J. King: The abduction

"If I am a shapeshifter" said the fifth, "why did I slay two of my comrades with a crushing hand?”

The ninth shook his head. "He slew only those two, and in front of you so that you would believe him. I killed the rest"

"A crushing hand is no easy spell. Open Lord" said the fifth.

"Many shapeshifters know magic," the ninth replied. "Your casting is no proof of your identity."

Piergeiron ground his teeth together. "This is like blind-fighting. I'm as likely to kill friend as foe."

"Wouldn't it be better. Open Lord," said the fifth, "to let a shapechanger free man to accidentally slay me Lord Mage of Waterdeep?"

He was right. Piergeiron released his hold on the fifth Khelben.

The mage staggered free, huffed, and then struggled to straighten his robes. He glanced up in irritation at Piergeiron. "Thanks for the rough treatment. I have half a mind-"

Then, absurdly, his words were literally true. His head split down the middle and fountained red upon all those around. The Open Lord reeled back in surprise and revulsion, and the body slumped to the floor.

Eidola pulled back from the slain form, the sword in her hand dripping gore. She looked as surprised by her action as did everyone else. Her wedding dress was painted in crimson, and her hands trembled.

"You were quite right," said the ninth Khelben, stepping toward her. "You knew I would never try to save myself at the peril of the city. Gentles, if you would put away your swords-“

"Wait" shouted Piergeiron. "We still have no proof."

Eidola gave him a look of injured pride.

Piergeiron thought of all those in whom he had placed — his trust-Noph, who turned out to be an assassin; Khelben, who was eight parts shapeshifter to one part master mage; and beautiful, mysterious Eidola, the spirit and image of long-gone Shaleen.

"Put away your swords," the Open Lord said, lowering his blade. “The judgment of my bride is proof enough." “That's good" said the Blackstaff. "The monster she just slew would concur." He gestured toward the riven head and body before them. They all saw it, men. The body had returned to its true appearance-a grey-hided humanoid creature with huge eyes and a broad, spiky head.

"A doppleganger?" the Open Lord gasped.

"So it would seem" said Khelben, prodding the thing with an iron-toed boot. "Not malaugrym, but dopplegangers"

"But why?" asked Piergeiron. He turned to his bride and clutched her hand. 'To kill Eidola?"

"I doubt it," Khelben said dryly, shaking his head. "They could have killed her a hundred times before now. Besides, as our young friend Noph has shown, there are much easier ways to assassinate a lady."

"But if not to kill her" Piergeiron asked, "then why?"

Khelben cocked a knowing eyebrow at the bride and said, "That very simple question will take, I am afraid, a very long time to puzzle out." He cast his gaze outward at the stone-silent crowd, many of whom stood with candlesticks and snuffers and other improvised weapons in hand. "And this is neither the time nor place for such riddles"

With a wave of Khelben's hand, Eidola's dress, makeup, and hair were once again in perfect order. She looked admiringly at herself, then glanced at her groom to see that he, also, had been made over.

Khelben addressed the crowd, "I fear I haven't spells for all of you, so tuck in those shirttails, straighten those gowns, and lick back those bangs. We've a wedding to celebrate!"

A wondering murmur circulated among the crowd.

"Music!" called Khelben.

The trumpets responded first, once again taking up the bridal march. The drums added their cadence, and the bagpipes growled to life.

Khelben motioned to the guards to remove the body and clean up the soot. They flinched at first from his flicking fingers, but then busied themselves about their tasksArm in arm, bride and groom headed down the aisle. striding to the martial strains of the wedding march. In waves, the crowd shook off its stunned silence and straightened its collective cummerbund. It even mustered a smile for the wedding couple.

Piergeiron tried to return the smile, but couldn't.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't stop swallowing.

His head felt like a papier-mache mask.

Oh, to sleep…

This dread. This mourning. He had not felt such anguish since the night Shaleen had died. The image of his first wife again rose before him, filled his vision.

Oh, to sleep… The candles all through the sanctuary abruptly flared to life. Their flames leapt up six feet into me air. The congregation cowered away from this new assault, and the trumpets and drums faltered into silence. In the agonized dying of the bagpipes came human shrieks Fiery figures formed in the flaring candles: warriors, dressed in armour, their swords drawn.

With a final flash, the flaming beings became solid flesh. They dropped to me floor. With them descended a heavy, preternatural night.

This is not the end, thought Noph, not by a long shot. He had begun the evening a disaffected young noble. Judging by others of his breed, he had been clearly destined to become a jaded and decadent middle-aged noble. But something had happened along the way. Somehow he'd caught a glimpse of what he was going to be and had boldly worked to change it all.

He had decided to be a hero.

Why, then, was he imprisoned in a dungeon cell, awaiting trial and execution as an assassin?

He had heard that such was often the lot of heroes-to be misunderstood and branded villains. Only now did it occur to him just how galling was such a fate. He had been disowned by his father, had risked his skin to save Lord Piergeiron and Lady Eidola, and at the end of it all, had been labelled a monster.

"Some hero I turned out to be," he told himself dismally.

A scream sounded above, then shouts, and curses, and the rumble of soldiers' feet. A man's voice came echoing down into the dungeon. "Guards, everyone! Above! Above!"

The young soldier who had been sitting outside Noph's cell was suddenly gone, his chair no longer leaning against the wall but rattling dully where he had been.

There was a new catastrophe in the sanctuary above.

Noph's own voice echoed in his head: Some hero you'll turn out to be if you give up now. They need you up there.

From all of Waterdeep, the Open Lord had selected Noph to trust-Noph and three others. Just because Noph was accused of betraying that trust did not mean he was guilty of doing so.

Not yet, at least.

He stood up. In the dim light sifting into his cell, he began to study the walls and door for some means of escape. He'd get out of this cell, aid Piergeiron in the new conflict, and find the woman with the burr in her voice-no, not just her, but her whole clan of assassins.

A hero could do no less.

As the shadows fell about him, Piergeiron wearily drew his sword. He glimpsed Eidola's white face, eyes wide, one hand clutching the gem at her throat.

Next moment, the warriors solidified, flame to flesh, and dropped to the floor. With their descent, a magical darkness also fell.

"Stay behind me," Piergeiron shouted to his bride. "I don't want to kill you in this blackness."

Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another, and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.

Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.