"By all that is unholy, Kimdezar, this had better be good." Armand Lennox watched the half-drow's image waver in the scrying bowl, over steepled, gloved, fingers. He spoke quite calmly, and perhaps that calm was what so unnerved the wizard, who fidgeted a bit, but regained his confidence quickly. A dark half-smile flitted across Armand's craggy countenance. He hides his fear well. But to feel fear at all means that I already have the advantage.
'"I have a job I need…I would like done." Kimdezar said, remembering a bit late about how Armand had admonished him the last time about acting as if he was the dark knight's master. "You know my brother, Arakanzar?" the wizard asked. Armand shook his head slightly.
"No sir, I do not," he admitted without embarrassment. "Do you wish something done to him of a murderous nature?" Kimdezar gritted his teeth.
"Very murderous. He's close to you, on a caravan traveling north into Memnon. How soon can you-" Armand held up his hand, and the half-drow stopped talking instantly. The blackguard stood up to his full height, looking quite imposing in the ebon-colored full plate armor that bulked out his frame. He had gone quite bald at the top of his head, but elsewhere, slowly graying black hair was in thorough evidence. Only the sword that hung at his side seemed out of place. The weapon's silvery hilt and deep green pommel stone had not been made for someone of Armand's attitude.
"What method do you prefer that I use, sir?" he inquired politely, as though talking about the weather. "Are there to be any special conditions for this man's death, or should I merely lure him into a dark alley and…" He let the sentence trail off into an awful silence that would've cast a pall over the room if it hadn't already been extremely unsettling to Kimdezar in the first place. The wizard thought about it a minute, and shook his head.
"Nothing special. I don't need him to die feeling flattered that he rates something special." Armand bowed deeply, his thick black cloak flowing about him.
"As you command, sir. How am I to know this Arakanzar when I see him?"
"How many half-drow staff-wielding wizards do you see in Calimsham or Amn?" Kimdezar asked, striding the line between mockery and admonishment. Another half-smile from the blackguard made him regret it instantly.
"So far, I have seen you many times. But no others. You will receive his staff when he is dead, as a token. All other magical items will be your tribute to the cause for this mission. Does that meet with your requirements, sir?" Armand asked, always polite, maddeningly polite for somebody whose very soul had been corrupted by the dark powers. One of Kimdezar's fantasies involved the damnable man losing his little attitude and just dealing with him like a normal paranoid person who killed people for a living.
"Yes, that's fine. But this should be considered something urgent, so please try not to take too long," he agreed. Armand offered a brief nod, and Kimdezar's image faded away. Looking up from the bowl, Armand strode out of the chamber at an unhurried pace. His armor, unlike most heavy armors, was utterly silent instead of clanking with every step. It was one of many gifts from his masters, one of the most useful ones. The house he was living in was currently a base of operations for the Knights of the Shield, whom he had a good relationship with. He provided them with his formidable array of talents, and in return, they provided a steady stream of tribute to his private funds, and to the coffers of the Shadow Thieves, who were his real employers, having charged him with the task of spying on the Knights. His methods were simple and methodical.
Armand had worked for the Knights once before, when he was spying for the Moonstars, of all things. After he survived the assassination attempt by the Knights when they learned he was carrying the names of a few high-ranking Knights, they tried to buy him away. He willingly came over to their side, but only after he had completed his contract. They were furious, but Armand convinced them that they didn't want him as an enemy. Naturally, as soon as he joined them again, he freely admitted that he was under contract to the Shadow Thieves, and so he found himself on all manner of missions against that little band. In return, they received false, useless, or out of date information, and they paid him for the privilege. He chuckled under his breath. Once they finally figure out that I've been cheating them, I'd best placate them with all the real information I've gathered on the Knights. Neither of my employers are very intelligent in these matters, it seems.
Stepping out into the street, he nodded to the guard standing at the door, and leaned in to murmur,
"I've just taken on a private job. Inform your masters that I am to be considered unreachable for fifteen days. I may return sooner."
"Right. Safe journey."
"My thanks." He continued on with the ease of a predator who had scented his prey close by. The name of the quarry was Arakanzar Z'tran.
