13th Day of Ready'reat, 565 CY
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy
The three horses thundered across the plain.
White Lightning, currently galloping for all she was worth, could see Perlial keeping abreast of her, about twenty feet to her right. The blue roan horse they were chasing was keeping a distance of perhaps twice that in front of them.
Elrohir walloped the rear of the roan with the palm of his hand, and it swung sharply to the right.
White Lightning and Perlial followed suit. Divots of dirt and grass flew into the air as the two heavy warhorses veered and tried to close the gap. Elrohir now ran his steed through a series of evasive maneuvers, but his pursuers mirrored his every move, and had now gained ten feet or so on him.
Steam burst out of White Lightning's nostrils with every breath she took. The mare tried to find some extra reserve of energy within her that she might have overlooked before. It galled the horse immensely that her master was riding another animal and worse yet, that animal was as yet proving impossible to overtake.
Even, White Lightning thought, if it is not really an animal at all.
Knowing without even looking that Perlial was thinking these same thoughts, White Lightning now began angling slightly off to the left.
Elrohir looked back and frowned but continued to ride straight on.
The ruin of the Jones farm was getting closer now as the three horses continued running to the northwest. White Lightning took in the sagging roof, rotting walls and missing front door in an instant, even as Elrohir blew past the building without slowing.
White Lightning pulled up to a halt and, still huffing, kept the building between herself and her master. She could see Perlial continuing to chase the ranger.
A rotted front porch was located on the farmhouse's southwest side. Slowly, taking care with each step, the warhorse entered the building.
A quarterstaff stood incongruously by itself, planted in the hard earth. As Elrohir rode past it, he leaned precariously to the left and slapped it with his hand. As he began to arc in a wide circle, the ranger glanced back at Perlial, then leaned forward to shout into his horse's ear.
"She'll never catch us!"
White Lightning only had twenty feet or so to travel to reach the far side of the house, but it was difficult. The mare had to test each step to ensure that a hoof would not fall crash through the floorboards. She had to squeeze herself through two narrow interior doorways, using her head to push aside rotting doors on rusty hinges.
But now she was there, by the open window that faced to the northeast. White Lightning caught a glimpse of Elrohir heading back to the southeast now, Perlial still some thirty feet back. White Lighting quickly backed up and out of view.
She hoped she had guessed right about her master- and about the strength of these walls.
Elrohir wasn't quite sure what was going on.
Perlial, having rounded the staff, was still behind. The roan horse Elrohir was riding would normally be significantly faster than its pursuer, but the ranger was armored and in full pack, and that was slowing it down.
But this far ahead? Elrohir wondered. Our horses have always seemed like the wind to me. Perhaps they have been idle too long. Maybe when we do ride to the north- to Molag- they should not accompany us.
The old farmhouse was coming up fast. Elrohir knew White Lightning had to be hiding behind it.
She had to be by the building's southeast face. Where the front door was. He could see the other three sides of the square house's walls, and there was no sign of his steed.. Undoubtedly, she was planning to rush out as he galloped past and startle him enough for Perlial to catch up.
Elrohir shook his head, not without some that he was ready for it, he knew he'd have several seconds to react, and so wouldn't be startled when it happened.
Not much of a plan, the ranger thought to himself. He was coming up past the farmhouse's northeast side when it happened.
An immense shape crashed through the window on that side, taking a good section of the wall with it. Like an approaching storm cloud- complete with a bolt of lightning- White Lightning was upon Elrohir and his steed in an instant.
Elrohir didn't have time to signal his horse, but he didn't need to. It instinctively turned to the left and missed the approaching equine juggernaut.
Perlial thundered past the ranger, heading southeast.
Elrohir cursed and slammed the rear of his mount repeatedly, screaming at it to hurry up. The animal issued a sound of protest that was not very horse-like but obeyed.
Perlial, the mounted Elrohir and White Lightning formed a line now, all galloping full-out. Not having rounded the staff, the latter horse was not eligible to win the race, but she could still act as spoiler, and seemed determined to fulfill that role.
Shouts came from above. Three horses and one ranger looked up to see Argo Bigfellow and Caroline, flying astride Gylandir and Sequester, paralleling their course about fifty feet overhead, shouting encouragement.
Elrohir could not make out their exact words over the thundering of hooves, but he knew the Bigfellows' encouragement was not meant for him.
"Come on!" he shouted again at his steed. "You want to lose? Give it all you've got!"
The Brass Dragon came into view. Cygnus, Zantac, Nesco, Laertes and several of the inn's workers were standing outside, yelling and screaming. Tojo stood apart some distance, quietly observing.
