Paul Kemp: Shadow witness

"What are we doing here?" Apparently having recovered himself, Riven now sounded strangely calm, though he remained near the door and kept his back to the wall.

"All in time, lieutenant," Krollir replied. He turned his back on Riven and walked ceremoniously across the room. The velvet of his gray robes softly whispered as he strode around the triangle and took position at the lectern. Gripping the cool, smooth wood on either side of the Shadowtome, he steadied himself for the ordeal ahead. When he felt ready, he ordered over his shoulder, "Come forward and light the candles, Riven. But do not disturb their position."

He had expected the assassin to protest-for surely Riven would fear to take a direct hand in a summoning-but after only a moment's hesitation, Riven walked calmly to the binding triangle, took a tinderbox from his belt pouch, and struck flint to steel. Krollir watched him intently; he prided himself on his ability to read a man from the subtlest of actions.

Surprisingly, the assassin's hands did not shake as he held a flaming cloth to each candle in turn. The corners of Riven's thin-lipped mouth curled slightly upward. His goatee masked what could have been either a fearful grimace or a secret smile.

Strange, Krollir thought, but not entirely out of character. He had learned long ago that Riven masked fear with a show of calm bravado. Inside, the assassin's guts were no doubt roiling like a butter churn.

Careful to disturb neither the candles nor place his hand within the platinum borders of the binding triangle, Riven soon had all three of the thick wax towers lit. Wisps of stinking black smoke snaked from the dancing flames and rose toward the invisible vents in the ceiling. The room rapidly filled with the smell of rancid meat.

"What in the Nine Hells did you use to make these candles?" Riven asked. "They stink like horse dung."

Krollir smiled softly-the materials used to craft the candles had been hard bought. He made no reply to the question. He inhaled deeply, steeled himself. He had summoned lesser demons many times before, but what he would attempt now…

Is suitable for Mask's Champion, he reassured himself. "Stand away, Riven," he commanded.

At his authoritative tone, the assassin shot him an irritated glare but nevertheless obediently backed away from the binding triangle. He padded back to his position near the door, behind and beside the lectern.

"You still haven't explained what we're doing here."

Angered by the incessant questions, Krollir turned from the lectern to face the assassin. He spoke in a soft voice pregnant with power and heavy with threats. "Do I owe you explanations, lieutenant?" He emphasized the last word slightly, explicitly referencing Riven's status as a subordinate; a replaceable subordinate.

The assassin's good eye narrowed, but he swallowed whatever angry retort he might have been considering. His gaze went to the binding triangle and the unusual candles.

See in them my power, lieutenant, Krollir silently advised, and consider well your next words. If necessary, he would kill Riven where he stood.

Riven's gaze returned to meet Krollir's. His mouth remained a defiant rictus in the hairy nest of his goatee, but his words bespoke submission. "No. You don't owe me an explanation. I was curious, is all."

Krollir smiled behind his mask. Heel, cur. He decided to drive another verbal splinter under Riven's fingernails. "It is regrettable that Cale is not here," he said, as though in passing. "I would have him share my moment of triumph." the assassin visibly stiffened at the mention of his rival Erevis Cale-and at the implicit recognition in Krollir's statement of Cale's superior status in the guild-but he ignored the bait. Instead, he asked, "Triumph?"

Krollir ignored Riven's question. He enjoyed the assassin's discomfiture at the mention of Cale. He had long encouraged the rivalry between the two men. He had chosen them as his lieutenants for that very reason. The hate that they held for one another lessened the threat to him that either alone would present. The two could never ally to overthrow him- one would always betray the other. When the time came-and it was coming soon-Krollir would kill them both. For he alone would serve as the Champion of Mask. The Champion destined to restore the faith of the Shadowlord to the status it enjoyed before the Time of Troubles, before the coming of the pretender god Cyric the Dark Sun. All of Krollir's augurs and dreams had indicated that Mask would choose a Champion soon from among the Night Knives in the city of Selgaunt. Taking nothing for granted, Krollir had decided to assure his selection with the summoning tonight.

"Alone you will have the privilege of bearing witness to these events, Riven," he grandly announced. "With this one act, the Zhentarim will be destroyed and our guild-my guild-will be elevated to preeminence in Selgaunt. Mask has mandated this course, and I obey."

He waited for an appropriate reply but Riven held his silence. Krollir went on.

"With the power of the Shadowtome, I will reach beyond this reality into the darkest layer of the Abyss and summon forth a dread. I dare this in the name of Mask! I dare this for the guild I lead! Do you see, Riven?"

He had expected Riven to protest or recoil upon learning Krollir's intent to summon a demonic dread- had hoped for it, in fact-but the assassin stood his ground, expressionless.

"I see," he replied noncommittally. Though Riven spoke in a steady voice, he looked coiled as tight as a dwarf's beard braid.

He is more nervous now than ever, Krollir thought with satisfaction.

He turned from Riven to stand over the lectern and peruse the pages of the Shadowtome. He had acquired the magical artifact from an ignorant curio dealer in Arabel. The oblivious fool had not been able to decipher the script and so had not known what he possessed. Krollir had sent Riven to purchase the tome, eliminate the dealer, and escort the prize back to Selgaunt. In all of the city, perhaps in all of Faerun, only he and Riven knew of the Shadowtome's existence, and the assassin was too unschooled in the magical arts to appreciate its significance.

Within its pages of ancient, coded text, the Shadowtome contained the description and proper name of a mighty dread, the name and nature of its abyssal abode, and the means to summon and properly bind it. The dread named hi the tome dwelled in Belistor, a layer of the Abyss, a void of nothingness empty of normal life, but not empty of all life. Dreads resided there, greater and lesser, as did certain powerful undead. Because the denizens of Belistor existed in such dose proximity to the negative energy of the plane, they possessed a certain power that Krollir desired to harness-their touch siphoned the souls of any mortals they contacted, killing them irrevocably. Spells that raised or resurrected the dead could not bring back those slain by dreads.

Krollir planned to command one of the greatest of the dreads to slay the leaders of the Zhentarim-the widespread organization of Cyric-loving priests, warriors, and wizards. The Zhents were Krollir's and the Night Knives' most dangerous rivals. But not after tonight. With their leaders slain, the Night Knives could destroy the weakened Zhents and rule Selgaunt's underworld.

Mask's first triumph over Cyric is at hand, Krollir thought, and my status as the Shadowlord's Champion is assured.

He spared a glance over his shoulder to check on Riven. The assassin stood near the door. He met Krollir's gaze.

Flushed with his soon-to-be success, Krollir smiled indulgently behind his mask. He realized now that Riven and Cale had never been true rivals for Mask's favor-by the gods, neither of them had ever even set foot in Mask's shrine. Rather, they had served as whetstones. Whetstones used by Mask to hone Krollir and better prepare him for his ordained role as Champion. Feeling razor sharp, he decided to discard them as unnecessary after tonight.