and grabbed the pommel of the blade with his left.

His demon-gloved left. The instant he gripped the pommel, the eye on the back of the glove popped open wider than Gage had ever seen it.

Abominations shall be purged, a voice pronounced in his head. Then his left hand disappeared in a nimbus of burning, searing fire.

Gage screamed, as did his glove. He danced back, leaving the sword in the cabinet, waving a fireball of blue agony up and down, back and forth, streaking the air with lines of pain. He tripped, rolled, came to his feet, knocked over the box of perfume. Glass shattered and a pungent mix of odors bloomed. Next to it… he plunged his burning hand into the vessel of depthless water. He thrust as far as he could reach, until his shoulder was submerged. His hand didn’t touch the bottom, even though the vessel looked only a foot deep. Was it an interface between Faerun and an oceanic elemental plane? Regardless, its chill liquid swaddled and doused the fire.

The glove was burned to nothingness. The gauntlet with the demonic eye, whose gaze put fear and awe into his enemies… was completely gone. Its destruction had at least served him, providing some protection from Angul’s defense, though his hand was red and blistered, and lingering pain tested his composure.

“Didn’t like me, or my glove?” Gage wondered aloud. The image of Sathra’s burned hand flashed in his mind’s eye. Now he knew what had caused it.

The mouth on his remaining gauntlet began to cry and gibber.

“Hello, thief.”

Gage snatched his burnt hand from the vessel. He saw that the door was blocked by Sathra and at least eight, perhaps ten bloody-eyed men. Those in the front carried knives, clubs, swords. Those behind aimed steady crossbows his way. The shadows whirling about the woman continued their sad litanies unabated, “… cold… knife in my side… face in the window… lost…”

The woman’s hand seemed perfectly whole. She’d apparently found magical healing before retutning to deal with him.

“Sathra! I can explain!” Gage backed toward the glimmering blade, his hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. His lone gauntlet continued sobbing.

“Oh, you will explain,” she chuckled. “As soon as I strap you into something I’ve got downstairs. The fellow who sold it to me called it a Sembian Ctadle. Very simple little chair—the cushion’s replaced with a point. We sttap you with a belt and hoist you onto the point, and pretty soon you’ll be explaining more than you can imagine.”

Gage swallowed. Sathra’s use of torture devices was legendary. He’d die before he’d allow himself to be taken to hei famous “Red Room.”

“It’s not like that—I’ve come to warn you! I—”

One of Sathta’s fingers idly pointed. A shadowy form dropped out of orbit around her and charged Gage.

Gage extended his raised hands to arms’ length, and hoped.

The flickering shape, a silhouette of a bent, haggard man,

reached an astral claw toward the thief. Soul-numbing cold brushed Gage, but the mouth on his gauntlet bit down.

Despite the immaterial nature of the gray-black creature ttying to embrace Gage, his demon glove gripped it—at least, the horrible little mouth did. It somehow found toothy purchase on the insubstantial body. The shadow jerked, shuddered, and attempted to pull away, but failed. The mouth held on, began to chew and swallow. The silhouette bucked and scrabbled, frantically thrashing back and forth.

Gage, Sathra, and her men watched with various degrees of horror as the glove quickly ate the trapped shadow creature, leaving nothing behind but a final, whispery cry of pain. The thief was aghast, but ttied not to teveal his shock on his face.

“So you see, Sathra,” said Gage, getting his voice undet control, “send me all the lightless souls you want. I can defeat them. And my demon glove enjoys sucking down living flesh twice as much as unmoored souls.”

The woman glared, her eyes narrowing as she considered. The confident, cruel expressions on her thugs’ faces were gone. Mutters of uncertainty broke out behind Sathra. Good. But his display and bluff would only hold them, not defeat them. He knew his gauntlet had a hard limit on its daily wakefulness, and even then, it could eat only one man or shadow at a time. Gage had to use their moments of confusion to find a way out. He backed up anothet step until he stood next to Angul’s open case.

“Angul! “whispered Gage. “I know you can hear me. Listen. Allow me to wield you, and I’ll return you to Kiril! These before you are the enemy; they stole you, not me. Let me wield you against them, and we both can get home. Deal?”

Sathra finally said, “Impressive trick. Binding a shadow to my own is expensive. But I’ve got more than one. Can you eat all of them at once? And deal with all my men while fending

me off, too? Shall we find out?” Sathra had hit upon his earlier conclusion, damn her guess.

The thugs at her back didn’t look happy at their mistress’s proposed experiment, especially those in the first rank. But Sathra’s instincts weren’t wrong.

The thief ignored the crime lord, focusing instead on his only hope for salvation. “Angul, be calm… don’t burn me, all right?” he whispered urgently to the blade. Would the sword take his deal? Gage reached out his left hand, ungloved and raw. Deal or no, he didn’t want to antagonize Angul with another demon-gloved grasp.

“Stop that!” yelled Sathra.

She raised her arms toward the ceiling, then brought them down in a sinuous movement, mimicking an ocean wave. Her halo of flickering darkness tore away, becoming a wave of whispering shadow that ctested toward Gage. Her men yelled and followed in the shadow’s wake.

Gage snatched Angul and thrust its point toward the ceiling. Blue fite bloomed, bright as day, driving back darkness. Gage suddenly felt the strength moral certainty lends—felt it as if he’d always owned it. Tears broke from his eyes as all the failings of his life were laid bare, revealed in the sword’s unrelenting light. Did he have Angul in his grip, or did the sword grip him?