Froth was forming over Perlial's mouth now from the force of her exertions. Pieces of bubbly spit broke off and flew into her eyes, but the mare just shook her head and galloped on until she thought her lungs would burst. Her master had told her not to hold back, so she wasn't going to.
And now she was almost there. The horse could almost see the invisible line on the frost-bitten grass between Cygnus and Zantac that marked the finish. She risked a quick glance backwards. Elrohir and his mount were still behind and not gaining. Perlial was going to do it. She was going to win! She-
Both Elrohir and his steed disappeared.
Perlial whipped her head around back to the front, already knowing what she would see.
Having teleported forward, Elrohir thundered over the finish line.
Perlial crossed seconds afterwards, White Lightning perhaps five seconds behind her. The sound of her own breathing was so loud to the horse that she barely heard the boos and catcalls of those present.
"Not fair!" Perlial shouted as soon as she was able to. "You cheated!"
Elrohir swung off the blue roan horse, which immediately reared up on its hind legs and shrunk in size, its forelegs already turning back into arms.
Aslan, his smile a fair copy of Argo's pained grin, moved forward, breathing heavily, his arms held out in supplication, but Perlial turned away in a huff that was only partially false.
"I warned you!" Argo shouted even as Gylandir's hooves touched the ground, Caroline close behind him. "He hates to lose!"
"And I do not?" asked Perlial. She had to keep shifting her position and moving her head to avoid Aslan's gaze, as the paladin, now wearing his most disarming smile, kept trying to get in front of her.
"I thought paladinth weren't allowed to cheat," observed Laertes.
Lady Cynewine smiled. "You'd be surprised by what they can do."
Even from twenty feet out, she could see Aslan blush at her words.
Seeing White Lightning finally consent for Elrohir to close and console her, Perlial finally allowed Aslan to do the same. The paladin pulled his helm off and laid his dusty and sweaty cheek against the grey mare's neck.
"Despite my cheating, you are the clear winner, Perlial," he said. "Let not my moment of churlishness cloud that fact. No horse I have laid eyes on before or after you can ever match you in speed, cunning," he paused, "or loyalty."
From the expression on Aslan's face, Perlial thought that her own voice managed to sound coy, which was her intent.
"Is this regret only because I pout?"
The paladin leaned in close to whisper his reply into Perlial's ear.
"I hold no regret anymore than I think that you truly sulk, my good and faithful servant. We are both blessed with gifts from Lord Odin. My Talent, your good heart-"
"-and each other," Perlial finished for him in as close to a whisper as she could manage.
They leaned into each other for a moment and then Aslan straightened up.
"I'll be back presently," he told his steed, patting her side as he moved off. "There's an important point that needs to be made first."
Elrohir had just finished apologizing and consoling White Lightning as well and was about to join the others when he saw Aslan striding towards him, a stern and cold glare on the paladin's face.
"What?" Elrohir asked, looking surprised.
Aslan stopped right in front of him; arms crossed and light blue eyes blazing.
The others all stared at him in silence.
"Don't slap me on the butt, Elrohir," Aslan said. "Never slap the paladin on the butt."
"That lookth good," Laertes said, licking his tusks in anticipation.
It had been decided to eat outside the inn to celebrate what had been universally decided as Perlial and White Lightning's victory in the race. The two mares as well as the two pegasi munched contently on oats while three fat geese were roasting in an enormous fire pit that had been dug outside. Hot mugs of coffee, tea, ale and cider were passed around to help the fire ward off the early winter's chill for those gathered around.
Elrohir was grateful for his hot tea; as much for its smell and warmth as for its taste, but the ranger found it impossible to keep his mind with the others as they celebrated. The ranger's mind, as it always seemed to do, wandered.
It had been two months since they had returned to the Brass Dragon, and while some things were going well, perhaps better than he'd dared hope, others were far behind schedule.
There'd been no further dreams, from either horse or human, about Kar-Vermin. That was encouraging, but Elrohir was frustrated by what he considered the slow pace of his friends in preparation for their journey north, to the Horned Society. He felt like they were dragging their feet, hoping the problem might never materialize if they did not confront it. To be sure they had reasons they offered; not enough information gathered yet, the impossibility of a direct assault on the city of Molag and so forth. But while Elrohir knew there was some sense in what they said, he was dead certain that delay was dangerous; that the Hierarchs were moving ahead with their plan to resurrect; if such a word could truly be used here, the deadliest and most implacable foe they'd ever faced.
They'd had no luck at all with the rowbaht torso. Not able to trust the Willip Wizards' Guild, they'd been forced to rely on low-level divinations from what local churches they could put their faith in- those of Heironeous and Zeus. It used up what little coin they'd had left from their Suderham adventure and netted them nothing. For all intents and purposes, the rowbaht was a piece of metal gathering dust in their cellar.
