Crypt of the Shadowking (33 page)

Ferret did not nod, but by the glimmer of excitement in his beady eyes Caledan knew he understood. Caledan returned his inspection to the seven words of Talfir inscribed upon the columns. His knowledge of the ancient language was sorely limited. He wished Tyveris was here.

His concentration shattered as Ravendas spoke. “Come, my son.” She held out a hand to Kellen. “It is time.” Slowly the boy reached out a small hand. Ravendas led him up the steps of the dais. Caledan could see the terror in his eyes, but the child did not falter. He is brave, my son, Caledan thought. His hands strained reflexively against his bonds.

For the first time Caledan noticed that there was something standing at the foot of the massive sarcophagus. It was a small wooden box of simple, almost crude construction The box seemed oddly out of place amidst the magnificence and grandeur of the rest of the crypt.

“Open the box, my son,” Ravendas said when they stood atop the dais. Her voice was gentle, but her lovely face was twisted with desire. Kellen hesitated. “Open it,” Ravendas repeated, her voice more harsh. The boy winced and knelt before the box. Slowly, he reached out a small hand and opened the lid.

Shadows leaped forth.

Kellen screamed as he fell backward. Around the box whirled a small maelstrom of rippling shadows. Caledan almost thought he could glimpse faces amidst the swirling tatters of darkness. They were forlorn faces, hopeless and hateful, faces of death.

“To touch the shadows which surround the Stone is to die.” Snake proclaimed.

Ravendas did not appear alarmed. “Play, my son,” she instructed. ‘This is the time for which you have prepared all your life. Play your song. Make the shadows disappear They will do your bidding, if only you play.” Kellen stood frozen, clutching the reed pipes tightly as he stared at the whirling shapes of darkness.

“Remember what I told you, Kellen,” Caledan called out, his voice cutting across the wail of the shadows. “You don’t have to do this, not if you don’t want to!”

“Silence!” Ravendas yelled.

Kellen cast a desperate look at Caledan. Then he turned his round face toward his mother. The pipes slipped from his fingers to fall against the hard stone.

“I won’t do it!” he said. His voice trembled. “I won’t pipe the shadows away!”

Ravendas cast a venomous look at Caledan. She knelt before Kellen, gripping his shoulders cruelly. “Listen to me, my son,” she said in a cloying tone. “I am your mother. You must obey me. If you do not, there will be a price to pay And do you know what that price will be?” Kellen’s eyes widened in horror. ‘That is right, my son. I will kill Caledan—your father—even as you watch.” She stood and folded her arms. “Are you prepared to pay that price, Kellen? Or will you obey me?”

Kellen hung his head. Caledan’s companions, even Morhion, stared at him at this revelation. Finally Kellen looked up at Caledan. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes. Kellen knelt to pick up the pipes and lifted them to his lips.

You don’t have to do what she says, Caledan wanted to shout out again, but he knew it would be no use. He had become the weapon Ravendas now wielded against the boy.

The sweet notes of Kellen’s song seemed muffled at first as if the ancient air was trying to subdue them. But as Kellen played on the music grew in clarity and strength. Caledan felt his skin tingle. He recognized the power of the shadow magic. It ran in the blood of his son even as it did in his own veins.

The whirling maelstrom of shadows slowed, then began to fade In moments the darkness surrounding the box was gone. All could now clearly see the object that lay within. It was a rough, uneven Stone, unusual only because it looked so completely ordinary. But Caledan had no doubt of what it was. Even from this distance he could feel the pulsing of dark energy emanating from the thing, washing over him in sickening waves. It was the Nightstone.

“They want to go on, Tyveris,” Kyana said softly. She and the monk stood slightly apart from the mass of prisoners who huddled in the dim dungeon corridor. Not two hundred paces down the passageway was the dungeon’s central chamber—and the Zhentarim.

“By all the gods, they’ll be killed, every one of them,” Tyveris rumbled as quietly as he could. Tyveris cast a glance back at the cityfolk. They stood in the corridor, their faces pale, their hands gripping their weapons tightly. “If we head back to the thieves’ entrance now, at least some of these cityfolk will be able to escape,” he growled.

Kyana shook her head. “They’re not going to retreat,” she said fiercely. “Look at them, monk. These folk are ready to fight. All you have to do is give the word.”

“I can’t,” Tyveris said, shaking his head. His dark eyes were mournful behind his spectacles. “Maybe Mari could have, but I cannot.”