The caravan marched on under the cloudless sky. Zak walked in silence. Anbory had tried to start a conversation, but, finding himself answered in monosyllables, gave it up in favor of finding somebody else to talk to. Knowing the Tethyrian's mouth, the word had probably spread all along the caravan now.
Zak Crimsonleaf was in a bad mood. Tyrahae was as far from him as she could possibly get. He was close to the front of the line, and if he squinted, he could make out a dire mace-carrying figure trudging along at the back. He hadn't the faintest idea wherever Arakanzar and Devlar were, and he didn't care to know. When he'd spoken to Brenim before they set out, it rapidly became obvious that Arakanzar had charmed him with a spell, and it hadn't worn off yet. Naturally, by the time it did, Zak knew that the wizard wouldn't be found. Anbory came up alongside him again.
"You're sure you don't want to talk about it?" the guard asked. Zak gritted his teeth. This was the third time, and if he hadn't traveled for so far with that chatterbox at his back, he'd be whipping out his blade and shortening a few of the man's limbs.
"Quite sure," he replied, struggling to control the urge to lash out at something. If only Devlar were nearby. Anbory sighed.
"I don't get what's gotten into you, Zak. You were well enough on the trip north from Calimport. What spoiled it?"
One more time, Zak promised silently, one more time, and he'd be getting the flat of Zak's blade in his mouth. But he answered,
"People who talked too much," and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"Go and talk to the lady with the dire mace about it," he invited Anbory. "She'll be happy to tell you everything you want to know." The guard glanced back, and shook his head.
"I've tried. She's even worse then you are." Zak smiled grimly.
"I expected as much. Try locating a half-drow wizard then. If you can find him, I'm sure he'll enlighten you for a small fee." Anbory sighed mightily.
"Zak one of these days, you've got to exercise a little self-control. I mean, just a little bit…" He trailed off under one of the mercenary's withering glares. Shrugging, he forged on ahead, leaving the half-elf behind. On impulse, Zak decided to go and talk with Tyra. He was getting impatient, and if he couldn't pry her story out of her by threats or conversation, force was always a fine alternative. Normally the trick was to get somebody to pick a fight, but with the cleric, it was just too easy. Perhaps that had been the best thing to do all along.
Sitting on top of the lead wagon, with a spell disguising him as an over-the-hill guardsman cradling a shortbow in the crook of his arm. A curved Calimshite scimitar leaned against the wood beside him. The sword and bow were actually real. He had long ago discovered that a half-lie or half-truth, whichever way you looked at it, mixed with the whole truth was more effective than if you told a simple lie. After all, there were spells to detect such things. But lying by omission, lying by splitting hairs, that was the essence of true cunning. That was how things were done in the city of T'lindhet. Thought quite honestly, he could do without reminders of his one humiliating visit to the drow city.
The charmed caravan master, Brenim, sat beside him, the halfling's legs dangling over the edge of the bench, but he held the reins with a seasoned hand, and word of any disturbance in the caravan was brought to him at once by a few of the guards who were on his personal payroll. That charm spell wouldn't last too much longer, but Arakanzar could cast that spell twice more that day, and wasn't worried about losing his place in the caravan. He was pondering the state of affairs between his two newest conscripts.
"Brenim, I'm wondering what I might do about a problem I have," he mused. The man made a wonderful sounding board, as he was very receptive to all of Arakanzar's problems, and still possessed enough of his intellect to offer semi-helpful solutions.
"What kind of problem?" the halfling inquired placidly, keeping his gaze on the horizon.
"I have two new hirelings that want to kill each other," the half-drow answered, darting a glance over his shoulder and behind the wagon to see if Zak was still visible. Devlar was keeping an eye on both him and Tyra as best he could, and had orders to alert him if the two seemed to be bound for violence. The mercenary was stumping back towards the rear of the caravan. That didn't bode well for Arakanzar's investment. Devlar came up alongside a few second later, a bit out of breath from his little dash. Before Brenim could reply to Arakanzar's predicament, the thief reported,
"He's gone after her, boss. Ye want me to try and talk to'im?" The wizard shook his head.
