Songs & Swords 1 (5 page)

The intruder casually pushed the body to the floor and sat down at the writing table. She picked up the smudged page, quickly scanning the still-damp writing by the light of a single, rapidly diminishing candle. Quiet as a shadow, she rose and carried the candle and several pages of parchment to the room’s fireplace. The manuscript fluttered onto the hearth, and she stooped and held out the stub of burning candle. The edges of one page turned brown, then curled in upon itself as the flame caught and spread. The shadowy figure stood and watched as the final chapter of the old man’s memoirs turned to ash.

Three

The merchant caravan made camp for the night, but underlying the usual bustle of activity was a deep spirit of unease. On route from Waterdeep to Cormyr, the caravan was camping in the shadow of Darkhold.

It was not unheard of for lawful merchant trains to stop at the Zhentarim stronghold; after all, business was business. Openly trading with the Dark Network was vastly preferable to defending a caravan against it. Since raiding was a random business and supplies had to be maintained, the outpost fortress routinely traded for whatever items they could not steal.

The merchants had been given every assurance of safety and fair trade, but no one in the caravan would rest easily that night. Peace of mind was impossible; surrounded on all sides by sheer rock cliffs and a heavily fortified wall, they were effectively trapped inside the Vale of Darkhold with the thousand or so members of the Zhentarim-sponsored contingent. The caravan’s watch had been tripled, but so apparently had the guard on the perimeter wall above them.

Members of the merchant caravan who did not draw watch also stayed awake long into the night. Tensions were channeled into games of chance, hard drinking punctuated by loudly told tales of bravado, and furtive, frantic trysts.

In a small tent at the very edge of the camp, a lone figure waited impatiently for the others to sleep. Hours of noisy revelry passed, and after a time she could delay no longer. Arilyn Moonblade gathered her supplies and slipped away into the night.

Years of practice and an innate elven grace enabled Arilyn to move without sound, and the moonless night cloaked her in darkness. The half-elf slowly made her way toward the fortress, using the route she had painstakingly mapped. Except for a few acres of trees, the valley floor had little natural cover. Arilyn used whatever was available, darting between heaps of boulders and crawling through scrubby brush. Finally she reached the copse of trees just west of the Postern Gate Tower. Before her lay a moat, and beyond that the massive outer wall of the fortress.

The old Zhentish informant had told her most emphatically that she should not attempt to swim the moat. It was full of dangerous creatures, including small fish with razor-sharp teeth. A school of these fish could strip the flesh from a horse in a matter of minutes. Across the deceptively still waters of the moat, the fortress loomed against the starless night, its black towers thrusting upward. Crouched in the shadow of the trees, Arilyn took several items from her bag and prepared to enter Darkhold.

Several weeks of hectic planning had gone into this assignment. By now Arilyn knew so much about the fortress that she felt somehow sullied by the knowledge. Built by evil giants centuries before, the castle had in turn housed dragons and an undead mage before being conquered and inhabited by the Zhentarim. Evil seemed to permeate the very structure, as if it had been mixed into the mortar.

Arilyn assembled a small crossbow, then fitted to it a most unusual arrow. Specially designed for this assignment, the arrow was very much like a child’s toy, ending in a cup rather than a point. Filling the cup was spider-sap, a powerful adhesive alchemically derived from the coating of giant spider webs. She took careful aim at the Visitors’ Tower. Her arrow flew, trailing behind it a length of gossamer rope, and found its mark just below the roof of the tower. Arilyn pulled hard on the rope, a lightweight but unbreakable cord spun from silk. Satisfied that it would hold, she swung over the moat, released the rope, and landed lightly at the base of the wall.

The Visitors’ Tower was part of the outer wall and often was used, as it was tonight, to house guests considered too dangerous to allow in the castle proper. There were guards, of course, but they were stationed inside the fortress and were concerned with monitoring the visitors’ passage between the tower and the courtyard. Arilyn again grasped the rope and began to climb the tower, hauling herself up hand over hand.

Near the third and top level of the tower was her goal: a window covered with rusted iron bars. Arilyn reached it, pulled herself up onto the stone sill, and took out a small flask. Working carefully, she daubed a bit of distilled black dragon venom on the tops and bottoms of two of the bars. A faint, corrosive hiss filled the air as the powerful acid ate away the rusted metal. Arilyn wiggled the bars free and carefully wiped the remaining acid from the edges, then she squeezed in through the window. She stuck a bit of acacia tree gum on each end of the bars and replaced them in the window.

As she had anticipated, she was in a narrow corridor that circled the entire tower. This level housed the dining quarters, and at this hour the only sounds were a few random clangs from the kitchen. With a shudder of distaste, Arilyn shrugged on her disguise: the dark purple clerical robes belonging to devotees of the evil god, Cyric. She pulled up the cowl of the robe to obscure her face and headed for the tower’s spiral staircase that led down and out to the courtyard.

According to her maps, the floor below held the visitors’ quarters. Arilyn made her way downward as swiftly as she dared, hoping to avoid confrontation with any of her “fellow clerics.” Her luck held until she reached the lowest level. A short, stubby man stood at the foot of the stairs, scowling up at her. His purple cowl was thrown back, and on his forehead was painted a dark sun with a glowering skull in the center.