Even more troubling was news of Nodyath and his Outlaws. Although there had been no attack yet upon their home, a sending he'd received yesterday from Monsrek, who along with Sir Dorbin and the rest of their band had moved to the Castle Chauv after Elrohir and the others had returned home, had been very disquieting.
Outlaw assault on Castle Chauv will occur within week. Believe it to be diversion to tie up Talent, so will be simultaneous with attack on you.
Elrohir didn't know how Dorbin had come by this knowledge, but he accepted it, just as he recognized the implication. It made sense. Nodyath wouldn't want to face two Talents at once- he'd tried that before- so he'd split his forces. Force Dorbin to defend Castle Chauv while the remainder of his band attacked the inn.
And what were his forces? Perhaps four or five dozen brigands by now, but they were of less concern than the others; the dark priest of Nerull, the wizard Frill, Sbalt, a powerful warrior no doubt, and the little man called The Runt. Although Dangerous Hands was dead, the others were powerful; powerful enough to stand up to Sir Dorbin's entire party.
And what of Nodyath himself? Would he lead the assault upon the Brass Dragon, or would he give that responsibility to Sbalt and join the attack upon Chauv, hoping to kill Dorbin, a weaker Talent than himself?
Elrohir had started to turn to Talass to ask her opinion before his breath caught in his throat and he stopped himself.
Two months had done nothing to dull the pain.
Where was she now, Elrohir wondered? Approaching the Rakers, he guessed.
Unless something had happened to her.
If he closed his eyes, Elrohir could see his wife, and the sight threatened to swamp his eyes with tears behind his closed lids.
Deep now in his almost daily brooding, it never occurred to the ranger that some of his friends might also not be enjoying the feast to its fullest; that worries and concerns of their own were nagging at them.
Aslan could still vividly picture Sir Dorbin's face.
The Seltiac knight, along with all his companions, had been overjoyed to see Aslan and his friends, all together again after so many months. While Argo and Caroline, oblivious to the rest of the common room, engaged in an embrace passionate enough to turn everyone's face red, Dorbin filled the victorious adventurers in on what had transpired while they had been away. Then Elrohir began his tale and had just gotten to the point where they had met up with Saxmund and her companions when Dorbin interrupted.
"What about Talat? Was she still with them?" he demanded.
Aslan glanced over at Elrohir. There had been no consensus or even discussion as to how this inevitable question would be dealt with. The paladin saw his friend take a deep breath and begin to reply but he was cut off by another voice.
"No. She wasn't. Saxmund said she'd left them when they returned to Furyondy."
Apparently, Argo Bigfellow Junior had been listening after all.
Aslan turned. His right arm still wrapped around his wife's waist, the big ranger gazed impassively at Sir Dorbin, his face a study in casual neutrality. It was a lie told with the ring of truth. If Aslan hadn't known better, he might have believed it himself.
But then Dorbin did exactly what Aslan was afraid he would.
The knight's gaze travelled the room until it met that of the paladin.
"Aslan." Sir Dorbin's tone was sharp. "Is this true?"
In the sudden silence which descended upon the room, Nesco Cynewine's sucking in her breath was faintly audible.
Aslan the Paladin. Paladins never lie.
The rest of the Brass Dragon faded out of existence for Aslan. Only Sir Dorbin's face; the deep blue eyes. Small weathered lines around his mouth. Strong jaw line.
Three steps brought Dorbin directly in front of the paladin.
"Aslan," the knight repeated softly but no less sternly, "is this true?"
Paladins never lie.
Aslan did not look at his friends, but he knew they were watching him. Waiting to see which Aslan would speak. Aslan their friend or Aslan the paladin.
How little they know sometimes, he thought.
"Sir Dorbin." Aslan's deep voice was calm and measured, but it carried the unmistakable tone of reproach. "You are a good and true friend, but I would very much appreciate it if you would stop doubting the veracity of my friend Argo Bigfellow."
With that, Aslan turned his back on Sir Dorbin, walked over to the bar, eased his armored bulk upon one of the stools and ordered a wine from Jack the bartender.
Paladins never lie, he thought to himself as the fruit-laced alcohol poured down his throat.
Of course, he hadn't really fooled Sir Dorbin. Aslan hadn't intended to. He'd simply wanted to get the point across to the knight that Aslan, Elrohir and all concerned were all of one mind concerning Talat.
Apparently the message had been received and understood. The very next day, Dorbin began teleporting the members of his party away to the Castle Chauv. A week later, they were all gone.
