Chapter Four:
Beauty floated away from him. Blurry and indistinct, and he could not even tell if she was walking.
"Three pains." The horrible voice said to him, sounding as if it was gurgling from the fetid water at the bottom of a forgotten well.
He heard the world filled with a howling, tinny scream that he could not believe any human being could ever be brought to emit. Crackling bolts and a sizzling ozone stench filled the air. Flames and a charred smell like burning pork. The stillness and relentless grip of unyielding ice, and then a horrific thawing. A glow of healing magic, and the cycle began anew again. Beauty's back was turned to him, without so much as a look back.
It was only then that he realized that the scream belonged to him.
"It isn't very often that I've caught a Ranger sleeping." A sophisticated and articulate voice woke him from his well earned rest.
Dartrick had rode hard and long without sleep in order to reach Daerlun, but it was only now - with the city's lights in sight - that the man finally fell to the fatigue of three days hard riding. All that he had managed to do was tie up his mount and collapse onto his bedroll in full armor. He thought that he had traveled far enough off the trail that his hasty camp would go undiscovered, but he was wrong. That much became obvious when he woke up with the blade of a long sword pressed against his throat.
Looking up the blade of the sword with blurry eyes, Dartrick saw a hooded figure smiling down at him, with an expression that would seem benign were there not steel at his throat. Although he could only see the lower part of his attacker's face, he could discern from those features an elven heritage. Perhaps only his practiced eye could have caught it. A modicum of elven blood flowed in Dartrick's veins as well; a gift from his own half-elven mother.
"I have questions." Dartrick said calmly.
"As do I, but go ahead." The cloaked man said cheerfully.
"How did you know that I am a Ranger?" Dartrick said.
"Who else would sleep all alone in the forest with no campfire, tent, or naught but the animals to guard their rest." The mysterious intruder laughed. "Next question?"
"Why aren't I dead?" Dartrick deadpanned.
"You are not dead because I do not wish you dead." The man said arrogantly "Nor do I wish such a fate upon myself, so this is how we find ourselves in this position."
"So what are your questions?" Dartrick asked after a moment of contemplation.
"Oh, they are not for you." The half-elf said, removing the sword from his throat with another peal of cheerful laughter "I simply said that I have some."
Dartrick was up in a moment, Dagger in hand when he realized that he was surrounded by a squad of men in green cloaks. It seemed that his sneaky visitor had brought an entourage.
"Put that away." He said with a dismissive wave as his green cloaked henchmen raised short bows with wickedly barbed arrows at the ready.
"Should I take his weapons?" One of the green-cloaked soldiers asked the hooded half elf in an aristocratic accent. Dartrick immediately decided that he did not like him.
"I hardly think that is necessary." The half elf sighed.
Dartrick sheathed his dagger. He had lived a long time by his wits and his instincts. He had the feeling that this situation would not be improved by any belligerence on either side.
"Who are you." Dartrick asked of the hooded man, but the half elf simply smiled.
"I could ask the same of you." The half elf said as he pulled down his hood, revealing long red hair shot through with streaks of blond, pulled back into a tight pony tail. Some half elves looked somewhat ungainly because of their shared heritage, but he had seemed to get the best features from each parent. He had the arrogant expression of a man that knew how handsome he was.
He could tell just by looking at his dress that the half elf was a formidable individual. Not only was his sword a beautiful work, but was almost certainly enchanted. He seemed to wear no armor, but a pair of silver bracers at his wrists attested that he was not without protection. The high boots that he wore were in the style of lost Cormanthor, and any boots that old that had not decayed to nothingness were certainly the storied Boots of Elvenkind. The neutrel gray cloak was certainly the companion to the boots. With all of these magical items a man could feel secure sneaking up on a sleeping dragon, had he any skill in stealth at all. He found it unsurprising that the man had crept up on him so easily.
"I am no mystery. I am Dartrick Aliston, Ranger of Shadowdale."
