Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

“My lord steward,” she said, her voice calm but deadly. “Find the captain who reported to me that Caledan Caldorien had been driven from the city.”

Snake nodded deferentially. “Shall I bring him to you, my lord?”

“No. Just his heart will do.”

“And what of the old thief, my lord?”

Ravendas tapped her chin thoughtfully with a slender finger. “I shall think of something,” she said.

A low, wordless sound of fear escaped Tembris’s lips.

Dawn was still only a silvery glimmer on the horizon as Mari, Caledan, and Tyveris rode from the courtyard of the Dreaming Dragon. They kept the hoods of their traveling cloaks up, concealing their faces. Iriaebor’s streets were empty at this hour, but all the same they took care not to be seen.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?” Ferret had asked as they made their farewells at the inn.

“Thanks, Ferret, but not this trip,” Caledan had replied. “We thought we’d try asking the monks to see the book first.”

The thief had shrugged his thin shoulders. “Suit yourself,” he’d said in a slightly wounded voice, fidgeting with a sharp-edged dagger. “It just seems like a waste of time to me, that’s all. Asking is so … so indirect.”

Tendrils of mist crept from the ground as they made their way down the Tor into the New City. When they rode into the wide plaza of the free market, Caledan laid a hand on Mari’s arm.

“Look above that archway,” he whispered softly, “but don’t be obvious about it.”

She did as he instructed, and her breath caught in her throat. A spear had been wedged atop a stone wall bordering the plaza. Thrust upon the tip of the bloodied spear was a human head. It was a man with empty, wrinkled sockets for eyes.

Quickly Mari averted her gaze from the awful spectacle. “Tembris,” she whispered. “But why …?”

“It’s a warning,” Caledan growled softly. “Ravendas must know now that we’re still in the city. But obviously she doesn’t know where. Otherwise we’d both be up there with him.”

A sick feeling settled in Mari’s stomach. Serving Ravendas had first cost Tembris his eyes. In the end it had cost him his life. There was nothing to do now but ride onward.

The three companions made their way out Iriaebor’s west gate, then left the main road shortly after midmorning, cutting overland to the northeast toward the distant, gray-green peaks of the Sunset Mountains. The mist had burned off the rolling plains, and the day had grown fine and warm. Mari pulled a felt-covered bundle from a saddlebag and carefully unwrapped it, revealing a very old-looking baliset. It was a beautiful instrument, built of ash inlaid with darker maple and reddish cherry. She strummed the four strings and smiled at the pure sound. The baliset’s voice was as true as the day Master Andros had given it to her.

She had not played in several weeks, but her fingers plucked the strings with practiced ease, and she began a simple song. Tyveris, riding close by, smiled at the music. After a while, Mari added her rich, burnished voice to that of the instrument, singing one of the first songs Master Andros had taught her, a rollicking air about a sparrow in flight, and a man returning home to his true love.

When she finished, Tyveris applauded enthusiastically. “Truly, the gods have blessed you with the gift of music, Mari,” the big loremaster said, smiling broadly at her. “Why, Caledan himself couldn’t play a better tune than that, could you Cal—” Tyveris stopped short, his dark eyes going wide as he realized what he was saying. Mari bit her lip and cast a glance at Caldorien, who rode on in silence, gazing at the far-off mountains.

Mari played a few more songs as they rode, but soon she packed the baliset away. She found she had little heart for it, at least not that day.

It was verging on midday when the attack came.

They had just crested a low, rocky ridge. Below them at the foot of the ridge rushed a small river, muddy and swollen with the runoff of melting snow from the nearby mountains. The ridge was crowned with a jumble of massive granite boulders. As Caledan rode by, something dark dropped down from above them, knocking him from Mista’s back.

He fell hard to the ground, the assailant on top of him. Caledan tried to struggle, but he was tangled in the assassin’s heavy black robes. He didn’t even have the chance to shout out to the others. Smooth gloved hands closed swiftly about his neck. In moments he was gasping for air, white hot sparks buzzing before his eyes. He tried to pry the assassin’s hands off his throat, but his fingers might as well have been scrabbling against stone. The pain was terrible. Darkness began to close around him.

Suddenly a cry of rage shattered the air.

The assassin’s hands were ripped from Caledan’s neck. He watched in dulled amazement as Tyveris picked up the attacker bodily. The Tabaxi lifted the assassin above his head and hurled him through the air. Dark robes fluttered like strange wings. The assassin struck a boulder with a sickening thud, rolled to the ground, and then lay still.

“Caledan, are you all right?”

It was Mari, helping him to his feet, her face white with fear.

He nodded weakly. “I think so,” he said. He swore to himself. After seeing Tembris in the free market they should have expected an ambush. Most likely the assassin had followed them out of the city. But why had Ravendas sent only one?

“Is he dead?” Caledan asked, climbing back onto Mista. The others remounted as well.

“I think so, Cale—” Tyveris halted. All three watched, stunned, as twenty paces away the black-robed assassin stirred and then slowly rose. Face lost in the deep shadows of the hood’s cowl, the figure took a step toward Caledan. Then another, and another, each one faster than the last.

A hiss like a viper cut the air. An arrow abruptly appeared in the mysterious assassin’s chest, stopping the figure dead in its tracks. “That should finish the job,” Mari said grimly, lowering her short bow.

But instead of falling, the assassin slowly reached down with a black-gloved hand, gripped the shaft of the arrow, and pulled it out, casting it aside as if it were a piece of straw.

“By all the bloodiest gods,” Caledan whispered, a chill prickling the hairs on his neck.

Tyveris muttered a hasty prayer.

Mari slung her bow over her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”

The three whirled their mounts and cantered down the steep slope of the ridge toward the frothy river. The assassin pursued them with a strange, fluid swiftness, black robes billowing out behind.

The three pushed their mounts into a gallop, a perilous move on such a steep slope. The horses snorted, their nostrils flaring. The assassin—even though on foot—was gaining on them.

Caledan swore another oath. What kind of being did not feel the pain of an arrow’s bite? Perhaps some fanatic of a dark god, caught in a religious frenzy. He had heard of such things but never expected to witness them firsthand.

Just as Caledan felt a gloved hand grope his heel, Mista plunged into the turbulent river. Muddy water swirled wildly about her flanks. The mare nearly lost her footing, then recovered. Spray slickened Caledan’s face and the roar of the water deafened his ears. The other two struggled to keep their mounts upright to either side of him as the current carried them all downstream.