"Copper for your thoughts." Argo nudged his wife.
Caroline smiled back but merely shrugged and said nothing, choosing to make a show of eating her goose drumstick rather than replying to her husband. Lady Bigfellow's head was full of thoughts, but she didn't have the capacity to put them into words. Not yet.
She again pulled the tiny crumpled piece of parchment from her belt pouch and examined it again, although she had read the brief message it contained.
The day before, a small red bird (not a cardinal; Caroline did not recognize the type) had perched over the front door of the Brass Dragon and squawked loudly until Argo had approached it, whereupon it landed on the ranger's forearm and presented its leg, which had a small piece of parchment strapped to it.
Back in the Welkwood. Near Fax. Heard Alabin lost Dak's castle to creditors. Had to vacate; was last seen heading north. Wainold.
The druid hadn't bothered to date his note and Caroline had no idea how long it had taken the bird to fly the three hundred or so miles. A week? Two?
It didn't seem of much consequence now, she thought. Scurvy John was dead- she wished she'd been there to see that- so the fate of his former ship's wizard wasn't even worth the effort to dwell on it. If he perished in the wilderness, it'd be no more than he deserved, she thought. Alabin was a cruel and savage man, no better than his brother; the late "Lord" Dak, or his former master John.
Caroline stole a covert glance at Laertes, who was devouring his own drumstick. Indeed, as Lady Bigfellow watched, the half-orc cracked the bone in half and began sucking out the marrow.
This was where her true concern lay.
Despite all their best hopes, the addition of a half-orc to the regular management of the Brass Dragon had not gone unnoticed. Although neither Wescene nor Sitdale had so much as batted an eyelash, an elven traveler who'd been sitting in the common room when Laertes had first walked into it had gotten up and left the inn to fetch his horse, stating coolly but politely that he'd lost his appetite.
Then their thirteen year-old serving girl Alethea; the one who'd help save the barkeep's life, had failed to return to the inn when her shift came around. Investigation revealed that the girl's mother had, over the girl's protests, forbidden her to work at the Brass Dragon anymore. Even worse, a visit to the Willip laborers guild found no one was seemingly available to replace her. "Safety regulations," the officious clerk had sniffed at Argo. Caroline had thought her husband was going to choke the man on the spot without a word, but the big ranger had simply spun and walked out of the guildhall, his wife hustling to keep up.
Argo had spread the word around the streets of Willip that the Brass Dragon was willing to hire and train anyone, even beggars, to act as servers, but as yet there had been no takers.
"Guess it's you then, son," Argo had shrugged as he held an apron out to Laertes.
The half-orc was outraged.
"What? Why am I being punithed for their prejudith? Thath not right!"
His hairy hand came out of his belt pouch clutching the obi of the courtier but a hand, slender but strong, grabbed it by the wrist.
"No," Cygnus said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry Laertes, but if some wizard or priest should detect that sash as magical and realize its properties, we'd be bankrupt within a month. Without the trust of our customers, we're out of business."
"Let them earn your trutht!" Laertes had shouted back. The half-orc looked around and saw many sympathetic faces, but none that backed his view.
"Fine," he groused, yanking his hand out of Cygnus' grip, shoving the obi back in the pouch, snatching the apron and storming off to the kitchen. His parting words tore a hole in Caroline's heart, even though she had not known the half-orc as long as the others.
"I thought it might be different here."
While everyone assisted to some degree, Caroline Bigfellow had been assigned as Laertes' primary combat trainer, much as she'd been with Tad. It was here where she'd learned another surprising thing about Laertes.
In every way, the half-orc was the ideal student. He was strong, smart, reliable, full of endurance, learned quickly, and an obedient, never-complaining pupil.
He just didn't seem to enjoy the idea of combat at all.
This floored Caroline. True, she hadn't known many half-orcs. There had been some back at the Lone Heath, but she'd never been close to any of them, but they'd all relished battle, seeking it out when they could and losing themselves in the joy, the release of combat.
Laertes tolerated it because it was a means to an end. That was all.
"When can I put all this training to good use?" he'd ask constantly. "Why don't we try to find Nodyath before he comes for us? When are going north to the Horned Society? You people are in danger! Let's take the fight to our enemies first! Let me help! Let's do some good!"
It was a refrain she had heard many times before.
"Elrohir," Caroline had announced as her team leader had been walking by one night on the way to his cabin.
The ranger looked at her. "Yes, Caroline?"
"I think you've got a son you've never told us about."
Wainold's letter had not been the only message the party had received. Not twenty feet away from Caroline Bigfellow, Lady Nesco Cynewine sat quietly and thought about the letter she had received. Its appearance had not been magical in any away. Delivered by a king's Mail Rider and dated almost six weeks ago, it had taken nearly three weeks to arrive.