"No mystery indeed. I have heard of you." The half elf said as he sheathed his sword and motioned for the surrounding bowmen to put away their weapons.
"What do you know of me?" Dartrick asked warily. His hands were not all that far from his weapons, but neither were his adversary's.
"Dartrick Aliston, son of Marek and scion of a long noble line of heroes. Bane of Bane and thorn in the side of the minions of Zhental keep. Defender of Shadowdale during the time of troubles, Veteran of the battle of the Golden Way, and one of the major players in the fall of the Zhents in Daggerdale. Good with a sword, better with a knife, and very deadly with a bow. A peasent hero with noble blood, and - despite what you might say - a mystery to many. All these things I have heard."
Dartrick stood silent, not giving him any confirmation of his information, but he was impressed.
"As for myself, I am Baron Tobias of Coveton." the half elf said "I will understand if you have not heard as much about me as I have about you. I am far from home on a religious pilgrimage. These are my personal guard, hand picked from all my Green Cloaks. They are the elite of my elite, if you will."
"What would a nobleman such as yourself be doing waylaying sleeping travelers." Dartrick said harshly.
"Practice." Tobias said with a smile, slapping his midriff "A noble life can dull the skills as well as it thickens the middle."
Dartrick could see no thickness in the lithe half elf, but offered no argument about such insignificant attempts at humor.
"You do not laugh much, do you?" Tobias said with some concern.
"No." Dartrick said after a moment of consideration.
"It must be your dreams..." Tobias said.
"What?" Dartrick said gruffly, wondering what the man was saying.
Tobias' expression scrunched up momentarily, as if realizing he had said too much, then explained "When I came upon you, you seemed to be in the midst of a most disturbing dream."
"I wouldn't know. I never remember my dreams." Dartrick lied.
"Indeed?" Tobias seemed surprised. "Oh well, none of my business."
That made Dartrick raise an eyebrow.
"Are you headed to Daerlun?" Tobias asked pointedly.
"Yes." Dartrick admitted.
"Excellent!" Tobias said, throwing his arms up suddenly. "Then we travel together."
"Do I have a choice?" Dartrick asked.
"No. I suppose not." Tobias mused, walking to where the road met the woodline.
"Get moving." Said the Green Cloak that Dartrick disliked.
Dartrick fixed his steely gaze on him, and it was the Green Cloak who turned away first.
Riding with the Baron had not been an altogether bad experience. He and his men rode well, and kept out a wary eye for brigands. Tobias told him a great deal about Coveton, a small barony that was not far from Daggerford or the dwarven settlement of Illefarn. His barony had been granted to him by the Duke of Daggerford for an undisclosed act of heroism. He had not been born to the nobility, but had little to say of his life before. He let him know of the respect that the Aliston name carried in the Waterdeep region and northwestern Faerun. It seemed to Dartrick that it was the Baron's singular attempt to butter him up.
Half a mile outside the city gates was the Mantacore inn, and it was there that Tobias brought them to a sudden stop.
"Why do we halt?" Dartrick asked.
"To make ourselves more presentable, wash off the travel dust, and stow away our arms. The city guard are notoriously picky regarding who they let in, and looking the part of the adventurer can hurt your chances. Also, nobility does not pull much weight in Sembia. A noble name will not so much as buy you a flagon of ale. Much more it is the appearance of wealth that matters.
"Then this is where we part ways. I am afraid that I have not the time for appearances." Dartrick said, secure enough that he could make such a bold statement.
"If that is the way that it must be, but I assure you that it will be easier if we stick together." Tobias told him without reservation.
"My... business is too urgent, I'm afraid." Dartrick admitted.
"Very well." Tobias said, offering his hand for the first time.
"We were well met." Dartrick insisted, clasping Tobias' arm in the adventuring way.
"We will meet again." Tobias insisted. It sounded to Dartrick as much of a threat as a promise.
"What do you mean." Dartrick asked pointedly, staring daggers at the frilly guards who crossed their halberds before him. Behind them was the chief guardsman who had ordered them to bar his path.
