Wait for all of them to come through, Azriim projected, sensing the eagerness of his broodmates.
Moving quickly and saying little, the eight men formed a protective arc of flesh and steel before the still-glowing archway while the rest of the caravan began to follow them through. Two creaking wagons emerged, each pulled by two giant, surefooted, subterranean lizards as large as ponies. The wagons, tightly crammed with slaves-chained elves, half-elves, and dwarves mostly-were little more than wheeled cages with an attached driver's bench. The slaves wore the hopeless expressions of the damned. They must have sensed that the underground hell they'd just entered was to be their final stop. A fat teamster drove each of the slave wagons, guiding, prodding, and cursing at the lizards, which answered with hisses and flicked tongues.
After the slave wagons were through, six more crossbow-armed guards stepped through the portal and flanked them to either side, eyeing with wary gazes both the shadows of the cavern and the forty or so demi-human slaves destined to toil and die in Skullport's darkness. The slave wagons and guards moved forward to make room while two more wagons began to emerge through the still glowing portal.
These last two wagons, each also pulled by a pair of giant lizards and manned by a single driver, piqued Azriim's curiosity. He craned his neck to see.
Both were built of duskwood, completely enclosed, and visibly locked at the rear door. They looked like giant chests on wheels. Several more armed men accompanied those wagons, including, at the rear, a huge man whose enameled black armor sported on the breastplate a great eye, surrounded by eight smaller, lidless eyes: the symbol of the Xanathar.
Azriim silently "tsked" the armored man's weatherworn overcloak and unshined boots. He decided then and there that the human was a poor dresser and no doubt would go unmissed when he died.
With the emergence of the two enclosed wagons, the portal began to dim, fading first to rose, and finally dying to nothing more than a wall.
That is all of them, Serrin said without a hint of eagerness.
Beside Azriim, Dolgan's respiration came fast and hard.
The armored human moved up and down the assembled caravan and barked orders in oddly accented Common. Men stiffened at his passage, lizards snarled, and slaves averted their gaze or cowered.
The caravan, clustered together like wine grapes, prepared to move out.
Azriim played out the anticipation just a moment longer, then-
Now, he projected, and began his mental count to two hundred.
As one, the slaadi stepped out from behind the stalagmites. Azriim pointed the Sojourner's wand at the armored human, spoke the arcane word of command, and discharged a searing stroke of lightning from the diamond tip. The bolt hit the human squarely in the breastplate, drove him backward five paces, knocked him prone, and left him belly-up and smoking on the floor. The energy arced to another nearby guard, blew out his eyes before killing him then arced to another, and another, sending each into a spasmodic, burning death. Finally, no doubt drawn by the iron of the cage, the lightning bolt found its way into one of the slave wagons and alternated from one to another of the wretched demi-human slaves, sparing all of them a life of servitude by painfully killing each in turn.
Before the stunned guards could effectively respond-before they could do more than utter shouts of warning, scan the darkness for their attackers, and wildly fire a few crossbow bolts-Dolgan and Serrin called upon their innate magical abilities and fired fist-sized balls of fire from their outstretched claws. Both of the fireballs struck the cavern's floor in the midst of the bunched caravan and exploded into gorgeous spheres of heat and flame. The screams of the humans were lost in the explosion as the fireballs roasted the caravanners and giant lizards alive, incinerated the surviving slaves in their cages, and knocked over, but did not set aflame, the two enclosed wagons. The temporary inferno dried the damp from Azriim's skin, for which he was grateful.
Hold, Azriim projected to his broodmates, and took a moment to survey the destruction. He had not yet reached a mental count of ten. The attack had gone as smoothly as he had hoped.
The heavy, sweet scent of cooked human flesh filled his nostrils. Black smoke churned from corpse and wagon alike, pooling around the stalactites above. Nothing was moving. Men, weapons, and animals lay cast about the chamber floor like so much flotsam. Except for the crackle of a few small fires-one of the slave wagon wheels and several of the corpses were burning cheerily-all was quiet. Scavengers would begin to arrive soon, Azriim knew, attracted by the stink of dead flesh. The Skulls too might soon arrive, attracted by the expended magic.
Ensure that they are all dead, Azriim said to his broodmates.
Serrin and Dolgan bounded out of hiding and down into the carnage.
And eat nothing, Azriim added for Dolgan's benefit.
The big slaad slouched with disappointment but did as he was told.
Serrin and Dolgan moved from corpse to corpse, stabbing or slicing the throats of any of the guards, teamsters, or slaves that did not seem suitably charred. Dolgan sometimes patted one of the human's heads, as if to apologize for not eating the brains.
Azriim followed his broodmates to the slaughter at a more leisurely pace. He savored the ease with which they had dispatched the caravan nearly as much as he savored the feeling that his plan was coming together. The Sojourner would be pleased. The transformation to gray would be Azriim's reward.
He picked his way through the dead and wreckage to one of the enclosed wagons. The fact that it had not burned suggested that it was warded with magical protections. With a grunt, he pulled the lock from its setting and tore the rear door from its hinges. The slab of wood exploded with a blue flash, sending a jolt of power through Azriim's body: a magical trap. He nearly cursed, more annoyed than injured-though his hands did sting-and tossed the door atop two corpses that lay nearby. He knelt down on his haunches and looked inside.
Within the wagon, thrown into disarray by the explosions, lay swords, several staffs, a scroll belt stuffed full, several gem-tipped wands wrapped in cloth, and three chests. One of the chests had broken open and was bleeding platinum. Azriim called upon his innate ability to detect dweomers and saw that most everything in the wagon except the currency was magical. A hurried examination of the second sealed wagon revealed much the same. Both were stuffed full with magic items and wealth destined for the Xanathar. Some of the agents carried magical goods as well, Azriim saw. Most such items had survived the inferno.
The beholder would not leave unavenged the loss of so many men and so much magical treasure.
Azriim could not contain his grin. The situation couldn't have been better.
Assist me, he projected to Serrin and Dolgan, who had finished their macabre task. We are taking it all.
CHAPTER 10
RETURN TO STARMANTLE
After stepping through the gate, Cale, Riven, Jak, and Magadon found themselves standing in the midst of a stand of towering elms, blinking in the light of the midday sun. Compared to the gloom of the Plane of Shadow, the light of Toril's sun was nearly blinding. Here and there, the sun's rays cut through the elms' canopy in a shower of beams.
And hit Cale like crossbow bolts.
His exposed skin felt as if it were being stabbed with sewing needles. His senses too felt duller, his hearing less keen, and his sight less sharp. While his skin was still dusky, the protective sheath of shadows was gone. He had known that while he stood in the light, his shade abilities would be lost to him. He hadn't known that he would feel somehow less substantial. Faerun's sun melted a part of him away, as surely as if he were made of ice.