Dearest Sister;
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I wish those sentiments were common here in Ironstead but alas, such is not the case. Last night, we came under attack by horrid monsters that I later learned were called mephits. To me though, they seemed no less than denizens of The Pit. Composed of fire, earth and other elements, they flew over the walls and descended directly upon the jail. They slew the guards stationed there and one of them, which seemed no more substantial than a wisp of fog, nevertheless carried the prisoner Corvis up and back over the walls. Although we slew some of the fiends, we lost almost a dozen good men.
It was as we were dealing with the aftermath of this terrible assault that the mercenaries who had earlier been accompanying the blue giant Agarth arrived here, looking much the worse themselves. They said that these mephit monsters had been summoned by a priest of the Scourge named Rashlot. They further stated they had come across this cleric in the forest as he conversed with another man he called Excel, apparently also a servant of Hextor (I must grit my teeth to even put that horrid name to ink!). Rashlot was telling this Excel of his plan to free Corvis in exchange for gaining the latter's aid in some foul plot, the details of which they were unable to overhear but must surely prove unsettling to anyone of virtue. Alas, the sellswords, who call themselves The Journeymen, arrived too late to warn us. They soon set off, accompanied by Golatunt (you remember him, Nesco- Gold Up Front?), determined to track down this foul villain. They left with our good wishes, but we could spare them no further aid beyond some mundane items, as orc ambushes and skirmishes continue to increase. For now, we hold our own, but I cannot help but wonder…
Ironically, the four Master Elementalists of Chendl had arrived two days prior to the attack to take charge of the steelsphere, which had been transported here via sled a week ago. Somehow, they managed to magick it away, but this meant they were not present when the mephits attacked. It is a tragedy, for they could have slain the monsters easily, but they seemed a surly lot, eager to be off. As per their reputation, they seemed most unhappy at having been forced out of the Royal Palace, even briefly. How your Aslan ever managed to persuade Karzalin to travel to the Pomarj, I'll never be able to fathom.
Nesco had paused. Stared at that two-word phrase for some time before continuing.
"Your Aslan…"
And finally (I know you've been scanning this letter looking for this, Sis), I bring you news of our family. Joseph and Lencon are fine. The former has even won some praise in a recent action in which he, I and about six others battled orcs twice our number as they attempted to ambush and slay one of our hunting parties. Joseph certainly does not lack for bravery dear sister, but I must confess his lack of caution worries me. For his part, Joseph mumbles only about "regaining lost honor." I even hesitate to tell you this, Nesco, for I know the grief it will bring to your heart, but you have always told me to trust in honesty as its own virtue, and so I will. Know well that no other Cynewine holds this view. As an aside, a brief letter from Bretagne in Chendl tells me that Mother and Father are doing fine. Each in their own way, I suspect.
I eagerly await return news from you, Sis. Send your reply to Ironstead. If I have been reassigned ere it reached here, I have left instructions for it to be forwarded. Take care.
I remain your loving brother,
Grimdegn Cynewine
The others had quickly read the letter (in fact, Argo had even read it over Nesco's shoulder). Elrohir, looking grim, spoke first.
"Talat. Rashlot wants Corvis' aid in tracking her down."
"I don't doubt that, Elrohir," Aslan had said. "But don't forget that long before this, Rashlot broke Chic out of prison as well, and Chic's primary enemy was us, not Talat."
The ranger stared at him.
"You think Rashlot may be a link in that chain we talked about back in Chendl?"
If possible, Aslan's face looked even more severe than that of his friend.
"Now that I'm finally looking for them, Elrohir, I see more and more connections the more and more I look. And all of them are bad."
Zantac sighed with satisfaction and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. The Willip wizard looked over to where a new stone cabin stood, about fifty yards from the Bigfellow residence. It was slightly larger than that residence or the one where Aslan lived, but it needed to be. Three people were going to live there.
Nesco Cynewine, Laertes and a certain red-robed mage.
The interior walls and interior finishings were still being constructed. The cabin would be ready for occupancy in two day's time, the builder said.
Zantac smiled to himself and shook his head. These were going to be some interesting living arrangements. He had thought that Cygnus would move out of their room at the inn and into the new cabin in order to be closer to Nesco, but that had not been the case.
He shrugged. Maybe I was wrong about Ciggy, he thought.
Then Zantac slowly looked down to the small brown leather pouch that hung beside his red salamander-skin spell component pouch. The pouch that held several small bone dice of varying shapes. Dice that were used in the game of gemsnatcher.