"You can not pass, adventuring filth." the guardsman said, holding his nose. "Neither your threats nor your tomb-looted gold given in bribe will convince me to let you pass."
"Why not?" Dartrick fumed.
"Because you have no business in Daerlun, or dare I say in Sembia." The guardsman said, waving through another merchant caravan. "You bring only swords, blood, and tears of widows. Continue down the way of the Mantacore, dog, for I hear they welcome your ilk in Cormyr."
Dartrick did not budge an inch.
"Have the death screams of your countless victims deafened you, curr?" the foppish chief guardsman exclaimed, pulling forth a perfumed rag to cover his nose.
"I do not wish violence." Was all that Dartrick said in response.
Suddenly he was aware of a sword point pressing hard into his back, the second time this day he had found himself surprised and at a disadvantage.
"If wishes were fishes..." one of the Halberd-wielding guards chuckled as more swords settled on various parts of the Ranger's person, perhaps a dozen in all.
"You should have turned back from the city when you had the chance. Now, you submit to Sembian justice." The haughty chief guardsman muffled from behind his perfumed handkerchief.
Looking from guardsman to guardsman, Dartrick realized that he was not in a survivable situation, not that he hadn't been in worse. Few of the guardsmen looked formidable enough to worry about, and often in a fight the arrogance that numbers brought became an easily exploited liability. Some men would attack, some would hold back, most would get in each other's way. He was past the point where the disadvantage of being outnumbered plunged back toward advantage, yet the few guardsmen that seemed the most seasoned fighters of the bunch were the ones that had the points of their swords against his ribcage. They met his brief glance of appraisal with a knowing nod, not the satisfied or stupid grins of their compatriots. There was no doubt in his mind that these few veterans were the ones who decided upon these tactics, not the fop before him. Nor would it surprise him to know that some of his blood mixed with theirs upon the earth of the Golden Way. They all had a way of recognizing each other, without words or deeds, and knowing what one another was capable of.
"Give up your weapons." Came the steady voice of the most grizzled veteren, the one that had surprised him with the sword directly in his back.
Dartrick turned his head to look back into a single hard gray eye, the other covered with a patch that sported the all-seeing eye of Helm. That the man venerated the god of sentries and guards was unsurprising, but Dartrick thought that he would have been better served had the patch been inscribed by the holy symbol of the blind god Tyr. He would feel much better about "submitting to Sembian justice" in that instance.
"Take them." Dartrick said after a brief pause, not caring if it was taken as a challenge by some. Far more dangerous was attempting to reach for his weapons in a cage of pointed steel.
The eye-patched guardsman nodded to one of the others who looked too young to shave. The quivering scarecrow of a guardsman carefully lowered his blade and reached for the sheathed sword and dagger on the Ranger's belt. Dartrick made no move to stop him, and even nodded toward the rucksack that was strapped to his saddlebag.
"There are more in there." he said simply, as the young guardsman helped himself to the Ranger's belt pouch, perhaps exceeding his mandate for the look it earned him from his obvious superior.
"Could I have your name, good sir?" The one-eyed guardsman asked gruffly, lowering his sword now that the ranger was disarmed.
"Dartrick Aliston." The Ranger replied without reservation "Might I have yours?"
"Grimwald." The man said simply.
"That was a brilliant manuver, distracting me with this fool while your men surrounded me." Dartrick said with respect, gesturing to the fop with the handkerchief.
The snorts of suppressed laughter among the men was nearly deafening.
"Strip this dog of his armor, and throw him in the moat. Be glad the law does not permit taking your impudent tongue as well!" The dandy guardsman huffed, nearly trembling with rage. "Your horse and all items carried are now property of the city, and your person would do well to leave with all haste!"
"He's the one in charge friend." The one eyed man said with a bizarre wink of his good eye "Pity though that may be."
