Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

“What took you so long?” Aidan asked.

Morgrim flashed him a grin. “I was busy doing some research,” he replied. “Besides, you looked like you had everything under control. I especially liked the way you blocked the flying bottle with your head.”

“Demons take you, man!” Aidan nearly shouted. “Do you think this is some gods-blasted prank?” He was too angry and confused to deal with the priest’s newfound levity.

Morgrim’s smile vanished. “I see your meeting didn’t go so well. Come, let’s talk business if it’s a dark mood you’re having.” The priest pulled Aidan into a corner and whispered. “I found out a couple of things that might interest you. First, Alaslyn Rowanmantle did commission a blade for you from Khulgar’s weapon shop. You should lay a few inquiries up that tree and see if it yields fruit.”

Aidan nodded. “What’s the second thing?”

Morgrim looked about the room before continuing, “Apparently, there are rumors of some sort of transaction, purportedly over a dagger, that will take place tomorrow in the sewers. If we can witness that transaction it would be most beneficial.

It was early evening by the time Aidan found himself in front of Khulgar’s shop. Briefly, he stared at the evening sky, splashed pink with the last rays of the setting sun, and paused at the door. The air was still, poised as if the slightest breeze would shatter the twilight scene. He breathed deeply, gathering the stillness into himself. His life had changed so much in the last tenday that it took something as unfailingly regular as the coming of night to remind him of who he was. With a sigh, he entered the shop.

Blades of various shapes and sizes, from short-hilted daggers to elaborately crafted two-handed weapons, hung promisingly on display, and a number of finer ones lay behind rune-inscribed glass. The heat from the back forge poured over him in waves. He shuddered once, trying to expel the cold that had settled into his bones. Winter was never kind in Tilverton, and every year his old body found it more difficult to fight the chill. He waited patiently for a clerk, gratefully soaking in the heat, until a lad finally came out to assist him.

He quietly handed the boy a few silvers and spoke Khulgar’s name. The young apprentice dashed off, only to return a few minutes later with the dwarven smith in tow. Khulgar was short, like all of his people, but he possessed thickly corded muscles and a mighty barrel of a chest. His skin was ruddy and heat-baked; a thin sheen of sweat covered his naked torso. Aidan noted with interest the smith’s tightly braided beard, now tucked neatly into his heavy pants. This, he thought, was a dwarf of whom Moradin himself would be proud.

“Here now,” barked Khulgar, folding his callused arms across his chest. “What’s this you been doing to my boy, that he drags me away from the forge so early?”

Despite the dwarf’s gruffness, Aidan suppressed a smile. He doubted that Khulgar spent much time away from the forge. Not wishing to waste any more of the smith’s time than necessary, he got right to the point. “I’m wondering if you remember working on a dagger commissioned by Lady Rowanmantle herself.”

If the invocation of the regent’s name impressed Khulgar at all, the dwarf didn’t show it. He stood there for a minute, a scowl sculpted upon his craggy face, before answering, “Hmmph… I receive a lot of commissions from the Lady.”

“Yes, I quite understand,” Aidan put in hastily, “but this would have been a gift intended for a retiring Purple Dragon officer.”

Khulgar’s stony face cracked into a smile. “Yes, 1 remember that one… carved the Purple Dragon’s symbol into the hilt myself.” The smith paused. “Unusual, that’s for sure.”

“Unusual in what way?” Aidan asked excitedly. Here, at last, was his first real lead!

“Well, I usually deliver the regent’s commissions myself-I don’t much trust anyone else to handle them-but when the commander came in and said that he wanted the dagger, I let him have it. Who am I to argue with-”

“Excuse me,” Aidan interrupted, not sure if he heard the smith correctly, “did you say the ‘commander’?”

Khulgar nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Commander Haldan. I wouldn’t have just given it to him, but he said that Lady Rowanmantle charged him with its safety. He was supposed to deliver it to its intended recipient personally,” the dwarf replied. “Look… why do you want to know this, anyhow?”

Aidan didn’t hear the question. Sweat broke out on his face and his knees trembled. The heat from the forge seemed to treble in intensity, as the interior of the shop, so comforting just moments ago, closed in upon him like the jaws of an ancient red dragon.

Ignoring the smith’s startled exclamations-for Aidan’s skin must have looked as sallow and gray as the roaming dead-he threw open the door of the shop and ran out into the night. He stumbled hurriedly through the streets and alleyways of Tilverton for hours, not knowing, not caring about his destination. His thoughts, if one could call them such, were a chaotic jumble.

Impossible!

Let them pry the dagger from my heart! He was the best of us!

Moradin would be proud!

Morgrim, my friend?

How could he?

Finally, Aidan tripped and fell on the uneven stones of a darkened alleyway. He struggled to rise, but couldn’t, his mad strength spent. Defeated, he panted hard into the night air. Winter wind whipped through his sweat-soaked body, sending a chill down his spine. The sensation hurt, but the pain cleared his mind; it was like awakening from some ensorceled dream.

Aidan lay in the alleyway for a few more minutes, marshaling his strength. When he finally arose, his steps were unhurried and steady. Although the night grew ever colder, he didn’t feel it. He was numb, empty, like the husk of a soldier after his spirit has fled-except that he wasn’t dead.

He trudged on and reached the door of his simple house. Once inside, Aidan slumped on his bed and waited in vain for sleep’s blessed relief. When it didn’t arrive, he sat in the darkness of his room, searching for some other way to resolve the situation-but nothing came. Haldan had used him, broken every oath of friendship and honor known to a warrior. For that, he had to pay. As the hours passed and dawn threatened the night sky, Aidan’s resolve hardened. Emptiness gave way to a hungering need for vengeance. When Morgrim appeared at his door in the pre-dawn light, adorned in a thick purple robe and bearing a skull tipped obsidian staff, Aidan didn’t even acknowledge the young priest’s greeting. Instead, he threw an old black cloak over his own leather armor, buckled on a sword. and uttered a silent prayer to Cyric as they marched out into the fog-shrouded morning.

He was off to kill his oldest friend.

Aidan walked through the old sewer tunnel and grimaced at the ankle-deep sludge through which he and Morgrim were trudging. The priest’s staff spat feeble illumination into the darkened tunnel, revealing slime-coated stone walls and horridly wilted roots. The air was dank and warm, heady with the stink of decay, and everywhere Aidan could hear the echoing squeal of sewer rats.

He and Morgrim had spent much of the early morning wandering through this endless array of crumbling sewer tunnels in a frustrating search for the correct series of passages. At first, his memories of this place had threatened to overwhelm him. He had lost a lot of men within these tunnels during the final battle against the Fire Knives, and their dying screams seemed to carry throughout the sewers. But these memories had also spurred his thoughts toward Haldan-with whom he shared command that awful night-and he used the surge of anger brought on by the thoughts of his former commander to tame his tortured remembrances. Now, every step brought him closer to the truth-a truth he knew would be difficult to face.