"It's best to let one of'em win." Brenim put in. "It might mean the loss of some labor, but you can always go through the loser's pockets to make up the difference." Arakanzar mulled over the suggestion, and waved his hand.
"As my friend says, Devlar, let them handle it. But when Tyra loses, step in and…recoup my investment, as it were." The thief chuckled.
"You don't think it's much of a contest, boss?" The wizard shook his head slowly.
"No, Devlar, I don't. Tyra is powerful, but I've spent some of yesterday looking up on Zak Crimsonleaf. He'll win. She'll provide a good fight, but the mercenary's skill in one-on-one combat is unmatched, according to my sources. Naturally, it is only rumor, so this will be a good chance to see for ourselves just how good he is." Arakanzar made a shooing motion to Devlar.
"Go off, Dev, and tell me what happens."
"What, you aren't gonna come back and watch?"
"I foresee a swift and painful end if Zak catches me watching him at this point. His end. I'd rather not lose both of them just yet."
Zak's fingers caressed the hilt of his sword as he strode towards Tyra. He'd been holding back for too long. Now it's time to unleash some righteous fury! This was the best part of his occupation. Kicking other people's butts while looking exceptionally rakish. Tyra spotted him and shifted her grip on the dire mace so that it could easily be swung off her shoulder into a stunning attack. A slow grin began to spread across Zak's face, growing wider and wider as he came closer. His shield was already on his arm, and he was facing into the sun. A swift plan of attack began taking shape.
First, reflect the sun with my shield into her eyes. That buys me a few seconds. Second, ignite my sword and come in swinging. Third, kick sand into her eyes to blind her again. If it works, I win, if it doesn't, I still get a distraction. From there, I'll make things up. He was almost close enough for the first part to work. A few more steps… As he was just shifting his shield to catch the sunlight, a fiery explosion burst across the caravan line just ahead, and a wave of scorching heat washed over him. The shock of the blast nearly knocked him off his feet, and he shook his head to clear it of the afterimage. Looking wildly about for what had stopped his preemptive strike on Tyra, he saw a line of figures on a nearby dune scrabbling down the sand. Battle cries ripped forth from a score of throats. The caravan guards sprinted to the arms wagon to obtain bows. The wagon wheels were wedged in place to stop the camels from making off with the cargo.
Glancing towards Tyra, Zak caught her eye for a brief instant. A look of intense hatred rivaled the searing heat of the fireball. But in the next instant, she composed herself, and began a rapid prayer to whatever dark god she served. Zak's fingers closed around his sword hilt, and Echoing Courage rang as it was drawn. Holding the shining weapon high, Zak brought it down at the same time he roared the command words that activated its ability.
"Flaming Death!" Bright, hungry red-orange flames reached into the air from the blade, crackling and snapping in their energy. Some of the guards had bows strung and were loosing sporadic shots at the enemy. Zak was looking for the wizard who had thrown the fireball, and found him still standing on the dune ridge. He couldn't recognize the features, due to the sun's position, but he could make a good guess as to who it was. He charged, kicking up dust from the soles of his boots as he pushed himself to the fastest speed he could manage on the shifting terrain. His own battle cry split the air.
"Tell Kelemvor that Zak Crimsonleaf sent you!" he cried as he picked out his first victim in the enemy vanguard.
As soon as the fireball was thrown, Arakanzar released the charm spell on Brenim. The halfling had to be able to coordinate his men effectively if they were to survive. He realized precisely what was going on. Kimdezar was having a bit of fun, toying with his intended prey. Snatching up his staff, he hopped off the seat with a spryness that seemed out of place for a wizard, and he snapped off a command word. A red-yellow ball grew into being at the end of the staff, and as soon as it was formed, sped off across the sand as if it had been launched from a crossbow. A second fireball blossomed into the air, this time among their attackers. But as the smoke lifted, Arakanzar saw that, to his dismay, not one of the bandits had even been singed. Kimdezar must have used one of his numerous magical items to cast the spell protection from fire many times. He saw Zak charging out into battle, his sword streaming flames, and shook his head.
"Fall back to the wagons! Fall back!" Brenim raged at the guards, loading his sling and gesticulating madly.