Dartrick hit the filthy water head first, but had the presence of mind not to get a mouthful of it. It was surprisingly deep for a moat, which often was little more than a muddy ditch, and Dartrick was totally submerged. After a moment, he broke the surface and began to tread water with practiced ease, avoiding flotsam that did not look at all wholesome. He looked up the six foot slope that he had just rolled down, at the squad of soldiers who began to turn away. The one-eyed guardsman looked down, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. It was if he had never seen a man handle the situation that he had found himself in with such dignity. He gave him a single gesture that was nearly a salute, and turned to walk after his men.
"Curses and blasphemy." Dartrick muttered without elaborating, his strict upbringing showing in his refusal to use stronger language even while floating in the murky stink of the moat.
"Mayhap the next time I give advice, you would do well to lend me your ear." an infuriatingly familiar voice called down to him.
Dartrick turned to see an immaculately dressed Tobias, no weapons evident and flanked by guards that were also decked out in finery that lacked the scars of battle.
Dartrick simply scowled.
"Now then, I am not here to say that I told you so... but I should let you know that your situation is not hopeless." Tobias said with a smile.
"How so?" Dartrick asked.
"You see that grate over there?" Tobias said with a wave, indicating a huge sewer grate from which greenish water spewed.
"Yes." Dartrick said.
"The sewers of Daerlun are of olden design, large enough to ride a horse through. If you can squeeze through that grate, which should not be no great feat as you are without armor and are covered in a coat of slime, you can access the city even more easily then had they let you in. Unlike us, you will have bypassed customs, tax men, and other such scribes that will lighten our purses as efficiently as brigands."
Dartrick looked to the grate doubtfully.
"Oh, and this might help." Tobias said with a flick of his wrist. A shiny dagger plunged into the embankment within easy arms reach.
Pulling it free from the earth, Dartrick saw that it was not any ordinary dagger. It was his dagger, which the guard had just taken from him.
"How did you get this?" He asked the smiling half-elf.
"Lets just say that the lad who took it is wondering the same thing." Tobias said as he turned to leave "Good luck and keep that head above water. I'll see you again."
"Somehow I believe you." Dartrick muttered before he clenched the dagger in his teeth and swam toward the sewer grate.
Perhaps Tobias had exaggerated about the size of the sewer's passages, yet they were large by any standard. At first Dartrick had been forced to walk at a crouch, but now he was fully upright with an inch or two to spare before the slime-encrusted ceiling threatened to once again bump his head. His belt had been taken along with his armor, so the only thing holding up his pants was the drawstring in the woolen garments and the slime that plastered it to his body. His long-sleeved shirt, which had somehow lost its chest lacing, hung open nearly to his navel. He looked a fright, and he needed to watch his step because his hard-soled boots had been taken also. As a consequence of all this, his dagger was still clenched in his teeth for lack of another place to store it.
The stench was overpowering, and he had already vomited once. He had simply wiped his chin and drove on without shame. With an empty stomach he felt better about being down here. Every so often he was hit with a dry retch, but simply spit and moved on. This was the third time in his life he had needed to stalk through rivers of human waste in order to get into a city, and he hated cities in the first place. He could only hope Daerlun was more welcoming than Zhental Keep and Hillsfar had been. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, why he had ever wanted to be an adventurer in the first place. He did not, nor had he ever, really considered himself one. He had not needed to look for adventure, for his father had passed onto him what the old man had derisively called the "luck of heroes." Adventure, it seemed, had a way of finding him.
Perhaps because of his mothers heritage, or perhaps because of sheer practice, Dartrick saw in the dark much better than most men. It came as no surprise, therefore, when he rounded a corner and found a half dozen beady rat eyes staring menacingly at him. The rat-like humanoids were as familiar to him as crawls through the sewers. Wererats were distant cousins of the wretch that he had killed north of Saerb. Although not all Lycanthropes were of an evil nature, these were among those that were. His dagger was in his hand in an instant. The six did not look any more surprised to see him than he was to see them. They stood in one line, completely blocking his progress. They were all armed, being among the few shape changers who commonly used human weapons, and looked ready for a fight.
