Bruce Cordell: City of Torment

The warlock speculated the rush a gambler experienced making a bet was akin to his own craving for the red crystals. Of course, casting the bones looking for double sevens wasn't the death sentence a traveler on the crimson road eventually, faced.

Japheth shook off the association, as well as the temptation to try his luck at the table with the purse he held just to see what might happen.

No, he decided. He wouldn't chance the first installment of his tribute in there. He moved deeper into the Lorious.

The wide portico of the saloon's entrance was the next enticement. Within, patrons briefly rested from the exuberant highs and chin-trembling lows of the game chamber with the aid of popular and bizarre drinks.

Spirits, ciders, and wines of both rare and common vintage flowed. Bundles of burning herbs in dark leaf wrappers and water pipes hazed the room with pale blue smoke.

He had no time for the camaraderie of the saloon either. He walked past.

It cost Japheth five gold coins a day to rent the adjoining rooms he maintained in the luxury inn, a sum more than double what an opulent suite normally went for. But the warlock needed privacy to complete his task. He could have paid much less in nearly any other lodge, but seclusion wasn't cheap, especially when it had to be found quickly.

The Lorious offered both unquestioned privacy and more than a modicum of security. An extraordinary amount of coin passed through the establishment's halls. It could not afford to allow its guests to become the victims of thievery. So long as a visitor did not steal and did not cheat-or get caught at either-the proprietors were happy to allow paying customers all the privacy they required, no matter the deviant habits some were rumored to enjoy. The warlock doubted any had accumulated as many rumors as him in so short a time.

He'd heard the staff whisper he was a spy from Thay sent to keep tabs on Veltalar, or perhaps on the Red Wizard enclave that operated in the city outside of Thay's purview. One fellow had caught a chlorine whiff emerging from the warlock's suite and had sworn up and down Japheth was trying to reanimate the corpse of a rich heiress.

The warlock complained to the Lorious's management about that one and got him dismissed. A few rumors to maintain an air of mystery to keep folks away was one thing. Inciting local authorities with crazy lies about zombie uprisings was counterproductive.

To achieve his end, he'd accumulated all sorts of odds and ends, some of which were bulky, loud, smelly, or all three. He'd tried to transfer these components into his chamber without causing undue commotion, but he hadn't been entirely successful.

Japheth passed down a hallway lined with golden lamps and tapestries. A plaque indicated the tapestries were looted from the ruins of Mulhorand. This would impress most guests with coin enough to stay in the most expensive suite the inn had to offer. The warlock didn't much care.

As dearly as he paid for his privacy, in truth, solitude was the least of his expenses. His task required the acquisition of costly components, items more expensive even than illicit drugs, especially in uncertain times.

Japheth had quickly run through his resources merely researching what might be required. He'd nearly despaired, until a rhymester in the saloon related a story of a bandit lord who deviled the city before the Spellplague.

The warlock spent two days without sleep chasing down wharf drunks, roustabouts, and petty thieves, learning bit by bit the various minor and major players of the Veltalar underworld. Every city concealed some amount of corruption just beneath its surface. Veltalar was no different. He finally discovered where the Razorhides made their lair.

Truth to tell, he was surprised how soft they turned out to be. Some of the stories indicated he might have been in for a desperate fight. But no.

He doubted his new gang leader role would survive more than a few tendays. But it didn't need to last forever- only long enough to pay for what he needed. Expensive things like green dragon scales. The warlock reached the finely adorned but heavily reinforced door of his suite. He put the iron key into the lock, rotated it three times to the left and once right. A click, and he was in. The door creaked shut behind him.

The main room was adrift in tomes. Books of every size lay in untidy heaps, many open to a page Japheth had briefly perused before tossing it aside to refer to the next. Titles picked out in various scripts winked amid the clutter, including Godren's Ritual of Waking, Breaking the Spell, and Recalling the Soul. Much of the warlock's funds had gone into renting the tomes from private collections in Veltalar.

Japheth produced a second key and slid it into the massive door guarding the suite's vault. The door was iron with a core of lead. The vault was a perk offered by the Lorious to guests willing to pay a little more for security. Japheth worked the key and heard the interior lock's dull thud as the bolts pulled back. Despite the door's weight, it was well balanced and opened smoothly.

A chorus of barks greeted the warlock. Then appeared a grinning canine head, followed by a wriggling black body and a waving tail.

"Lucky, you keeping our girl safe? Yes? Good boy!"

He reached down and ruffled the dog's ears. The tempo of its tail increased-a far cry from Luckyk reaction when Japheth had first claimed the dog's charge. The beast had guarded his mistress well on that forlorn island anchorage. Too well. When Japheth appeared from the folds of his cloak, Lucky had snarled and leaped. The scar on the back of Japheth's hand was from that bite.

He couldn't fault the beast for being protective. He was just grateful the loyal animal had recognized him and stood down. If he'd been forced to hurt the dog… Well, it hadn't come to that.

The vault's floor was smooth marble, with walls and ceiling to match. Two circular diagrams were engraved on the floor and inlaid with silver. Japheth had inscribed them himself.

Anusha Marhana's travel chest was set in the larger circle.

Japheth walked to the edge and gazed into it. There she lay, her eyes closed and her breathing slow and measured. As if she were merely sleeping.

A familiar pang clutched his chest. "I'm back, Anusha. I got what I needed."

She didn't respond.

Anusha's features were delicate but drawn. Her arms lay at her sides. Despite how her hands lay in limp curls, they seemed perfect. He knew he'd had too much time to brood over her, but the damage was done.

He was smitten.

He took one of her hands and pressed the palm to his cheek.

The cadence of her breathing didn't change, but his did. "Not much longer. You'll see."

The smaller silver circle on the floor was inscribed so that it barely intersected the larger one. An oak stand rose from its center. On the stand rested an iron birdcage. The cage's bars were rusted, but they were still strong. The cage trapped a spherical object about the size of a human head.The trapped globe was black over most of its surface, save for the purplish red iris that appeared when the object's lids snapped wide, as they did every so often according to no schedule Japheth could discern. Every time the eye opened, the warlock flinched.

The Dreamheart.

It was the disembodied eye of horror itself. He'd layered it with rituals, attempting to blind the thing's gaze. He didn't know how effective his workings had been.

Japheth had devised the iron cage to contain the relic. The cage also gave him a way to handle the Dreamheart without laying his hands along its cold and somehow slick surface.

He'd touched it once, when he'd stolen it from Raidon's sword. That contact had granted Japheth the strength to travel miles through his cloak, when yards were the normal limit of the cloak's ability. The touch had also shown the warlock disturbing images, ones he'd tried to block. But those visions still seeped in and coiled around his dreams, clamoring for his attention during the night.