"You remember the drill!" A second voice shouted, this one much deeper. "Swordsmen form a square, archers behind, and Tammir to the back." Tammir was the resident mage on the caravan master's payroll, and Arakanzar had spoken with him, posing as an aspiring wizard. He couldn't possibly stand up to anything that Kimdezar unleashed. He began another spell, plucking up his determination. Zak was still rushing out into the middle of the enemy, oblivious to the fact that the rest of the guards were obeying orders and forming up into a defensive stance. With the protective spells, his sword would be useless. Perhaps a well-targeted dispel magic would even the odds. Carefully timing the spell to go off at almost the exact moment Zak crossed swords, Arakanzar watched with interest.
Tyra rose up from her kneeling stance, having completed her prayer, which increased her strength twofold, putting even more power behind the swing of her dire mace. She saw Zak in his headlong rush, and laughed scornfully. Where did he think he was going? Without any concern for the mercenary's well-being, she invoked one of the most powerful spells that Cyric had granted her, and on the last syllable, a column of black-orange fire reached down from the cloudless sky. Arakanzar's dispel magic spell went off an instant after Tyrahae's flame strike, and the bandits on the distant edges of the attacking formation screamed in agony as the unholy fire washed over them in a killing wave. Zak was swallowed by the blast as well, and Tyra nodded in satisfaction. That's one problem taken care of. As the dust cleared, it revealed that half the attackers were alive and still advancing. Or rather, they were trying to advance, but were largely being held at bay by a single figure who, upon closer examination, was Zak, a bit singed, but no worse for the wear otherwise. Tyra cursed bitterly, leaning back against one of the wagons. It just figured. She determined to sit out the rest of the battle and let everybody else exhaust themselves.
Kimdezar was disturbed. He had counted on magical opposition from his brother, but he had not known that the dark-haired woman was powerful enough to cast a flame strike. She would bear watching in the future. For now, he would respond in kind, with one of his best spells. Taking out the necessary components, he hastily muttered out the arcane syllables as rapidly as could be done. At the conclusion, a thick red fog sifted out of the air above the knot of caravan guards, and enveloped them in a killing mist. The coughing and screams were audible from his position on the ridge.
Tammir had been lucky enough to escape the cloudkill spell, having scrambled over the wagon and hidden on the other side as soon as he saw it go off. Now he sweated and shook, pushed nearly to the breaking point. He heard his comrades dying horribly on the other side of the wagon, and yet he could not force his limbs to move. Instead he crouched down lower, and whimpered pitifully. For a moment, he closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. Then, in the deep recesses of his mind, his old master's voice sounded, like the warm desert breeze on his face.
"Let the Art paint itself, young apprentice, and endeavor to be the brush." Jocan had been fond of comparing the wizardly art to normal paint and charcoal, and never missed an opportunity to work it in somewhere. Tammir's mind cleared, and a new grimness took hold about him as he reached within his robe for his most guarded arcane treasure, a weathered and worn scroll.
"Always remember where you put which scrolls, or your desire and your action will be sundered." Smoothing it out as best he could, he nodded as he confirmed that it would do what it was meant to do. Heaving himself up onto the wagon, why hadn't he done more walking about in his travels instead of riding?, he took a deep breath and, in a steady voice, began to cast what would probably be his last spell. A few words from the end, as he felt the Weave responding to his call, a greenish projectile hit him in the stomach, and he doubled over in agony. He nearly fumbled the crowning phrase, but somehow managed to recite the last few words, while watching the dripping hole in his midsection grow larger.
"..jacta…shavannnik……" He toppled backwards onto the wagon, still clutching the scroll. The words swam off the page and his vision began to darken.
"Whatever your thoughts, trust in the Weave and in yourself." Taking a last, trembling breath, as he surrendered to the darkness, the final word fled his lips.
"…maedim!"
As he watched his acid arrow spell speed off, completely satisfied that the ambitious little mage would be no more of a threat, Kimdezar turned his attention back to the remnants of the caravan guards. The merchants and other noncombatants were struggling to arm themselves, but they had clearly never used arms before, and would easily be overcome. Perhaps he had been a bit premature in hiring Armand, if this was the best his brother could do. Really, Arakanzar hadn't even put in an appearance yet. A humorless smile flickered across the wizard's elegant features. He began to descend down the ridge towards the skirmish that was still raging about Zak.
