Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

Aidan shook his head and started to protest, until he remembered the dagger. Even in the pale moonlight, its gems burned incandescently, like a beacon to every greedy eye.

“Ahh,” the voice said again. “I see we understand each other… captain.”

Aidan’s mind whirled. This was no chance robbery; the thieves had come for the knife. He could hand it over to them, in which case they’d probably cut his throat and be done with it, or he could make them think twice about ever tangling with another Purple Dragon. Either way, he didn’t expect a fair fight-only a quick death.

With a silent curse, Aidan made his decision. “The only way you’ll get this dagger,” he shouted at the shadows, “is by pulling it out of your own chest!” Crouching low, he сentered his balance and tossed the dagger from hand to hand.

Silence greeted Aidan’s declaration, punctuated only by the rapid beating of his own heart. After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again.

“You have made an unfortunate choice, captain.”

The twang of a fired crossbow propelled his body into action. Aidan dove to the side, feeling his heart race as it pumped the blessed fire that sustained him through a lifetime of battle. He rolled to his feet and met the first of his cloaked attackers with a thrust to the gut. His dagger cut through the figure’s leathers and bit deeply. He turned the knife and withdrew it quickly, ignoring the thief’s dying gurgle. Several more attackers rushed in, and he soon found himself parrying a flurry of kicks, punches, and sword thrusts. Grizzled muscle and old bones no longer moved as quickly as they used to, but Aidan’s years on the battlefield kept him alive-at least for the moment.

Gods, I can’t keep this up for too much longer, he thought desperately. His breath came laboririgly now, like a desert steed’s on its last length. Another sword swept close to his head. He ducked under the swing and lunged forward, scoring one of his opponents across the leg, but the move left his flank exposed. Aidan turned quickly, trying to shield the vulnerable area-and wasn’t fast enough.

He cried out as a blade pierced his side, shattering the bones of his ribs. Another sword raked across his thigh and he fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. Aidan lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, to move, to grab his weapon, but to no avail. His limbs were cold and sluggish; he was no longer their master. With great effort, he looked up at the cloaked figures approaching him with their swords drawn. They moved slowly, unhurried, almost calm. That’s when he heard it, a roaring in his ears like the raging of an ocean of blood. It grew louder, drowning out the creek of leather, the cries of the wounded, and even his own heartbeat. This is it, he thought, this is death.

Somehow, he had always believed there would be more to it.

Aidan watched as one of the thieves raised a sword above his head. Silently mouthing a prayer to Tyr, Tymora, and any other god who would listen to an old, dying soldier’s last words, he waited for the final blow.

It never came. Instead, the alleyway burst into light. Aidan could see another cloaked figure step from the shadows, green fire arcing from its hand to his executioners. In the sick emerald light he caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s face, small-nosed and boyish, beneath a thick cowl. Again and again, his mysterious ally called down eldritch flames upon the thieves, who fell back, screaming.

He struggled to stand and fight, wanting to help the cowled man, but the pain of his wounds called him back. He collapsed and watched his own pool out into the road, reflecting green tongues of flame, until the darkness claimed him.

Aidan awoke in a simple, run-down room. A small fire burned in an old mantle, casting flickering shadows against the walls. He lay still for a moment, wondering how he had survived. The straw mattress upon which he had slept was lumpy, pressing uncomfortably against his lower back. But, he thought wryly, it’s better than bleeding to death on a cold dirt floor.

Aidan sat up slowly, expecting a great deal of pain. He gasped, partly in wonder and partly in disbelief, as his movements offered him only slight soreness. What’s more, his wounds looked as if they had been healing for weeks. He ran his fingers along the length of two angry looking scars, their puckered redness the only thing distinguishing them from the countless marks upon his warrior’s frame.

“I see you have decided to join the ranks of the living.”

The captain bolted up from the bed and whirled toward the sound of the voice, ignoring the protests from tight muscles. A thinly built man in purple robes stood in the open doorway. The shadows from the fire caressed the stranger’s face as he entered the room. His lips were full, almost pouty, and Aidan recognized his thoughtful, brooding look as one that often captivated young women.

The man handed Aidan some clean clothes and moved toward the fire, idly poking at the burning wood. “Whom do I have to thank for my life?” asked the captain as he changed into the simple pair of leather breeches and wool cambric.

“My name is Morgrim,” he said simply, not turning from the mantle. His voice was smooth and somewhat breathy. It sent a chill down Aidan’s spine.

The captain finished changing. “You have my thanks, Morgrim,” he said, extending his hand.

Morgrim stopped tending the fire, faced Aidan, and bowed. “Do not thank me. I am a simple priest, it’s my duty.”

Aidan smiled and awkwardly returned the bow. He’d been around long enough to know that there was nothing simple about priests-especially in Cormyr. “Which god do you serve, Morgrim?” he asked.

“Cyric,” the priest replied softly.

Aid an fell back as if struck by a crossbow bolt. He stared at the young priest in disbelief. A joke, he thought, though why anyone would make light of such a thing was beyond him.

Morgrim moved toward Aidan slowly, arms held out in front of him. In the flickering light of the fire, the captain could see the glint of silver bracers, the symbol of Morgrim’s enslavement to his dark god, on the priest’s arms.

“Why?” Aidan asked, searching the room for some weapon he could use against the foul priest. “Why did you save my life?” If he could just edge toward the door, he would have a chance to bolt out of the room before Morgrim called down Cyric’s power upon him.

“Relax,” the priest said. “I mean you no harm.”

Aidan stopped, instinct warring with the earnestness he heard in the young man’s voice. “Why should I trust you?” he asked, firing the question like an arrow at the approaching priest. “When have the servants of Cyric ever told the truth?” Aidan was angry and confused. He knew about the priesthood of Cyric, its dark rites and shadowy assassins; it festered like a tumor upon the land. But why did this priest pretend kindness? It didn’t make any sense, and he wasn’t about to let down his guard until he found out.

Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest’s handsome face transform into a mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. “Truth!” he shouted. “You want me to tell you the truth?”

Aidan felt the priest’s power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner of the chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan’s heart. He closed his eyes against the funereal force, struggling to breathe. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever emerged. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the silence fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.

“The truth is,” Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, “if the Prince of Lies had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak.”