Then we have no hope of driving the Zhentarim from the city,” Kyana said flatly.

The two returned to the crowd of prisoners. However, when Tyveris told them of his intention to turn back, a burly man with the calloused hands of a blacksmith stepped forward.

“Begging your pardon, sire,” he said hesitantly, “but I don’t think there’s any here who want to turn back.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “You see, it wouldn’t be right for us to escape while all the others are still caged up like so many animals. Besides, we’ve had enough of Cutter and her guards.” He shook the stout cudgel he gripped in his hand. “We’ve acted like frightened pups long enough. Now’s the time to fight”

Tyveris opened his mouth to protest, but the sound of quickly padding footsteps stopped him. Talim pushed his way through the crowd of prisoners, breathing hard.

“There are a dozen guards patrolling the corridors not far from here, and they’re headed this way,” the young thief said hoarsely.

Tyveris groaned in dismay. They couldn’t get back to the thieves’ entrance without fighting the patrol. And if they did that the other Zhentarim were bound to hear the noise and rush to join the fray.

“It seems your decision has been made for you,” Kyana said, watching Tyveris carefully.

Tyveris was silent for a long while. Finally he spoke. ‘To the stairs,” was all he said.

Tyveris was forced to admit that when the cityfolk rushed into the dungeon’s central chamber it was a glorious moment. “Iriaebor!” the prisoners cried as they raised their weapons high. “For the Thousand Spires!”

They poured down the ramp which led into the large, circular chamber. Those prisoners who bore crossbows loosed a rain of bolts down upon the Zhentarim from the high walkway that circled the room.

Yet the Zhentarim had been warned there would be a battle that night and were not caught unaware. A few fell with arrows quivering in chest or throat, but far more blocked the flurry of deadly bolts with wooden shields. The rest of the prisoners streamed into the chamber, and the room erupted into chaos.

Abruptly two score prisoners came rushing out of one of the cell blocks, knocking several spear-wielding guards aside. Talim was with them. Somehow the wiry young thief had slipped past the guards and freed the prisoners. They dashed into the chamber, grabbing weapons from fallen Zhents or fighting with the very chains that bound their wrists. Even so, the battle-hardened Zhents pushed them back with almost comic ease.

It’s not enough, Tyveris realized, standing numbly on the edge of the battle. They have the hearts of lions, but their hands are those of merchants and artisans, not warriors. He tried to say a prayer to his god, but his lips were unable to form the words. Already the cityfolk were faltering. In minutes, it would be over.

The battle surged before him. A prisoner, a young woman hardly more than a girl, was clumsily brandishing a rusty sword, fending off the hard blows of a grinning guard. Even as Tyveris watched, the sword spun from her hand to clatter against the slate floor. The Zhent’s grin broadened luridly as he readied a killing blow.

Forgive me, Oghma, my god, Tyveris said inwardly. Forgive me, Tali, my sister. This is something I must do.

Tyveris let out a roar of fury as he leaped forward and grabbed the young woman’s fallen sword. Tyveris swung the blade with lightning-quick skill. The Zhent’s grin faded as he slipped off the blade and into a pool of his own blood.

Tyveris stared at the corpse dully, but he did not drop the sword. There was no more time for prayers or regrets. Now was the time to fight.

He reached down a powerful hand to help the young woman to her feet. Her eyes were filled with gratitude.

“Here, you’re going to need this.” He pushed the blade back into her hand. She nodded fiercely. Tyveris bent down and pried the saber from the guard’s fingers.

“What’s your name?” he asked the young woman.

“Erisa, sire,”

“All right, Erisa, I want you to stay by me,” Tyveris rumbled. With his bare hand, Tyveris ripped the livery—the azure river and silver tower with Ravendas’s crimson moon above—from the fallen guard’s jerkin. He hastily tied the piece of cloth onto the end of a broken spear he found nearby, fashioning a makeshift standard. “May Oghma and all the gods grant us strength this night,” Tyveris said solemnly. As Erisa watched in wonderment, the symbol of the crimson moon suddenly burst into flame, flared brightly, and then went dark. At the same time the outlines of the river and the tower, the traditional symbols of Iriaebor, began to glow with an unearthly silvery light.

“You’re going to be my standard-bearer, Erisa,” Tyveris said, handing the stunned young woman the banner. “Hold it high for all to see. And do not let the standard fall, not at any cost”

Erisa stared at the glowing banner for a moment, then nodded, lifting the standard high. “I won’t fail you, sire!”

