Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

Caledan swore. “So Ravendas has the one and only copy.” He turned to Mari. “We’re going to have to break in to the tower, Harper. Right now that book is the only clue we have that might tell us what Ravendas is digging for beneath the Tor. I don’t see that we have any other choice.”

“Wait,” Tyveris said, holding up a hand. “We may have one other choice. Loremaster Avros told me about a friend of his, one Loremaster Erill, a disciple of Oghma who resides in a monastery in the Sunset Mountains to the east. It seems this Loremaster Erill has made a life’s hobby of copying as many rare and decaying tomes as he has been able to find, to preserve them for future generations. Loremaster Avros isn’t certain, but he thinks Loremaster Erill might once have journeyed to the library of Elversult to copy the Mal’eb’dala .”

A triumphant grin crept slowly across Caledan’s face. “The Sunset Mountains, you say?” He looked at Mari and then back to the monk, his pale green eyes dancing. “How do you two feel about going on a little journey?”

The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas ran a hand lightly over the cool steel spikes protruding from the machine. It was a curious device. There was a flat table beneath the needle-sharp spikes where an uncooperative prisoner might be bound, lying upon his back. At the foot of the table were a number of small wheels. Each one could be spun to raise or lower a single spike. The dozen spikes were positioned so that lowering them would cause terrible pain long before they caused fatal injury. Once Ravendas had been able to lower nine of them into the flesh of a captain who had failed her before his screams had ended in death. One day she hoped to lower all twelve into a subject without actually killing him. It was a great challenge, and Ravendas enjoyed challenges. But so far nine was her best.

The circular stone chamber was filled with other malevolent devices formed of twisted steel, sharpened wood, and leather straps. All were different, yet all had the same function—to maim and cause agony, without causing death. This was her torture chamber, deep among the foundations of the city lord’s tower. It was a favorite refuge when she was in a rage, a place of peace. And Ravendas had been in a rage much these last days.

Cityfolk had dared to stand against her.

True, not many so dared. And while persons had stolen from her caravans and slain her guards, no real damage had been done. But that was not the point. The point was that cityfolk had dared to oppose her. The rebels would be punished for that.

So far the resistance groups had eluded her attempts to find them. They were well hidden in the city, like rats cowering in the filth of a sewer. But now the rats had made a foolish move. They had tried to discover something about her. In turn she would discover something about them.

The heavy, iron-bound door opened with a grating of rusted hinges. Two guards entered, cruelly dragging a prisoner between them. Behind them strode the lord steward, Snake, in his poison green robes, eyes emotionless as always.

Ravendas, clad in a robe as dark as an executioner’s, approached the prisoner. He was an old man, his limbs thin and frail, his bony shoulders slumped, his head hanging downward in despair. She lifted his chin with a finger and found herself gazing into two empty pits of wrinkled skin where his eyes had once been.

“Greetings, dear Tembris,” she said softly.

Terror rippled across the old thief’s face as he recognized her voice. His spidery limbs began to tremble.

She ran a finger slowly along his cheek. “Did you think that because your work for me was finished that you were no longer my servant, Tembris?” She spoke in a sickeningly sweet voice.

The thief shook his head in mute reply.

“Once my servant, always my servant, Tembris. That is my rule. And I hate it when one of my servants betrays me.” Her long crimson fingernail dug into his flesh. A bead of dark blood trickled down his cheek like a tear. “It seems I should have taken your hands as well as your eyes.” The thief was shaking with fear, and Ravendas bared her teeth in satisfaction.

Ever since the insurrection had begun in the city, she had been routinely capturing members of the Purple Masks Guild and interrogating them. There were few, if any, who knew more about what occurred in a city than its thieves, and the torture sessions had proven informative, as well as entertaining. A slowly descending, razor-sharp blade had convinced one of the thieves to speak of two strangers she had taken to visit Tembris in the guildhouse of the Purple Masks. Unfortunately, the thief had died just when her story was proving interesting. That had been Ravendas’s own mistake. She had been so caught up in the thief’s tale that she had forgotten to pay attention to the descent of the blade.

Thus Ravendas had ordered Tembris captured. Now she would discover what she wished to know.

She gestured for the two guards to lead the old thief to a chair in an alcove. Unfortunately, she would not be able to use any of her remarkable machines. They were designed for victims whom agony could compel to speak. Yet Snake had other methods at his disposal.

The guards strapped Tembris into the chair and at a harsh glance from Ravendas retreated.

“Are you prepared, my lord steward?”

“Yes, Lord Ravendas,” Snake replied in his dry voice. From his robes he drew a silver knife and a small round dish of polished green stone. He muttered a few arcane words, then with the tip of the knife pricked the third finger of Tembris’s right hand. The old thief winced in pain. A thin stream of blood trickled into the stone dish.

When the small dish was full, Snake dipped a finger into the dark blood and drew an intricate rune upon the old thief’s forehead. Then he held a splay-fingered hand over the dish.

“ Azahk el gahzrabak !” the lord steward hissed.

With a swift motion Snake turned the dish on edge and pressed its bottom against Tembris’s chest, directly over his heart. A mild look of surprise crossed Ravendas’s pale face. The blood did not spill out of the dish. Instead it seemed to be frozen in place, a smooth, dark circle absorbing all light.

“Ask him your question now, my lord,” Snake instructed.

“Who came to visit you in the guildhouse, Tembris?” she demanded. “And what did they want of you?”

Tembris shook his head, his expression defiant. But Snake’s magic did its work. The dark circle of blood began to glow with an unearthly crimson light. An image appeared within it, a bony hand holding a lump of charcoal, scrawling something upon a piece of parchment. A word. Malebdala .

So whoever they were, they too were seeking The Book of the Shadows , Ravendas thought. Of course, they would not find it. She possessed the only copy, stolen by Tembris from the library at Elversult. No one else would learn the secrets within its pages. No one.

The image flickered and changed. Now it showed a woman with red-brown hair. Her heavy cloak had shifted just enough to reveal a silvery pin on her jacket, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp.

Rage flared hotly in Ravendas’s cheeks. She turned her sharp gaze to Snake.

“I thought you said all the Harpers in the city had been dealt with,” she snapped furiously.

No emotion registered on Snake’s thin face. “Apparently this one escaped, my lord.”

She clenched her fine hands into fists. “Apparently,” she said acidly. She was about to say more to berate her lord steward for his failure when the image wavered and changed again. Ravendas froze. The image showed a man with dark hair, pale green eyes, and angular, wolfish features. It was a face Ravendas would never mistake. She should have known she would not be rid of that one so easily.