This pouch and the dice within had once belonged to Hengist, who had left it behind at the Brass Dragon when Aslan took him and the others back to Suderham. Sitdale had claimed possession of it upon their return, but when his party was returning to the lands of Baroness Chauv, he had handed it to Zantac.
Zantac thought of Hengist. A good man who had died for nothing more than a piece of glow-fungus. A piece of moss that at the time meant the difference between life and death for all of them.
They had lived. Hengist had died.
Zantac's fingers tightened on the pouch as he thought of the last time he had played a game of gemsnatcher. Several days ago.
I wonder, the wizard thought, if I'm wrong about everyone…
The atmosphere at Dialamen's in Willip was loud, smoky and uncouth, but not unfamiliar to Zantac. It was an occasional revelry spot for a number of the local mages. Zantac himself hadn't been back here since he had left the guild.
Correction, he reminded himself. Since he had been thrown out of the guild for failing to recruit Cygnus.
Zantac rolled the polyhedral dice idly back and forth across the wooden surface of the table when he heard the voice of the person whom he had come here to meet. That voice that never failed to affect him.
"It's not nearly as much fun playing with yourself, Zantac."
Wearing a smile and flashing white teeth that seemed to cut through the pipe smoke like a sunrod, Aimee glided effortlessly among the people moving around the small tavern and gaming house. She wore a red dress with a relatively high cut for her, but it still clung to her body like spider silk.
Aimee stopped beside the chair that sat across the table from Zantac. Her dark eyes bore into him while her smile became coy, even playful.
Zantac stared blankly at her for a moment and then with a start, got up from his own chair, rounded the table and pulled Aimee's chair back for her. With an exaggerated gesture of gratitude, she seated herself as Zantac tried to pull his eyes away from staring down her front.
"Chivalry is not dead," the female mage sighed. "I'm so glad."
Trembling now, Zantac lowered himself back into his own chair. "Shall I order us drinks?" he managed to ask.
She nodded while bringing out her own gemsnatcher pouch. "Whatever you want. I trust you, Zantac."
That was a big fat lie, but he didn't really trust her either, so Zantac guessed that made them even.
So why in Hades had he set up this meeting in the first place?
Zantac rolled his cube while The Succubus, ahead as usual, rolled her octahedron. They both sipped at their ales.
Small talk, news of the Guild, had been exhausted. Aimee seemed more subdued now. Her hair, currently blonde, remained a constant hue.
Sweating now, Zantac knew he had to get to the point. He wasn't even sure he'd have enough gold to pay Aimee if they played this game to the end.
"I'd like to ask you something, Aimee," he said, hoping his voice sounded calmer to her ears than it did to his.
She looked at him, her expression casual. "Mmm?"
By the gods, those lips!
He tried to focus on some part of his fellow mage that wasn't attractive, failed and settled for staring just over the top of her head.
Somehow, he got the words out.
"I want to know if you're working for the Emerald Serpent."
She flashed him a dazzling smile, and he knew then she'd already anticipated his question.
"Why, Zantac," she purred. "Why on Oerth would you think that?"
Her hair slowly turned green as she spoke, but Zantac ignored that distraction. "I could give you a list of the evidence I've gathered, but I'm sure you'd have some valid-sounding explanation for all of it. Do you want me to begin anyway?"
Aimee's smile remained on her face but drained from her eyes.
"One game at a time, Zantac," she said quietly. "One game at a time."
She pointed at her die. It showed one pip.
Zantac sighed as he picked up his cube while Aimee switched to her ten-sided die.
They both rolled. Sipped.
"Just because I may know things, Zantac," Aimee abruptly said, "doesn't make me complicit to them, or even sympathetic. Knowledge is just like arcana."
She gazed at him; her face neutral now.
"Worth a lot to the right people."
For an instant, Zantac felt like he was holding onto the roper filament again, dangling over a dark chasm. So easy to make the wrong move. So easy to just let go.
He looked at the Succubus again, and suddenly Zantac thought it was Marisee staring at him. The younger sister Aimee had never had. Then it was Shayla.
Then Aimee's hair turned a deep chestnut brown, and her eyes turned pink…
"No!"
He knew it hadn't really happened. He knew it was all in his mind, but he could feel himself teetering anyway, his brain feeling like it was on fire. He knew he had jumped to his feet, although he didn't remember doing it. Zantac kept his right hand clamped over his tightly-shut eyes while his left hand gripped the back of his chair for support.
"Are you all right, Zantac?" he heard Aimee's voice.
She's a good actress, the wizard thought to himself. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was really concerned about me.
Zantac nodded and removed his hand from his face. He had to will himself to open his eyes.
