The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded filled the wide chamber. Jhagren and Adrys continued to strike blow after blow against the treacherous thieves, and Durgoth noted the pile of bodies they had left in their wake. The slightest whisper of sound alerted him to the presence of a cloaked figure approaching from behind. He cursed once and spun, trying to avoid the inevitable attack, but it was too late. He cried out as a dagger plunged deeply into his side. Blindly, he struck out with his fist and felt it strike the would-be-assassin with a satisfying crunch. Swiftly, the cleric grabbed his obsidian mace and swung it hard at his attacker, hoping to take advantage of the thief’s surprise at being struck. His opponent, however, was far faster. The thief ducked beneath the whistling mace and drew his own sword. The two opponents circled each other warily, though Durgoth spared an occasional glance at the golem, hoping to maneuver his attacker within reach of the creature’s grasp.
His opponent attacked left. Durgoth allowed himself to be drawn in by this obvious feint, blocking hastily with his mace. When the thief drew a second dagger and struck at his right side, the cleric stepped easily aside and kicked his attacker with a heavy boot. The man doubled over only for a moment, but it was enough time to bring his own mace crashing down on his opponent’s head. The thief’s skull cracked open like an egg. Gray matter and blood spilled out on the floor.
Durgoth turned from his defeated opponent and surveyed the scene. The battle was clearly over. Jhagren and his apprentice were moving quickly through the center of the chamber, scanning the shadows for any more opponents, and the golem had just cracked the back of his last attacker.
Silence descended upon the room. Dead bodies littered the floor, and the ground was slick with pooling blood. Several of his followers were among the corpses, but he noted with some satisfaction that most of those who journeyed with him from the Fellreev forest were still alive.
It wasn’t until Jhagren shouted, however, that Durgoth noted the single figure slinking away toward the shadowy recesses of a side passage. He turned toward the retreating figure, one hand on the onyx-wrought symbol of his faith, and spoke the words of another prayer. He shuddered once as the divine energy of his god poured forth from him.
The figure froze in place.
As Durgoth approached, he noticed the fine weave of the thief’s cloak and the jewelry on hand and ear. This was no simple gutter snake or cutpurse, but someone of substance in the Thieves’ Guild. Someone they could use. He motioned the golem forward and commanded it to hold the helpless human. The creature reached out and grabbed the thief by the neck.
Secure in the knowledge that their prisoner could not escape, the cleric released the thief from the bonds of his spell. The man struggled briefly, but stopped when the golem tightened its grip around his throat. The thief stared bug-eyed at his captor.
“So, my dear friend,” Durgoth said to the terrified man, “I think it’s time we continued our conversation.”
“W-what do you want from me?” the thief managed to gurgle.
The cleric smiled and sent out a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun, for even compressed by the crushing grip of his golem, he could hear the familiar tones of the voice that first spoke to them in this chamber.
“Why,” replied Durgoth in an overly sweet tone, “I want to take you up on your offer. Let’s renegotiate our terms, shall we?”
5
“More ale!” Kaerion bellowed at the portly barkeep. “And bring along a few more fingers of that damned Dragons Breath. Packs a fine kick, it does.” He slammed down his mug on the chipped wooden bar and drew his other hand across his mouth.
The common area of the Men O’Steel tavern was packed with bodies, hard drinkers all of them. Humans, elves, and even a few dwarves jostled and joked, drank and swore in its dim-lit confines—though Kaerion noticed that no one let their hands stray too far from their weapons. Dirty rushes covered the floor and serving maids swooped from table to table, collecting coins and absently swatting away roaming hands and pinching fingers. Somewhere off in a corner, a minstrel swept swift fingers across the strings of an instrument.
Kaerion turned back to his drink, disgusted. Only a few moments later, the barkeep deposited two more mugs of dark ale and three small cups filled with a brownish liquid. He sniffed the cups, satisfied by the smoky scent that wafted up. Holding up his first cup, he saluted an elf, who had just tied the beard of a dwarf to the cheap wooden table upon which he rested his head, completely passed out. The elf gave a quick smile in return, and Kaerion could not help but think of his own companion. The thought forced him to drain the cup of its contents in one gulp.
The drink filled his belly with the heat of a small fireball. The fiery sensation spread throughout his body, until he felt his very blood boil. He let out a deep bellyful of air, amazed at how the drinks flavor lingered on mouth and tongue. The din of the tavern and the warmth provided by ale and liquor had combined to lift the tension of today’s events. His head swam peacefully in a warm sea of alcohol.
Until now.
Damn him to the Abyss, Kaerion thought acidly, recalling his meeting with Gerwyth just a few hours ago. He had stormed out of the Platinum Shield and headed for the nearest tavern, intent on getting himself utterly and completely drunk. He had been well on his way when the elf walked in, fresh from his meeting with the wrinkled old mage.
Ten years! Ten long years they had traveled together and fought side by side. Kaerion felt betrayed. Gerwyth should have told him what he was planning long before today. He had even said that very thing to the blasted elf. His companion had mumbled back something about friendship, honor, and duty.
Words.
They were simply words to him now. Once he had understood their meaning, had embodied them with his life. But looking back across the hard trail of choices he’d made, he could not quite recall that man. It was as a fading memory, nothing more than a dream.
It wasn’t the journey itself that was making Kaerion angry, though the gods know he wouldn’t look forward to crawling through a steaming swamp in search of an ancient tomb, and it wasn’t even the presence of the Heironean priest—even if the pain and shock of that meeting still lingered. It was the fact that Gerwyth hadn’t filled him in on the whole truth regarding their next job.
Kaerion had known few people he could depend on after… his thoughts hesitated a moment, still afraid to go there… after the god had pronounced judgment. Embittered and angry, Kaerion had spent a few years wandering from city to city, selling his sword where he could, keeping himself in food and drink. Mostly drink. It wasn’t until he had met Gerwyth—at swordpoint, no less—that he had felt comfortable enough to open himself up to the possibility of friendship. Over the course of several years, he had grown to trust the elf implicitly. They were shield mates and brothers. Inseparable.
Or so he had thought.
Kaerion broke from his painful reverie, only to discover that he had finished his drinks. He was about to order a few more, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. “What?” he slurred as he spun around.
The figure standing before him appeared hazy and indistinct. It took a few moments for Kaerion to realize that the figure was fine. He rubbed his eyes a few times and willed them to focus. After a few more moments, the blurred shape resolved itself into the form of a familiar half-elf face. Majandra, he remembered the bard’s name.