The mercenary had shattered the weapons of several bandits, dealt with their owners in similar fashion, even to the point of slicing one in half at the waist. The sands were wet with blood about his feet, and even as Kimdezar watched, he disarmed another man with a savage twist of his shield, then swung his sword around and brutally disemboweled the man. He looked to be enjoying the fight with something akin to the berserker rages Kimdezar had heard of among the barbarian tribes of the North. Only his brilliant swordplay did not lend itself to such fits. Indeed, he was constantly shouting threats at his attackers, taunting them with boasts of his skill.
Kimdezar considered which spell to use against him, but was distracted by a thunderous electrical discharge from where he had last seen the caravan's mage. As he watched, a blue-white bolt blasted outwards from the spot, spitting one of the bandits upon its end. It did not stop, but continued onward, richocheing between fully twelve of the bandits before dissipating into the air. Only seven of the attackers were still standing, but only three guards, not counting Crimsonleaf. The cleric, like the mercenary, also seemed to be enjoying the clash, but was doing little to interfere. Kimdezar hadn't the faintest idea why she had elected to stay out of the fight, but he didn't truly care when or if she changed her mind. Perhaps she could be moved to work for him for a time, presuming she let him slaughter everybody else. Now, where was Arakanzar?
Arakanzar knew that he couldn't stop Kimdezar from killing the guards from the first spell cast. That was a given. Therefore, he began casting spell after spell that would protect him from various kinds of harm. If he was going to take on his brother in a wizard's duel, he wanted to be prepared as possible, and Kimdezar had undoubtedly cast those same enchantments on himself before the battle even began. After he saw Tammir's chain lightning strike the bandits, who looked to be experiencing a serious loss of morale, he decided he had waited long enough, and stepped out, bristling with layers of protection, and holding his staff in both hands. He spat another command word, and the sand underneath Kimdezar grew sticky white tendrils that twined about his brother's legs. Kimdezar stumbled, falling flat on his face in the web spell. But he shook it off and planted one foot firmly under him, not looking quite as awe-inspiring with strands of silk and sand plastered on the front of his robe. Arakanzar knew the spell wouldn't be very effective on the sands. It was only intended as a distraction, an opening gambit. Infuriating an opponent who was quite capable of turning him to dust was perhaps a bit unwise, but in this case, Arakanzar thought it well worth it as he smiled merrily at the look on the other's face.
Zak was running out of opponents, and for some reason, this annoyed him. Drenched in sweat and enraged beyond reason, he saw Arakanzar's first spell, and Kimdezar trip and fall. He dismissed the two spellcasters as unimportant. What mattered now was that he was doing what he did best. The seven bandits who were still standing had formed a circle around him, trying to outflank him and bring him down by dint of numbers. So far, none of them had had the courage to charge forward. And now they would never get the chance. "Dragon's Fury!" he howled into the faces of the two opponents to his immediate front, and stabbed his sword point out. The fires that wreathed the weapon exploded outward in a rough imitation of a red dragon's breath weapon, spreading outwards in a cone. The two unfortunate souls vanished into the wall of flame. All that Zak saw was two shadows that wavered and vanished under the salvo. As the effects died down, nothing could be seen of its victims save for two small piles of ash. The last of the would-be attackers broke and ran, plumes of dust spurting from their heels as they sprinted for relative safety over the ridge. Zak didn't blame them. He turned back to the lone spellcaster just in time to see another fireball engulf the remnants of the caravan guards. He heard Anbory's death scream. He angrily looked to Arakanzar, but the wizard was occupied with one of his spells, completely ignoring the few merchants who were alive and cowering behind the wagons. The camels were panicked, but unable to snap their binds and run. As it was, with the wheels wedged in place, as they had been at the beginning of the attack, they were helpless against anything.
