Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

A ghost, I thought. Yes, that was what Drusilla was looking like at the moment. She had turned almost immaterial, fading almost entirely from view as the devil spoke. Her face had become bone white and skeletal. With one last cry she launched herself against the devil and genie. The pair ducked, but they were not the targets of her attack. She floated over the top of both and out into the town, bellowing like a banshee as she fled into the night.

“Hmmm,” said the Collector. “I believe that takes care of that. Now for the last matter. The box, if you please.”

I looked at the box, then at Ampi.

“It is his legally,” said the genie with a resigned tone. “The right thing is to return him his property.”

“There is another way, of course,” said the devil. “I could see fit to let Drusilla’s soul go, if one was able to find a replacement.” The devil took a step forward, continuing, “Another soul, noble and innocent this time, in return for hers. Perhaps if you would care to offer your own immortal spirit…?“ The devil reached out to me and Ampi’s hand closed tightly on the devil’s ann.

“You have your deal,” said the djinni sharply. “Ask for no more, or you will have to deal with me.”

The devil hesitated for a moment, and I saw a feral gleam in its bespectacled eyes. Then it retreated and Ampi let go of its arm. The devil rubbed the arm and said, “Well put. No need to get greedy here.”

I looked at the box, then at the Collector, then I held the box out “Take it, then,” I told the devil. “But know that this truly sticks in my craw. I don’t like dealing with devils, even if they are in the right.”

The devil smiled and took the amber box, “I know,” he said, “That’s what makes it so wonderful doing business with you.”

And with that the infernal creature laughed and disappeared in a puff of pungent smoke. In the distance there were the signs that our battle had roused the city, and there was already in the distance a hue and cry of the town guard.

I looked around. We were the only ones left in the Burrows, and it seemed like a bad idea to be present when the guards finally arrived. “I think its time to leave,” I noted.

“Agreed, sir,” replied Ampi. “I took the liberty to have a horse stocked and provisioned at a stables not more than two blocks from here.”

“Always thinking, aren’t you?” said I. “Well, one thing you should not pack is those dratted mystoricals. Completely unrealistic, as it turns out, and a danger as well to follow them. We’ll toss them down the first well we reach.”

“Already taken care of,” said the genie with a straight face.

I looked at Ainpratines with an amazed look.

“I told you Prespos charged dear for his aid,” said the genie, “It turns out he is a fan of those mystoricals as well, and was extremely interested in finding out who put the galoshes in Madame Milani’s stew. He is now the proud owner of your entire collection.”

The stars shone brightly through the thin, cold mountain air. Basking in their beauty, lulled by the crackling of the campfire and the drone of his comrades’ snoring, Halladon Moonglade reflected that this adventuring life was passing tolerable, even when a fellow pulled watch duty in the middle of the night.

Behind him, something thumped and rustled.

Halladon turned. Osher of Torm, the company’s priest, lay feebly flailing and writhing, while all around him, the other five members of the band slumbered on, oblivious.

It looked as if Osher was having a nightmare. Rising nimbly, Halladon moved to wake him. After two paces, the young, slender, platinum-haired half-elf saw the wetness darkly gleaming on the cleric’s chest, and caught the coppery smell of it. He flung himself down at Osher’s side.

Even as Halladon applied pressure to his friend’s wounds, he was horribly certain that the effort was in vain. Something had torn Osher’s throat to shreds. Only the bald, beak-nosed priest’s own healing magic might have served to preserve his life, and his injuries manifestly rendered him incapable of reciting a spell.

Osher fumbled at Halladon’s wrists. “Don’t!” said the half-elf. “I’m trying to help you!” But the cleric wouldn’t relent. Somehow finding a strength that should have been beyond the capacity of any man so gravely wounded, he caught hold of Halladon’s forearms and forced his hands away.

Halladon would have continued striving to minister to him, but Osher gave him an imploring stare. A look full of desperation, yet entirely lucid. Overawed by the maimed man’s resolution, the half-elf hovered helplessly beside him and allowed him to do as he would.

Osher dabbed his fingertip in the terrible inkwell of his own blood, and, his hand shaking violently, began to write on the ground. He managed only an H before his eyes rolled up in his head and he gave a long, mournful sigh and was still.

“What’s wrong?” rumbled Kovost of Mithril Hall. Halladon looked around. Bushy black beard, upturned mustache, and eyebrows bristling, the dwarf stood with his battle-axe clasped in his callused hands. Stray tufts of hair protruded from beneath his hastily donned steel-and-leather helmet like the petals of a withered flower. Behind him, the other members of the company were hastily but belatedly stirring themselves.

“Something killed Osher,” Halladon said. He strode back to the place where he’d been sitting, picked up his longbow, nocked an arrow, and peered about.

“Make more light,” said Perys, a lanky, soft-spoken ranger and former scout for the Elders of Everlund, taking up his broadsword and shield.

Halladon opened his small pouch of spell components, fingered a wisp of phosphorescent moss, and murmured an incantation. A silvery glow flowered from the top of his bow. Everyone gazed tensely into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

“I think it’s gone,” the half-elf said at last.

“What was it?” demanded Moanda the Spike, a javelin in one hand and a buckler with a wickedly pointed boss- the source of her epithet-in the other.

“I don’t know,” Halladon said, feeling, whether it was warranted or not, a pang of shame.

The pale-eyed barbarian, who’d grown to womanhood in the trackless reaches of the frozen north, glared at him. “You were on watch. How could something sneak into camp, kill someone, and slip away without you ever seeing it?”

“Unless you fell asleep,” said Silbastis, a stocky, tattooed former sailor from the Sword Coast. His cutlass and golden hoop earring glimmered in the magical glow.

Halladon bit back an angry retort, knowing that, in their place, he might well have suspected the same. “I swear I didn’t. I just…didn’t see it.”

Stooping, studying the ground, Perys walked slowly back to Osher’s body. “Whatever it was, it didn’t leave any sign. Which is curious. The soil isn’t that hard.”

“Osher tried to tell us what it was,” Halladon said. “Since he couldn’t speak, he was going to write it. But he only managed the first rune-H-before his heart stopped.”

“Hobgoblin!” cried Gybik, the company’s thief. An apple-cheeked, snub-nosed little man who, though middle-aged, looked as if he were still a stripling. He possessed a positive genius for picking locks and finding hidden booty, which was offset by a certain obtuseness in other matters.

Kovost rolled his eyes. “A hobgoblin couldn’t slip in and out of camp without being seen, Lightfingers. It likely couldn’t avoid leaving tracks, either.”

“Mielikki only knows what Osher meant to write,” Perys said, returning his sword to its scabbard. The blade went in with a soft metallic hiss. “I’m afraid there are simply too many possibilities for us to puzzle it out. What we can do is set double watches for the remainder of the night.”