These weren’t his thoughts! He lived his life according to a code all his own. The enchanted blade sought to pervert his self-image. He wouldn’t allow it! Gage wtestled with the feelings of remorse and repentance seeded by the blade. As he struggled, Sathra’s shadow-surge foundered in Angul’s sun-bright flame. Foundered, wavered, and began to evaporate like mist.

Sathra growled and with a gesture, dispersed the dark flock. She screamed, “Kill the man and get the burning sword, gods damn you!”

The men in the front rank flinched at her curse but launched themselves toward Gage. Gage remained still, transfixed with unsought enlightenment.

Those in the rear rank leveled crossbows, already cocked. The volley of bolts broke Gage’s deadlock. Angul ceased its btainwashing ambush to sweep the air of iron bolts, deflecting all but the one that plunged into Gage’s thigh.

He tensed with expected pain, but none came.

Your pain does not serve me yet.

The thief gasped as his legs, as if of their own impetus, ptopelled him toward Laothkund’s crime lord. The offending, evil, blasphemous female would be eradicated for the world to be cleansed—

Gage grimaced and scrabbled to bring order to the tumultuous flow of his thoughts. The damned blade was in his head, changing his perspective, his outlook, his very sense of self. The sword’s violation was… wasn’t right. Even with his mind muddled, he was pretty sure Angul’s mental violation wasn’t the sort of thing normally ascribed to a good-aligned sword.

I am the arbiter of what is right, and that which is not.

Sathra retreated from his advance, gesticulating, creating a tracery of dark lines in the air. A spell was being birthed, she its dark midwife. Her men moved to buy het the time she required to finish its weave. He hacked with Angul, hacked again. One man sat suddenly, missing an arm. Another was felled like a tree. Another’s head he stove in with the blunt side of the Blade Cerulean.

He parried a fourth’s knife thrust, but the fifth clubbed his head. Light flared, then dimmed. No pain followed, no blood. Gage plunged the sword into the club wielder’s chest. The man cried out in surprise, but Gage was already withdrawing Angul and swinging for the last fellow, who raised a sword.

The crossbowmen were swearing and fumbling to reload in mortal terror. They released another volley of bolts, more or less in unison. A few bolts tagged him, but he didn’t pause to assess the damage.

Sathra’s chanting took on a desperate note. Only one defender remained between her and Gage. Or more accurately, between her and Angul.

But that final defender parried two of Gage’s thrusts with a maul of gray stone. The man’s beard was snarled with small stone trinkets and charms. His head was shaved, and the tattoos scribed there marked him as a barbarian from the plains of Rashemen. Gage had heard tales of the tribesmen of that wild borderland. This was no ordinary thug.

“You’re my meat,” cried the barbarian. “I am Stolsin, the Grinder of Ttibes!” As he spoke, he brought the maul down with force enough to render Gage’s flesh to jelly. It would have ended there had not Angul jerked him clear.

Stolsin lifted his heavy maul into the ait with no visible strain. The muscles twining his forearm were as thick and corded as ttee roots. He screamed, “I’ve destroyed walking dead on the outskirts of Thay!” He moved, catching even Angul off guard, and struck Gage’s left shouldet. Pain flared before the burning sword could erase it.

“I’ve dared the cold drake’s icy lair on the glacier of—”

Gage lunged and pushed the Blade Cerulean’s point into the man’s abdomen. The barbarian gasped and fell. Gage guessed Stolsin, Grinder of Tribes, wished he’d parried more and boasted less.

But the batbarian’s braggadocio had bought time for his crimelord. Sathra ceased chanting and finger waving. The fruit of her spell took its final form: a black-scaled, obsidian-toothed, shadow-clawed thing. A demon of the inky void. Cold air blasted Gage and he took a step back despite Angul’s grip on his mind.

“Meet Demoriel,” crowed Sathra, brandishing a fist still steaming with shadowstuff. She looked to the crossbowmen and said, “Finish him. Help the demon!” She turned and dashed toward the exit.

Gage wanted to run, too. But like a dog distracted by the scent of fresh spoor, Angul focused all its attention on the newcomer demon.

If it couldn’t sizzle away Gage’s remaining glove, if it couldn’t slice Sathra into thin twins, it could, by the Cetulean Sign, bite deeply into this denizen of the Abyss. The blade’s surety of purpose threatened to completely drown Gage’s awareness of himself.

With an unfamiliar part of his mind, the thief wondered what the Cerulean Sign might be.

The crossbowmen howled, whethet in fear or triumph, Gage couldn’t guess, but they followed Sathra’s command and continued to harass him with a hail of iron. The Blade Cerulean twitched and danced in his hand, deflecting those bolts it deemed fatal. Despite its tightly focused mind, the blade was rational enough to keep its wielder alive. But a few bolts slipped through.

Then Demoriel pounced. A writhing atrocity, it croaked forth a verse in a language unknown to Gage, but whose consonants seemed to grind at his soul. Angul translated directly into his mind, Come back with me to the Abyss, sweet-meat! You already wear one of my brothers on your hand, mauled though he is!

The thief’s mouth went dry and his heart hammered. He had to flee, had to get past the demon—

Demoriel bore Gage down to the hard floor. It began to tear at his flesh. The crossbowmen paused, their eyes wide with horror. One said, “What if it finishes eating before its summons lapses?”

Sathra’s men turned tail.

The demon tore a chunk from his shoulder. He yowled in surprised pain. This was how he would end? Eaten by a damned demon?

Join with me, and this demon shall fall.