Victor Milan - War in Tethyr

The tunnel began to branch to serve the various parts of the vast structure. Zazesspur, with its wealth of innovative and assiduous artisans, had enjoyed running water and indoor plumbing longer even than most great cities of Faerun; it was a simple enough technic, involving no magic, unless one were Calishite and simply had to have one's needs served by a bowl of water summoning. The half-elf led them left, right, left again down passages that diminished at every fork, so that even Chen, shortest of the group, had to double over, and Shield had to waddle in a painful-looking squat. His placid look never wavered.

" 'Ware upward," Farlorn called back over his shoulder. "Anything falling from above is unlikely to be the manna of the gods!"

"Thanks so much for reminding us," Zaranda said in a low voice. Farlorn laughed musically. "And could you please be quiet? If Hardisty hears voices floating up out of his commode he's not going to think it's an angelic chorus come to sing his praises."

The half-elf grinned at her and, maddeningly, laughed aloud. His olive cheeks were flushed, eyes fever-bright. From experience, Zaranda knew that when the manic mood came upon him there was no containing him. She likewise knew that, while in such an exalted state he might take risks that seemed insane, he had never brought disaster on himself or his comrades. Yet.

Just when it seemed Zaranda's thigh muscles were going to split straight across, Stillhawk and Farlorn straightened. Zaranda came up alongside them and found a round passage rising straight up.

"What's this," she asked, "a giant's oubliette?"

Farlorn shone the beam of his bull's-eye over metal rungs running up the tube's side to a circular wooden hatch ten feet up. "An access passage, so that workmen can enter the sewers in case of blockage."

Zaranda drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. "Once we're up, there'll be no turning back."

She turned and embraced the others in turn. The rest exchanged handshakes and hugs. This might be the last chance to say good-bye.

Stillhawk came to Shield of Innocence, paused, stuck out his hand. The great orc gripped him firmly, forearm to forearm. Then the orog turned to Farlorn.

The half-elf sneered and turned away.

Zaranda looked at him, then up at the hatch. "Locked?"

"Of course. Did you think this would be easy?"

"I thought it would be harder already." She shut her eyes and concentrated. It was difficult to summon the dweomer; fatigue dragged her down with leaden fingers. Get through this and you can rest all you want, she told herself. One way or another.

She spoke the spell. The squeal of metal on metal sounded through the thick wooden disk as a bolt withdrew. Farlorn sheathed his rapier, swarmed up the rungs like a squirrel, and tested the hatch.

He spat a curse in Elven. "Still locked!"

The words struck Zaranda like a fist in the belly. The breath chuffed out of her, and she bent over as if in physical pain, resting hands on thighs. She had had but the one knock spell memorized. "Farlorn, it's not like you to do so slipshod a job of scouting."

"No one else did any kind of scouting at all."

"That's fair enough," Zaranda said. She straightened and scrutinized the disk. Its blank, rough wood suggested nothing.

"I can try to open it," Chen offered.

"You haven't learned the knock spell," Zaranda re-minded her.

"Maybe I can use my other powers."

"No. They're too unpredictable. And I've a feeling there are things within the palace for whom such a concentration of dweomer would be like tocsins ringing. I'm uneasy enough about the puny little spell I cast."

"The great Zaranda Star, admitting defeat?" said Farlorn. "I don't believe it."

"Don't," Zaranda said. "Yet. Still-we go in here, or try to batter down the front door."

"Let me," Shield of Innocence said. He strode toward the ladder. Farlorn flowed down like a cat, jumped clear sо as not to let the orog near him. Sheathing swords across his back, Shield climbed up. He tested the disk with his hand, then braced his feet on the rungs, laid the side of his head and his shoulder to the wood, and heaved.

Veins bulged from forehead and great corded neck. His spine creaked loudly. Wood groaned like a soul in torment, and with a twang and a crash the hatch popped free.

"So much for stealth," Chenowyn said.

"We had few choices," Zaranda said, "and now must play out the game we chose. Up, now, and quickly."

The orog had already disappeared through the hole. Yellow lamplight streamed down into the sewer. Farlorn swarmed up, then Stillhawk with bow slung over his shoulder. Zaranda let Chen go next, keeping long sword ready, then followed

She found herself in an octagonal chamber of about the same dimensions as Hardisty's receiving room on the topmost floor. Four shadowed passageways led out of the chamber. A pair of thick columns flanked each entrance about six feet in. Each pillar was fitted with a black-iron sconce in which a torch flared.

The hatch was three feet across and six inches thick. Shield picked it up as if it were a serving tray and fitted it back into the hole. Two heavy brass slide-latches had secured it. One was neatly opened, the other a twisted ruin.

"Put them back in place," Zaranda said. "We'll just have to hope nobody chancing by gives them too close a look."

The orog did as he was bid.

Which way? signed Stillhawk.

"This way lies the rear of the palace," said Farlorn, indicating a corridor.

"As good a way as any," Zaranda said, and led the group that way.

There came a rumble, a friction squeal, and a thunderclap crash. Zaranda dropped to her knees, ears ringing. She snapped her head around.

A five-foot-thick column of stone had dropped from the ceiling to seal the hatch.

"Trapped!" she cried. "Farlorn, you've led us into a thieves' foyer!" In the Empires of the Sands it was customary for dwellings of pretense to be built so as to offer prospective thieves a means of ingress-not too easy, just enough to challenge the skills of a self-respecting rogue. The covert entrances led not to treasures but to traps, of varying degrees of lethality.

This one was obviously designed to capture, not kill. Feeling the dull throb of failure beginning in her temples, Zaranda gathered herself to dash for the corridor.

"Correct, Countess Morninggold," a familiar voice mid cheerily. "But not just any thieves' foyer."

In the entryway before her appeared Armenides, white-robed and smiling. Armed men thronged the passage behind him. At the same time blue-and-bronzes stepped out from behind the pillars, leveling crossbows at the group.

Zaranda stopped. She flicked a tiny pellet at the false Ao priest, murmuring height and range, and flung herself backward to escape the fireball's blast.

The pellet struck the archpriest's sternum and bounced. It fell to the floor by his sandaled feet. He knelt, picked it up, sniffed it.

"Bat dung and sulfur." He smiled. "Why, Countess, I do believe you've just tried to incinerate me." He laughed delightedly. "Did you not think other walls than the dungeon's might be imbued with the god bones of Tantras?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Now I'll trouble you to put down your weapons," Armenides said.

Someone walked past her. She opened her eyes to see the half-elf approaching Armenides. She scrambled to her feet. "Farlorn-no!"

The bard walked between two crossbowmen, turned, and smiled. "Your concern is touching, Zaranda, my love. But quite misplaced. I have nothing to fear from my friends."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we've all done our poor orc friend a grave disservice. He's a sincere servant of good, may all such die in agony-as will you anon, I might add. I'm your traitor."

"What are you saying?" Zaranda asked, stunned.