"No need for violence, human." The big one with the wickedly spiked mace hissed "We have already eaten, and you look too stringy to be tasty anyway. Perhaps we may do a bit of commerce?"
From the look of the others, with their short swords and axes at the ready, they did not share that sentiment. Dartrick's hatred for Lycanthropes had always prevented him from successfully parlaying with them, so he did not even attempt to do so this time. Without a word, he assumed a defensive position and waited.
He did not have to wait long.
"Stop!" The big leader yelled as a smaller, far more rash ratman charged with a high pitched squeal. He came in swinging his short sword, not knowing that he was already dead. Dartrick grabbed his sword arm by the wrist and severed the wererat's bicep at the inner elbow with a flash of enchanted steel. The ratman squealed as his unfeeling fingers popped open and his sword clattered to the ground. The next thing the beast knew, he was being choked by his own crippled arm in a fast wrestling hold. He was stabbed again and again, but barely felt the thrust that ended his days.
Dartrick whirled around with the beast's sword in hand. He was unsure if it would do permanent damage to his lycanthropic foes, but it was better than nothing. While he had been killing their comrade, the others had more prudently formed a semicircle and advanced slowly.
"That rash fool..." the leader of the wererats lamented.
"Don't lose any sleep over him." Dartrick said.
"No one comes to my domain and slays my servants with impunity!" the big rat hissed "We may not hunger now, but your flesh may sate us just as well once it has spoiled for a day or two!"
With that the wererat waved his arm to the two on his right, a snarl escaping his twisted visage. They charged with their swords swinging, but the Ranger was waiting.
When Dartrick crawled out of the sewer he was covered in wererat blood, but eternally grateful that not one of the wretches had bitten him. Luckily enough this lot had taken to using weapons and killing one another in a civilized manner. In his life he must have killed hundreds of the scum, and all manner of lycanthropes had joined them in hell. The rat men were the most feeble of their kind and in a way they were more pitiful then terrifying. The worst thing about them was the concept of becoming one of them, but he had avoided that. He had not, however, avoided the wounds that their weapons inflicted. His life's blood was draining out of him from a couple of grievous wounds and he needed to get them cleaned and bound. He also needed to find a place to stay out of sight in case the watch decided to check up on him and found that he had illegally entered the city.
He found shelter in a dark alley, not looking any different from a half dozen indigents that crouched there. The difference was that he smelled like the sewers, but that was not truly too much of a difference. He lay against the wall, camouflaged by filth, and finally started to relax. His pulse stopped thumping and his breathing slowed. It was all a part of shoving it back inside. That part of himself that had kept him alive down in the sewer was not a part to let free on the streets of a city. It was a nearly mindless, inarticulate rage that only repeated the same words over and over again in the cadence he had been taught when he was seven years old. Before his father let him lift a blade for the first time he had to repeat it endlessly memorize every note of it. The song of the blade, a deadly quiet song sung only in your mind. A song of slashes, parries, and thrusts.
Kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with cold hard steel kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with nothing to feel kill kill kill without mercy blood blood makes the green grass grow kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with a heart of steel kill kill kill without mercy...
So the song quieted, and he closed his eyes and focused on the pain in his leg and side. The were the two most serious wounds and they would become inflamed and ooze pus in no time if he did not get to a healer. This was what his mind said, and what every instinct told him, but he did not know that one of the wererats had coated their blade with a poison as foul as Talona ever concocted. He did not have enough time left to live for the infection to set in. Almost paralyzed, he stared at the city bustling around him. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was how much he hated cities.
Next: How does Dartrick survive? What are Talindra's foul plans? What has befallen Shael and her companions? What is Tobias' angle? Will Aronal realize the danger he is in? How does The blunderer of Westgate fit in, and why would anyone want him to? To be honest, I don't know because I haven't written any of that yet. If anyone is interested in me continuing this story let me know! Thanks for reading and I look forward to your reviews.