Марк Энтони: Crypt of the Shadowking

The rider took a deep breath of the moist air. The fine, steady rain had ended only an hour ago, and his midnight blue traveling cloak was dusted with tiny, pearl-gray droplets. The cloak was worn and faded, stained with long years of travel, and in places it was more patches than anything else. But it was a good cloak, its wool still thick and warm, and in this it was much like the man who wore it. He was not a young man. Seven years of wandering the Realms had carved their mark upon his angular, almost wolfish face, and though his green eyes were clear, their color was as faded as the cloak thrown over his broad, sharp-edged shoulders.

But despite the rider’s frayed appearance his dark hair bore no trace of gray, and the muscles knotted about his rather large and bony frame were surprisingly strong and quick, as more than a few highway bandits had learned to their dismay over the years. The rider’s name was Caledan, and once, before his years of wandering, he had been a Harper.

The Harpers were the meddlers of the Realms. Troubadours and mages, warriors and thieves numbered among their ranks, along with men and women of all races and crafts. Theirs was a small, secret fellowship whose members vowed to work against villainy and wickedness. But instead of relying on brute force, the Harpers used more subtle means to accomplish their aims. Often single agents were given the task of slipping stealthily into areas that had fallen under shadow’s sway, from the halls of kings to the dens of thieves. There they did all that one being alone could do to loosen evil’s grip, and not a few had given their lives in the course of their missions. But the sacrifices were not in vain. These days more Realms shone in the light beneath the banner of freedom than festered beneath the dark cloak of evil.

Caledan had once been a bard of great ability, but he hadn’t played a note of music since the day he left the Harpers, and he didn’t suppose he ever would again. He’d begun his wanderings long ago, and he considered the Harpers a good riddance.

A narrow wooden bridge of five separate spans crossed the great serpent of the River Chionthar, and Mista’s hooves thumped hollowly on the stout wooden planks. A dozen ships drifted on the dull water, looking like ghosts in the dusky air. Iriaebor was the farthest point that trade ships sailing from the Sword Coast in the far west could travel up the Chionthar. Here merchants were forced to unload their goods and transfer them to overland caravans traveling to the great kingdoms of Cormyr and Sembia to the east, and in this lay Iriaebor’s fortune.

Mista stepped off the last planks of the bridge. The south wall of the city loomed in the dimness above Caledan. The great iron-bound gates stood open, as they always had, for commerce kept no set hours in a trade city this large. A torch burned brightly to either side of the gates, and thick coils of smoke rose up against the soot-blackened stones. Caledan guided his gray mount toward the great, arched portal.

“Too important to stop for the guards, are we, lordship?” a coarse voice taunted. Caledan reined Mista to an abrupt halt as a man clad in a leather jerkin stepped from a dim alcove to stand before him. He was an unsavory fellow, missing the better number of his teeth. He reeked of sour sweat mixed with the unmistakable odor of strong drink.

“I beg your pardon,” Caledan replied, assuming a cheerful, almost simpleminded manner. “I don’t recall that the gates of Iriaebor were ever guarded in the past.”

“Well, they are now. Leastwise since Cutter’s been in the High Tower, that is. Now you’d best be telling me who you are and what you’re about. ’Tis a cold night to be a corpse.”

“Indeed,” Caledan replied dryly. He noticed the glitter of torchlight reflecting off a pair of eyes in the shadows by the gate. It seemed the guard had a friend there. He would have to keep that in mind if things went awry.

“I’m Symek of Berdusk,” Caledan lied smoothly, “a merchant of jewels by trade.”

“A jool trader, eh?” the guard said dubiously. “You don’t look like a jool trader, friend.” He squinted suspiciously at Caledan.

“These are hard times for all, aren’t they?” Caledan lamented with a dramatic sigh.

The guard seemed to consider this, rubbing his unshaven jowls with a grubby hand, and then he nodded. “All right, Symek of Berdusk. I suppose yours is the sort of business Cutter wants in the city, though watch you mind the rules, unless you want to meet Cutter face-to-face in the dungeons. And I’m telling you that’s not something you want to do.”

“I can pass then?”

“Aye,” the guard answered, and then a sly smile crept across his scurvy features. “But first you’ve got to grease the gates, if you know what I mean, jool trader.”

Caledan cast a distasteful look at the guard, who held out a grimy paw. This was getting tiresome.

“You really should wash that hand, my friend,” Caledan said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning down toward the guard. “It’s much healthier that way, you know.”

The guard’s expression darkened. “I’ve had just about enough of you, Symek,” the guard said, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Caledan replied pleasantly. The guard’s eyes widened, and he looked down to see the sharp, glimmering point of a knife just pricking into the chest of his worn leather jerkin. Caledan smiled broadly at the trembling man. “Like you said, it’s a cold night to be a corpse.”

The guard nodded wordlessly, and Caledan touched his heels to Mista’s flanks, slipping the sharp dagger back into its sheath in his boot. The horse walked forward, and as she passed the guard she bared her big teeth, nipping his shoulder. The fellow cried out in pain and stumbled backward. The other guard took a hesitant step forward, unsure whether to draw his sword or not.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Caledan advised cheerfully.

“Milord!” the guard said in a quavering voice, apparently deciding he was safer with his blade firmly sheathed. Caledan passed through the arched portal and into the dim, torch-lined streets of the city.

“That was hardly necessary, you know, Mista,” he told his mount. “That fellow wasn’t much of an opponent”

The horse nickered defiantly.

“I know,” Caledan said with a grin. “I enjoyed it, too.” He frowned then. What in Milil’s name were guards doing bothering travelers at the gates of the city? Iriaebor had always been a free and open place in the days when Caledan had dwelt here. Merchants and wayfarers came at all hours of the day and night. There had never been any need for guards.

“Perhaps there have been more bandits on the road of late,” Caledan said aloud, and Mista snorted softly as if to question this.

“True. Those two were hardly the sort I would want to depend on to keep me safe from marauders. If you’re going to go to all the bother of putting guards at the gate, why use a pair of buffoons?”

But Caledan was weary, and his throat was in sore need of a mug of ale. He resolved to think about it later.

Horse and rider made their way through the open avenues of the New City. Before them, in the city’s center, loomed a high, rocky hill. The Tor, which was perhaps a half-league long, rose a full three hundred feet above the rest of Iriaebor, and Caledan could see the lights of the Old City flickering like golden stars in the darkness above him. Over the years, space on the narrow hilltop had been at a premium. Within a hundred years of the city’s founding, the only direction left in which to build upon the Tor was up. The result, after several centuries, was a profusion of tall, spindly towers stretching toward the sky, bound together with countless bridges that arched precariously between them like so many spiderwebs.