Tyrahae started forward finally, annoyed that she had to take a hand in dispatching Kimdezar. If Arakanzar couldn't handle him, maybe he wasn't as powerful as all that. "Ebony Dawn," she hissed quietly, and the ends of her dire mace began to radiate a cold reddish light. She strode onward, unworried about any spell Kimdezar might choose to hurl in her direction. He would have all his attention focused on Zak and Arakanzar. Oh, he had most certainly noticed her little flame strike, but as long as she refrained from further such displays, things should go well.
Arakanzar gritted his teeth under the withering barrage of a scorching ray from Kimdezar. More layers of his protection peeled off like a snakeskin. He replied with something he thought might confuse his brother a bit longer, a grease spell that again sent his opponent's feet flying into the air. He shook his head, not at all pleased that such spells were ineffective in the desert. Perhaps it had been time to move on after all. Devlar was hiding behind him, based on his assurance that the only safe place in a wizard's duel is out of sight. He flung a quick dispel magic at Kimdezar, and began to move out, stepping carefully over the bodies of both the caravan guards and bandits alike. They held no use for him either way. The acrid stench curling up along with the smoke wrinkled his nose and turned his stomach, but he managed to retain his breakfast.
"Loviatar's Bloody Lash!" cursed Kimdezar. "This is not going well." He had lost all of his bandit allies, and was quite possibly on the verge of losing his own life as well, with all three of the most powerful people in the caravan either stepping, edging, or full-out running, in Zak's case, towards his position. Making a snap decision, he decided to get out and come back later. Armand is on the trail, and I can always watch him do his work, he reminded himself. But something still rankled him about being forced to withdraw. He snarled out the words of his last teleport spell for the day, and vanished from the scene. He reappeared in an elegantly appointed chamber of his own home in Dambrath. The sudden transition from heat to coolness was a welcome relief, and, taking out a handkerchief, he began mopping off the sweat that had started to get in the way of his spellcasting.
As had been agreed, his uncle, the brother of the Z'tran family's current patriarch, was waiting, and upon seeing Kimdezar's state of disarray, didn't bother to restrain a smirk.
"So, I suppose things didn't go exactly as planned?" he inquired smoothly, secure in his unassailable status of a cleric of Loviatar. While most of Kimdezar's relatives would have liked to find the older half-drow dead, as long as he remained in the favor of his god, he was simply too useful to ignore. As if to pointedly remind everybody of the fact, he displayed his holy symbol very prominently, with an outer robe of deep ruby that hung open all the time. Kimdezar was in no mood to humor the man.
"Perhaps," he suggested with a poisonous sweetness, "If you had been there to aid me, they might have worked a little better." Unfortunately, Jaemorl remained unintimidated, and merely made his hands disappear inside his sleeves. His tone did cool a little, but he turned away and began to pace about the room.
"You're sure that Arakanzar got the impression that only you were involved in this deal, that none of us knew about it?" the cleric demanded. Nothing in the way he said it betrayed the anxiety he must be feeling. Kimdezar knew, he just knew that the family was put at a unique disadvantage in trying to rein in Arakanzar. They might've chosen somebody else, somebody they could blackmail or spy on to do the negotiations with his little brother, but they would have to have someone who could teleport at will, and none of the house wizards were as powerful as Kimdezar. So, his own plans for the eventual use of his brother's own arcane skills against the family elders were quietly laid out, and now, put into action.
"Oh, I'm rather sure that he doesn't suspect anything," he waved off the question, choosing his words with care.
"Yes or no?" Jaemorl asked, still not giving anything away. Kimdezar, annoyed beyond measure, idly wished that he could put a crushing despair spell on the man sometime. He let his simulated good cheer drain away, and answered sullenly,
"No."
"Good. And how badly was the caravan hurt?"
"Oh, only about a half dozen people left alive, and they'll be hard pressed to make it to the next town without falling prey to whatever gangs will close in on the abandoned wagons."
His interrogation complete, Jaemorl bowed slightly, and left without a word. Kimdezar shook his head, as he began to look through his closet for a robe that was at least reasonably flashy and not covered with sand and spiderwebs. It isn't the blade you don't see that gets you, but the blade in plain view in front that you didn't notice, because you were looking for all the hidden ones.