“Then I’ll try to do the same,” Tyveris said gruffly. He joined the throng making for the flight of dark stone stairs that led up toward the tower and freedom. He swung his sword with easy, practiced strokes, cutting a swath through the Zhentarim. Erisa followed close on his heels, holding the gleaming standard high in one hand, and protecting Tyveris’s back with the sword he had given her in the other.

“To me! To me!” Tyveris bellowed in his enormous voice. Despite the din, all around him the cityfolk looked up to see him striding through the battle, his sword flashing under the magical illumination of the banner. Hope ignited in their eyes. Heartened anew, the prisoners hacked at the Zhentarim ferociously, fighting to make their way to the loremaster.

A fierce grin spread across Tyveris’s face as he swung his sword tirelessly. Zhent after Zhent fell beneath his blade. ‘To me!” he cried again. ‘To the stairway! To freedom!”

Whatever the outcome, he was determined to make this a battle the gods would never forget.

Twenty-one

Ravendas snatched the pipes from Kellen and tucked them into the sash of her gown. “Out of my way, child,” she snarled. “I have need of you no longer.” She struck Kellen sharply across the cheek. The boy cried out in pain and tumbled backward, rolling down the steps of the dais.

“You will pay for that,” Caledan swore, clenching his hands into fists behind his back.

“I pay for nothing,” Ravendas replied, her cheeks flushed. “I take what I want.”

“Talembar said that only one with the shadow magic can take up the Nightstone,” Mari called out desperately. “You must not touch it!”

“And why, by all the gods, would I believe you, Harper?” Ravendas spat. Without any further hesitation she bent down and closed her fingers around the dark stone. With an exultant smile Ravendas lifted the Nightstone above her head. “You see?” she cried. “You are wrong! The power of the Nightstone is mine. With it, I shall rule the greatest empire Toril has ever known!”

“Now kneel before me,” Ravendas declared, her voice ringing in the subterranean chamber. “Kneel and pay homage to your new queen. Kneel and perhaps I shall—”

Ravendas winced, faltering as a momentary spasm of pain crossed her features, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Kneel,” she repeated, “and perhaps I—”

This time the pain showed clearly on Ravendas’s beautiful face. The blood drained from her cheeks, her eyes widening as she stared at the Stone. “No!” she cried out in horror. She shook her hand, trying to drop the Nightstone, but she could not loosen her grip.

“It’s burning me!” she shrieked. Ravendas screamed in agony. The pale skin of her forehead was undulating, as if something was writhing beneath the surface, something alive. Kellen had regained his feet, and he stood by Snake at the foot of the dais, watching his mother in horror.

“Kellen, don’t look!” Caledan cried out. “Don’t look at her!” Caledan tried to lunge forward, but the hobbles about his ankles tripped him, and he nearly fell to the hard floor. Kellen slowly turned away from the grisly spectacle.

Ravendas let out one last, soul-wrenching scream, and suddenly two dark objects burst from the smooth skin of her forehead. They were antlers of onyx, thrusting and branching like saplings from her brow. Ravendas’s eyes went blank, her face twisted, and Caledan knew that she was dead.

But whatever writhed inside her was not.

The form that had been Ravendas began to crack like ancient porcelain. Without warning the shell exploded outward in a spray of pale shards. Her silken gown was ripped to shreds. The reed pipes clattered down the steps of the dais.

A shadow unfurled itself from the shattered remains of Ravendas’s body, a thing of utter darkness. The shadow was shaped vaguely like a man, except for the antlers sprouting from its head. With every moment it rose higher off the dais, its outline coalescing, growing clearer and sharper. And in the center of the shadow hovered the Nightstone, pulsing rhythmically with a vermillion glow.

“By all the gods,” Caledan whispered hoarsely. “It is the Shadowking.”

“Yes, and he is the master of us all!” Snake cried out in rapture. “Bow down before the darkness that will rule forevermore!” Snake abased himself before the dais, lying prostrate before the undulating form of the Shadowking.

Caledan saw something moving to his left, and he turned to see Morhion standing behind the Harper, a small knife in his hand. Was this to be the mage’s final treachery? Then to Caledan’s amazement, he watched as Morhion deftly cut the leather thongs that bound Mari’s wrists, then bent down and cut the rope that hobbled her ankles. She stared at him, but he had already hurried on to free Estah and Ferret. Snake saw none of this. His attention was upon the form of the Shadowking.