"I'm tired," he found himself saying to The Succubus, even as he stared down at the dice. "I'm tired of games and I'm tired of fear and I'm tired of worrying about the lives of Cygnus and the others. They're all good people, Aimee, and they don't deserve this. The Emerald Serpent brings nothing but woe and misery to everyone around them and they need to be destroyed down to the last member. And I really hope that what you're saying is true Aimee, because I'd hate to think that, for all your posturing, that'd you really align yourselves with such monsters."
The Willip wizard sat back down again, took a deep breath, and forced himself to look back at Aimee again, whose hair had returned to its normal dark brown. At that woman who might be the most beautiful sight on Oerth if there weren't so much going on behind those dark brown eyes.
Aimee shook her head. Now there was a sad little grin on that heart-shaped face.
"I never figured you as the hero type, Zantac."
"Makes two of us," he replied. "But things change. Any first-tier transmuter can tell you that."
They rolled their dice and sipped their ales, but when Zantac looked up again, Aimee's eyes were bearing down on him.
No smile now.
"And if I am allied with the Serpent, Zantac? Will you kill me as well?"
"Probably not," he heard himself say, the words spilling out before he knew it. "I'm sure you'd kill me first. Zelhile always says I'm too slow on the draw. But The Hells take me if I'm not going to go down casting."
The Succubus took a deep breath and tilted her head, regarding her former Guild partner.
Then she suddenly stood up, made a gesture with one hand and began gathering her dice with the other, her words coming out in a rush. "I'm not with the Emerald Serpent, Zantac. Of course if I am, I'm lying, so I suppose that doesn't help you very much. However, unlike you I'm not the heroic type, so I have no intention of crossing them. Forgive me, but I have other business to attend to. Hopefully, we can continue our game another time."
Zantac said nothing. All he could do was wonder if Aimee was rushing off to tell the Emerald Serpent all about this conversation.
Aimee drained her drink and headed towards the door. After two steps though, she stopped and turned around.
"Do you remember that night in my chambers, Zantac?"
He had to take a deep breath, although all the smoke he inhaled did nothing to calm his nerves. "First or second?" he eventually managed.
"Second," she replied. "When you wouldn't have me, all to protect that silly little witch's formula? She didn't even like you, you know."
"Do you?"
She didn't answer, although her eyes dropped down to the floor. For a moment, the legendary Succubus seemed smaller, frailer. Almost trembling.
The she looked up again. That sad little grin was back.
"I treated you like dirt after that, but you never gave in. All for principle. I think you had that little noble seed in you even back then, Zantac."
No smile again.
"Unless someone does their work for them and kills you first, the Emerald Serpent will come for you, Zantac. For all of you. You need to be prepared. Find out where the real enemy lies."
And then Aimee's hair changed color again. Not to black or blonde or scarlet. Not even to green.
It turned a dark grey.
And then Aimee turned and, her own self again, sashayed seductively out of Dialamen's, turning mens' heads toward her as surely as if they had been attached to her by strings. Her hair had turned a shade of red to compliment her dress before she crossed over the threshold and back out onto the street.
Zantac looked back down at the table. Aimee's prestidigitation cantrip had turned all his dice to show one pip facing up.
He was a winner.
Cygnus sat, turning the flask of thick green glass over and over in his hands. The tall mage was oblivious to all around him, even to Grock and Dudraug polishing off the mage's portion of roast goose that he'd neglected to eat.
This bottle shouldn't exist, Cygnus thought. I destroyed it. I know I did. It was in the chest and I destroyed the chest. Fireballed it. I remember doing it!
But then, he realized with a heavy sigh, considering the nature of this flask and what might be contained within it, his own recollections might be less valuable- or reliable- than he had thought them to be.
Everything had been fine, or at least normal, until yesterday. Cygnus had been withdrawn for the most part since their return to the inn two months ago. Aslan had, on his request, taken him to see Thorin at Hidden Jewel, and he'd briefed his son on the latest developments, as well as his plans for the two of them to go away together after Nodyath had been dealt with.
"But," Thorin had argued, "why would we have to leave after you kill Nodyath? Isn't Nodyath the reason me and Barahir have been here all year anyway?"
"Originally, yes," his father agreed. "But Kar-Vermin is a thousand times more powerful than Nodyath. If the Hierarchs do manage to return him somehow, our lives wouldn't be worth a copper. The way I reason it, if I help the others out against Nodyath, they won't be so upset when we leave afterwards."
"But," Thorin said again. It seemed to the wizard to be his son's favorite word. "Couldn't you just stop the Hierarchs from performing that Ritual in the first place?"
"Impossible. Far too dangerous."
"But-"
"That's it!" Cygnus roared. "End of discussion!"
