Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

“What’s going on?” Caledan asked suspiciously.

“You’re going on a little trip, Caledan. You see, in my eminent mercifulness, I decided not to run you through on the sole condition that you leave Iriaebor—and don’t come back. That should keep up my appearances.”

“But I’m not leaving Iriaebor,” Caledan said angrily, clenching his big-knuckled hand into a fist.

Cormik groaned. “Must you be so dense, Caledan? That’s where Dario comes in.” He eyed the young man critically. “You’re not a bad match for size, Dario. Of course, you’re not nearly as ugly as Caledan is, but that would be almost impossible, wouldn’t it?”

Mari laughed with amusement.

“I’ll pull my hood up,” Dario said with a wink at Caledan. “Assuming you’ll allow me to borrow your cloak to complete the disguise, of course.”

“Here, take it,” Caledan growled petulantly, handing Dario his patched, midnight-blue cloak. The young man donned the cloak and pulled the hood over his head.

“Perfect,” Cormik pronounced. “Are you ready to ride? Excellent. Have Jad and Kevrek throw you out—not too roughly. Just enough to let my patrons see how much I still despise Caledan the Harper. There’s a gray mare similar to Caledan’s tied out front. Make certain the guards see you riding out of town. I want all who might be interested to believe Caledan Caldorien is gone for good.”

“As you wish, Master Cormik,” Dario said, bowing with a flourish. He turned and disappeared through the hidden doorway.

“Do you trust him?” Caledan asked after Dario had gone.

“Better yet, I care for him,” Cormik replied. “He’s the son I never had, Caledan. But then, I don’t suppose you’d care about such sentimental things.”

Caledan grunted but said nothing.

“I want the Harpers out of my city!”

The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas was not in a pleasant mood. She prowled like a cat about the topmost chamber of the tower of the city lord. The chamber itself was a den of luxury. Snow white furs were strewn across the floor of dark, polished marble. Exotic tapestries woven with gold and silver draped the walls, and expensive incense scented the air. Ravendas spun to fix the lord steward with her ice-blue gaze.

“Do I make myself clear?” she hissed, her voice as chilling as her eyes. “I will not have their meddling undermine my control. I want the head of any Harper that dares to set foot within the walls of this city delivered to me on a silver tray.”

“Including Caldorien’s?” the lord steward, Snake, asked in his dry, sibilant voice. His tone was utterly deferential, but Ravendas’s pale cheeks flushed with sudden rage.

“I should have you flogged for that impertinence, my lord steward,” she snarled. She sat upon a velvet divan, smoothing the wrinkles from her crimson gown. “And perhaps I will do just that,” she mused. “You know very well that I want Caldorien delivered to me undamaged.”

Snake’s expression remained impassive. “But pain is acceptable, my lord?” Snake inquired.

“Oh, yes,” Ravendas crooned. Sudden fire sparked in her eyes. “Pain is quite acceptable when dealing with Caldorien.” Her delicate hands clenched unconsciously. It had been seven years since she had last faced Caledan Caldorien, but the memory had if anything grown more vivid with the passing of time. Seven years ago she had raised an army to conquer a town called Hluthvar, but Caldorien and his Harper friends had defeated her, making a mockery of her power. That was an affront she would dearly love to repay.

Fate must favor her, she thought, to have brought Caldorien back to Iriaebor, practically to her doorstep. At first, when the reports of a troublesome stranger reached her, she had not thought of Caldorien. Then came the sudden, violent death of one of her captains on the Street of Jewels. Her lord steward was not without his uses, and by means of a magic created from the dead warrior’s blood, Snake had conjured an image of the captain’s killer. She had recognized the angular, wolfish face instantly. It was Caldorien. He was in the city— her city. But where?

She would find him. The intervening years had made her more powerful than she would have once dared to imagine. Caldorien would not defeat her again. No, this time he would become her slave.

“You are dismissed, my lord steward.” She spoke harshly. “Do not forget your orders.” The thin, almost skeletal man bowed deeply, then turned to leave the chamber, his green robes hissing against the marble floor. “And, Snake,” Ravendas called after him, “send my son to me. I wish to hear him practice his music.”

“Of course, my lord. I shall send for him immediately.” The door shut, leaving Ravendas alone. She poured herself a goblet of crimson wine and gazed out the window, surveying the city that she had vanquished. Every building, every stone, every life down there was hers, hers to exploit or destroy as she saw fit. But even that was nothing to what was next. Soon, very soon, the other lords among the Zhentarim would quail before her. It was Ravendas’s destiny to rule them all.

She heard the door open softly behind her and set down her goblet, smiling with lips stained red by the wine. She turned to see a boy standing in the doorway, his skin as pale as moonlight, his hair as dark as shadows. He regarded her with wide green eyes, clutching a set of reed pipes in his small hands.

“Come in, my son,” Ravendas whispered. “Come in.”

Dario rode through the pearly, predawn light. The dim silhouette of Iriaebor rose behind him in the misty air, like a spectral city. Cormik’s plan had gone well. The little scene with Jad and Kevrek had caught the eye of a Zhentarim officer who had followed Dario until he rode out the city’s north gate. After that, the guard had turned around and ridden back into the city. Dario had no doubt that a message would make its way to Lord Cutter’s tower that Caledan Caldorien had been driven out of Iriaebor. Dario would ride a bit farther and lie low for a day or so before returning—without his disguise, of course. There was a small village a few leagues to the north. Dario had made the acquaintance of a certain farmer’s daughter there a few years back, a fair-haired young woman named Adalae. Dario wondered if she would remember him.

“Caledan the Harper?” a voice spoke suddenly from the mist.

Dario’s mare spooked, rearing. He fought with the reins, managing to bring the horse to a stop. Its hooves skittered nervously against the cobbles of the road.

“Who’s there?” Dario called into the thick fog. His dagger was ready in his hand.

A tall figure, clad head to toe in a black, concealing robe, stepped out of the swirling mist.

“Caledan the Harper?” the stranger asked again, in a voice that was both cold and dry. It sent a shiver up Dario’s spine.

“Who wishes to know?” Dario asked, confused at the fear he felt rising in his throat.

“ I wish to know,” the black-robed figure said. Dario began to lift his dagger in alarm, but with dizzying speed a long arm reached out and, with terrible strength, pulled Dario from his horse. The mare neighed in terror and galloped away. An icy, strangely smooth hand closed about Dario’s throat. His eyes widened in terror, but he was unable to move.

Another hand pulled the hood of Dario’s cloak away from his face. A cold finger traced a line down his cheek. Dario tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.

“No, you are not the one,” the attacker hissed.

Cold fingers closed about Dario’s neck. There was a wet, snapping sound, and the young man fell limply to the ground, dark eyes staring lifelessly into the silvery light.

The black-robed stranger hesitated a moment. This was odd. The man’s cloak had smelled right, but there was no scent of the shadow magic.