"Never! Never again!"
He ground the book into the floor with his heel until its torn, crumpled pages lay strewn about the room like blown leaves. "Never again," he said, gasping. Fatigue was new to him. He rather disliked the sensation.
To assuage the feeling, he drank a small part of the Righteous Man's soul for the first time. The tiny, fearful thing squirmed and tried to back away when it sensed Yrsillar turn inward and come for it, but its terror only whetted his appetite. He sipped from the top of the soul as a human would a fine liquor, savoring, taking delight in the horrified squeals of the Righteous Man's being. As he drank, the memories, thoughts, and experiences of the human-the events that had shaped the soul-played out in his mind's eye. The short, irrelevant life of the Righteous Man flashed through Yrsillar's mind hi the space of three heartbeats. He mocked its insignificance, enjoyed the failure of its lofty aspirations.
"A priest of Mask the Shodowlord," he softly said to the walls, thinking aloud. "How very ironic. And with a loyal guild at your command. At my command," he corrected.
The beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind. The soul of the Righteous Man sensed his scheme and squealed in protest. As discipline, Yrsillar drew off still more of the human's life-force, sucked a writhing, twisting portion of it into his being. "Mind now," he said with a vicious grin. "Mind, or I'll have the rest."
The soul retreated, weakened, defeated.
"Take heart," Yrsillar mocked. "Though you'll not become the Champion of Mask, neither will the two you had thought your rivals for the honor." He laughed aloud, a deep sinister sound that bounced off the walls. The Righteous Man's soul curled in on itself, horrified. Yrsillar thought of Mask's discomfiture in Hades and smiled. "So much too for your lofty aspirations, Shadowlord," he mocked.
To execute his plan, he would need more of his kind, lesser dreads that could exist on this plane without pain. Together, they would lead these shadow mongering Mask worshipers in an orgy of slaughter. He gleefully pictured the bloodletting to come and laughed still more.
With an exercise of will, he brought a gate to Belistor into existence. An empty hole formed in the air above the toppled lectern. Hisses and moans sounded through the gate, music to Yrsillar's ears, a reminder of his home plane.
"Araniskeel and Greeve," he softly hissed. "Come forth."
Instantly, four yellow pinpoints of light took shape within the emptiness and drew closer. Shadows coalesced around the gate, solidified into clawed, winged shapes similar to, but smaller than, Yrsillar's natural form. The two shadows streaked from the gate and screamed their malice into the air of the chamber.
"Welcome, little brethren," hissed Yrsillar.
Despite his human shell, they recognized him immediately. Obsequious as always, they bowed and fawned, flitted about his person like moths. With only slight ties to the plane of unlife, these lesser dreads felt no pain from this plane. Perfect tools to bring him power and food.
"Yrsillar calls and we answer."
"Great Yrsillar, what is your will?"
"My will is to rule and to feed," he pronounced. "And this plane is my realm and table."
"Feed," they hissed in echo. "Feed."
Yrsillar smiled, smoothed his velvet robe, and gestured expansively. "You look upon the servant of Mask," he announced.
Their yellow eyes narrowed quizzically and he began to laugh. "In good time, little brethren. For now, there is much to be done. Then we shall feed."
"Feed," they hissed eagerly. "Feed."
CHAPTER TWO
Silently bemoaning his three-and-a-half foot tall halfling body as too damned inefficient for climbing, Jak slid over the cold stone of the inner wall and soundlessly dropped to the snow-dusted flagstones of the courtyard. There he crouched, listening. To his left, he heard the murmur of voices, though a forest of statuary blocked the source. The sounds grew steadily louder with each beat of his heart. Guards approaching, he assumed. But relaxed guards to judge from their easy tone. They hadn't seen him. He bit his lip to swallow a mischievous grin-in the darkness, a flash of teeth could reveal him to an observer as easily as a wave and a shout.
He congratulated himself on his success thus far. The defenses in the outer yard off Stoekandlar Street had presented him with only scant challenge. The lax guards were easily bypassed and the minor alarming wards were easily dispelled. He expected tilings to become more difficult now that he had neared the Soargyl manse proper. To that end, he had cast a spell that allowed him to endure cold so that he could shed his heavy winter cloak. The spell would last for over an hour. Plenty of time.
With the guards drawing nearer, he ducked into the darkness behind a marble sculpture of a rearing manticore and silently waited. His heart raced from excitement, not fear, but he managed to remain perfectly still. Selune had set hours ago. Except for the flaming brands borne by the guards, only the soft gold and red light of glow spells-minor magic used to illuminate and highlight the more impressive statues-dispelled the pitch of night.
When two bobbing torch flames suddenly came into view from across the courtyard and approached his location Jak melted fully into the darkness.
The green and gold liveried guards who held the brands talked casually to one another as they carefully wended their way through the maze of fountains, life-sized sculptures, decorative urns, and ornate topiary. Moving slowly toward the raised, paved walkway that ran along the inner wall and encircled the courtyard, they drew so close to Jak that he could hear the soft chinking of their chain mail, could see the frost clouds blown from their mouths and nostrils, and could make out their conversation. He tried to sink deeper into the darkness as the guards' torchlight illumined a suggestive satyr and nymph fountain five paces to his left.
"… didn't get much sleep yesterday," the younger of the two was saying. A scraggly, frost-covered mustache clung to his upper lip. Dark circles painted the skin beneath his tired eyes.
"Ha," laughed his companion, an older, balding guard. "Larra the cooking girl keeping you up late, I'll wager." He thumped his comrade on the back. "We should all have such problems, Cobb."
Jak mentally targeted each of them-just in case. If they spotted him, he would use a spell to immobilize them. Fleshy statues among the marbles. Then…
Then what? he wondered.
He didn't know for sure what he would do if this went bad, but he did know that he would leave no corpses in his wake. Not tonight. Tonight was a holy night of sorts, not a night for killing.
Watching the guards closely from behind the manticore's hindquarters, he prepared to cast the spell.
"No, no, it's not like that," protested the young man. "She nags, and I mean nags. Constantly."
Though they passed within a short dagger toss of the statue he crouched behind, they barely even looked in his direction. Swords sat idle in scabbards. Cursory glances checked the shadows. Dim torchlight passed over him. They talked so loudly they wouldn't have heard him if he snapped his fingers. Their boots beat a rhythm on the walkway as they marched away.
"With her body," replied the older, "I could tolerate some nagging. As long as…"
Their conversation drifted away. Watching them go, Jak shook his head in astonishment. What incompetence! If he had been the sort, he could easily have killed them both before either knew what had happened. The Soargyls need to hire better guards, he thought, and tried to ward off a flash of disappointment. Perhaps this job wouldn't be as challenging as he had hoped after all. The guards behaved as though they were irrelevThe realization hit him like a slap on the cheek. A knowing grin split his face and he patted the manticore on the rump. That's because they are irrelevant.