He'd cut short his visit after that.
And then yesterday, it had happened. Cygnus and the others had been present when Elrohir informed the inn's staff that, once again, their home was likely to come under attack soon. If they had sufficient warning ahead of time, they'd send the staff to Willip until it was all over. If not, the staff would hide in their quarters below ground.
It was less than five minutes after that when the young stable boy Noah had come running up just as Cygnus was climbing the stairs to his room.
"Master Cygnus, sir?"
He stopped. "Yes?"
The boy held out a flask composed of a green substance, either thick glass or a crystal, possibly quartz. It was about twice the size of a potion flask.
Cygnus gaped, open-mouthed.
And then he turned to glare at the stable boy.
A hot rage flashed over him.
"Where did you get this?" he bellowed.
Patrons in the common room below, as well as Jack the barkeep, lanced up at them.
"I-"the boy stammered, but Cygnus grabbed the youth by the shoulders and shook him so hard the child nearly fell down the stairs.
"You stole this out of the chest before I destroyed it, didn't you?" he accused. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this can be? What else did you steal from the chest? Answer me!"
"Master Cygnus!" the boy squealed. "I- I didn't! I'd never! You locked the chest yourself before you destroyed it! You told me you did!"
"Then where did you get this?" Cygnus shot back.
"It," Noah began, unable to look Cygnus in the eye now. "It was given to me, sir!"
"Liar!" The wizard slapped the youth across the face, hard enough to slam him into the back wall. The mage's other hand dug into the boy's shoulder, keeping him upright. "Do you have any idea how transparent your lies sound? Who could have gotten this flask out of the chest? Who gave it to you? Answer me that!"
The boy gulped and swallowed hard. The tears that rolled down his dirty cheeks may have been from either pain or fear, but Cygnus decided they were from shame.
"You did, Cygnus sir," the stable boy croaked out. "You gave it to me and told me to hide it and not to speak of it to anyone, and then to give it back to you when you said that you'd soon be off to face Nodyath."
"Then why don't I remember any of this?" Cygnus ground it, clamping down on the boy's shoulder so hard he could feel the bone under his fingers.
"You said you wouldn't remember, Master Cygnus sir," the youth replied softly, more tears trickling down. "You said you wouldn't."
Cygnus gasped and let go of Noah, who just stood with him on the staircase, rubbing his shoulder and wincing. Seeing the mage's eyes turn to the flask, he handed it out to him.
The mage took the flask and tried to peer inside its translucent surface. It looked like there was some very viscous, smoky liquid moving around inside.
It couldn't be. But it was. Cygnus knew what this flask was, even if he'd never told the others about it.
He'd finally done it, the tall wizard realized. He'd finally taken his habit of keeping secrets and acting unilaterally to the final extreme.
Cygnus had acted. He'd done something and erased his own knowledge of the event, entrusting only this young boy to bring it back at the appropriate time.
And that meant, Cygnus now realized with a horrible, sickening lurch in his stomach, that he'd not only put this boy's life in danger, he'd done it without the child's knowledge or consent.
He gazed at the stable boy. Only a few years older than Thorin.
Cygnus wondered, not for the first time, just what kind of a father he really was.
What kind of a human being.
The boy's cheek was already blotchy red where Cygnus had struck it. Tiny capillaries broken under the skin.
Cygnus slowly reached out his hand, his long fingers trembling. Trying not flinch, the youth just stood there and trembled. He gently laid his hand on top of the boy's hair and gave it a gentle tousle, like he used to do with Thorin.
"I'm sorry, boy," Cygnus whispered. "I've done a terrible thing. Please forgive me."
"That's all right, sir," Noah replied. A shaky smile appeared on his freckled face.
"You said you'd say that, as well."
And so now, a day later, Cygnus continued to stare at the magic item called a thought bottle, one of several items the party had scavenged from the dungeons of Venom, back on his home world of Aarde.
He got to his feet and went back to his room, pausing for a moment on the staircase where that terrible scene had taken place yesterday.
Once there, he sat down in his chair and stared intently at the bottle. It had no stopper, but the contents remained inside, even when Cygnus turned it upside-down.
Almost hidden within the rough exterior of the bottle' surface were what looked like several scratches. They were more than that, though. Cygnus could read them.
He knew the language of the Infernal.
"Well," Cygnus said aloud, somewhat startled by the sound of his own voice, "let's see just how ruthless a son-of-a-bitch I am, shall we?"
"Master," he murmured in the fiendish tongue as he pressed the opening of the thought bottle against his forehead. At the utterance of the bottle's command word, what was inside poured out against Cygnus' forehead.
And through.