J. King: Conspiracy

It was meant to bring us new armies to fight our old foes. It brought us paladins and pirates.

As long as Eidola of Neverwinter remained in my dungeons, beneath this very tank, more warriors would have arrived in these lands, armies of them. They would have fought the fiend war for us. In time, the fiends would have been slaughtered. Then we would have relaxed our defenses, and the bloodforge would once more have grown quiet. Such was my plan.

"What has gone wrong?"

The Paladinson has fallen into a deep coma. Were he awake, he would have mustered the greatest fleet in Faerun to come here in search of his lost bride. They would have come and fought fiends for us and driven them all back to the Abyss. Instead, the loveless mage Khelben Blackstaff has sent only one small group, whose number was nearly halved before they even arrived- two dead, and Paladinstar remaining to tend her father. Now even the foolish youth Kastonoph has left them. We cannot throw back the fiends with such pitiful numbers as these. The Blackstaff does not prize his master's bride as he ought.

"But surely when these paladins fail, the Blackstaff will send this fleet you speak of-"

We have not time to wait for these Tyr-kissers to fail. The fiends have found another route into the city, through a deep and ancient labyrinth of dwarf tunnels. To close all of them off would require a use of the bloodforge that would be instantly lethal for every creature in Doegan. The fiends will find their way into the city, and soon.

You will muster all of our forces and array them to protect the palace. Already our energies are so strained that we cannot keep track of these paladins and pirates. They are the least of our worries, inconsequential now. They are nothing beside these armies of fiends.

The fiends will not reach you, Highness." You guard not us, but the bloodforge. If it is lost, all is lost. We ourselves will fight to our death to defend it. "When will the fiends arrive, Highness?" Before dusk, tomorrow.

"Then this truly is the hour of our deliverance, or our demise."

There was something unutterably mournful in the mind of the mage-king, the sort of sweet, quiet, bitter reflection of a monarch dying even as his warriors won the war. It is the apocalypse. If the bloodforge is stolen, it will be gained at the price of our own life, of your life, Ikavi, and that of every citizen in Doegan.

Let there be no more Ffolk, no more Mar. We, Aetheric III, are Ffolk, and yet we could not have ruled without your aid, Ikavi Garkim-and you are Mar. Let there be no more Ffolk, no more Mar, but only warriors of Doegan. We shall triumph together, or die together.

But warriors are not enough. For the fiends to be beaten back and defeated, we will have to become far more than ever we have been. We must be transformed. We must emerge from this poisoned chrysalis into new, winged life. We must transcend.

Either way, Aetheric III, mage-king of Doegan, will forever cease to be.

Interlude

Congratulations

So much for being mesmerized.

All right, all right, so you got the girl already. You two could be a little quieter in the next room, so the rest of us could get some sleep. Of course, Rings and Belgin are making as much noise with their snoring, and In-grar's probably asleep, too.

Congratulations, Entreri. I doubt she'll be getting a new heart from you.

And what the hell is it with these dried sponges for pillows? I feel like I'm sleeping on the bottom of the damned sea.

Next afternoon, Miltiades was more grim-faced than usual as he strode slowly ahead of his men. The adobe slums around him looked as run-down as he felt. Still no luck.

After the fiasco at the Mar funeral, Miltiades and the paladins had headed back toward the palace to get washed and rested. En route, though, Lord Garkim and his guards had caught up to them. Too battle weary to offer resistance, the paladins were quickly surrounded and slowly questioned about every detail of their encounter with the pirates earlier. Once that whole battle had been reviewed, Garkim had grilled the warriors about their antics at the Mar funeral. It was clear that Garkim, a Mar himself, was angered by the attack, but had orders to take no action yet.

At last, chastened, burned, and defeated, the paladins returned to the palace, where their wounds were treated and their aching bodies bathed. Next morning, healed and polished, the warriors returned to their grueling search for the Fallen Temple and Eidola. By that afternoon, they had walked every major thoroughfare and most of the minor ones. Trandon all the while wore the pendant Khelben Arunsun had given them. It was supposed to glow anywhere within a mile of Lady Eidola, but the rock had remained dark.

Kern seemed more disappointed than the rest. "I probably ruined the magic of that thing when I wore it. Sometimes being antimagical is a real nuisance."

"And sometimes it's a great boon," Trandon replied. He pinched the chain in two fingers and gently lifted the amulet from his chest, letting it dangle in the air before him. "Besides, I think it's still magical." His eyes followed the last light of day as it shimmered across the gold filigree. "It doesn't look disrupted."

"You don't know any more about magic than I do," snapped Kern. He stopped in his tracks, dust whuffing up from his feet. "I'm sorry. Frustration has always been my greatest foe, the one emotion that can master me. Forgive my outburst."

Trandon waved the apology away. "There's nothing to forgive. We all are anxious about Eidola."

Kern lifted bis gaze toward the blue sky, giving itself over without sunset to a silken black. "She's probably not even here. It wouldn't surprise me if our host lied to us about her presence in the city."

"That wouldn't surprise me either," Trandon replied. He let the stone sink slowly back to his chest. "But, for some reason, I feel she is here, only warded by some particularly powerful enchantment. If only we could-" He broke off midsentence, seeing that Miltiades had halted before them and signaled them to silence. With soundless tread, Kern, Trandon, and Jacob edged toward the silver paladin, who stood with his head cocked, listening.

"What is it?" Jacob whispered. Miltiades silenced him with an emphatic wave of his hand.

They listened. At first, they heard only the hushed whispers of a Mar slum. From beyond that came the distant bustle of the city. Beneath those everyday sounds, though, was a strange wet rumble. The noise was quiet but seemed to come from everywhere-the streets, the walls, the shops, the sewers…

"Something's coming up!" Miltiades rasped, uncertain.

Next moment, two warhammers, a sword, and a staff were hefted, ready for whatever horror might arise.

And arise it did, in a thousand thousand places- from the trash pit at the end of the street, and the weed-choked culvert at the crossroads, and the shattered sewer grate… The rumbling grew deafening, as though whatever approached was using the very face of Toril as a war drum. Then, through every crack in the mud roadway and every well or pit or grave came a reek somewhere between offal and brimstone-a hot smell as if the sewers themselves were boiling.

Columns of steam formed. Shards of mud burst outward. Things emerged. Iron floodgates that had endured decades of monsoons shattered and spun away, ringing like claxons. Into the space where they had been, horrors scrambled: serrated horns, spiked sagittal crests, eyes as long and thin as scythe blades, jaws that were no more than bone and daggers, bodies of wire and scale, clawed talons, stinging tails… And these were only the nearby beasts-blood-hued monstrosities that clambered up from the culvert beside Miltiades. In the distance, he glimpsed grasping tentacles, hairless rat tails, vast wings of skin…