“Simeon! It’s about time. Hurry up or we’ll miss the procession,” he snapped.

Arilyn only nodded, keeping her head low as she motioned for him to proceed her into the courtyard. The cleric’s eyes narrowed.

“Simeon?” A note of suspicion had crept into his voice, and one hand inched toward the clerical symbol that rested over his heart. Arilyn recognized the beginning of a spell. She leaped down the last few steps, kicking out with one booted foot.

Her foot connected hard with the man’s midsection, and they both fell to the floor in a tangle of purple robes. Arilyn rose to her feet, but the cleric stayed down, bent double and completely winded. She delivered a second well-placed kick to the side of his neck, and the cleric went completely limp.

With a sigh of frustration, Arilyn considered her situation. She could hardly leave the unconscious man there for others to trip over, yet, as he had said, she would be late for the procession if she tarried long. Three wooden doors led out of the stairwell; quickly she cracked one open. Beyond lay a storage chamber filled with large traveling chests. Arilyn slipped inside, and with the tip of a knife she broke open the lock on the nearest chest. It was full of robes, and she tossed some out to make room for the cleric. She returned to the stairwell and, grabbing the fallen man under the arms, dragged him into the storage room. She dumped him into the chest and lowered the heavy lid. Readjusting her cowl low over her face, she returned to the stairwell and opened the door to the courtyard.

The rhythm of a dark and unholy chant greeted her. Just beyond the door, a vast column of priests passed by the tower on their way to the castle’s main entrance. Arilyn folded her hands into her sleeves and lowered her head, assuming the posture of a novitiate and falling in behind the chanting, swaying company.

The clerics gathered to celebrate the Sacrifice of Moondark, a ceremony honoring Cyric, God of Death, Destruction, and Assassination. A powerful new deity, Cyric had been an evil and ambitious mortal. He’d received godhood, taking the place of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul, three foul gods who were destroyed during the Time of Troubles. Although he was not universally worshiped by the followers of the three defunct gods, Cyric worship was rapidly gaining ground among the Zhentarim and their allied priesthoods. Since Cyric had few supporters outside the Zhentarim, his priests had elected to meet within the protection of Darkhold. A large gathering of such clerics in any other setting would have been about as welcome as a barbarian invasion.

Arilyn had learned of the Moondark Ceremony months earlier, and it provided her the ideal time and method for infiltrating Darkhold. Most people—even the Zhentarim—feared the priesthood of Cyric and tended to give the priests a wide berth.

The half-elf had worn many disguises and she had become reconciled to appearing to be what she was not, but her skin crawled under the dark purple robes of an unholy priesthood. Nevertheless she moved smoothly along with the formation, pretending to join in the chanting that signaled the beginning of the profane service.

Through the front gate they marched, into the vast entrance hall and toward an ancient shrine. Caught up in the chant and overawed by their first glimpse of the famous temple, the clerics did not notice that one figure broke away from the formation and slipped toward the basement stairway.

Captain Cherbill Nimmt considered himself a reasonable man, but there were limits to his patience. “You came here expecting to just walk away with this treasure?” he growled, brandishing the large leather sack he clutched in one fist.

The “priest” raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was barely perceptible under the deep cowl of the dark purple robe. “Hardly. You set a price on these items; I agreed to meet it,” Arilyn said in a husky whisper, doing her best to make herself sound like a young man. She reached into a pocket of her robe for a small bag, which she tossed onto the stone floor.

It landed in front of Cherbill Nimmt with a satisfying chink, and he licked his lips in anticipation of his long-awaited reward. Several months earlier he had been heading a patrol in the Sunrise Mountains north of Darkhold when he’d acquired the goods he now hoped to sell: sacred vessels encrusted with gems, a perfect rose that could not die, and a crystal figurine that greeted every dawn with songs of praise to Sune, goddess of beauty. The last item was, to say the least, a damned nuisance.

“That’s filled with gold coins, I hope,” Cherbill said. He nudged the sack with his foot and let out a studied yawn of boredom.

“Better,” Arilyn answered. “The bag is half full of gold coins, half of Dragonsmere amber.”

Surprise and greed washed over the soldier’s florid face. He snatched up the bag and dumped the contents onto a large wooden packing crate. Bright coins skittered across the wood, some spilling unheeded onto the floor of the basement chamber. Cherbill dropped the sack of artifacts and gathered up the five pieces of amber, cradling them in his meaty fingers. They were large pieces, the rare dark color of sandflower honey, and artfully cut. Alone, each piece would ransom a Cormyrian lord.

Cherbill slipped the gems into his pocket and stooped to pick up the leather sack that lay beside him. A crafty smile split the soldier’s face, and he jerked his head toward the heavy oak door. “Thank you very much. Now get out,” he ordered.

“Not until I get what I came for.”

“Like all priests, you’re a fool,” Cherbill said scornfully. “You should have gone when I gave you the chance. What’s to stop me from killing you and keeping everything?”

Arilyn reached into a slit in the side of her purple robe and drew out the moonblade. “This?”

A hoot of derisive laughter broke from the man, and his own sword hissed from its scabbard. Wearing a confident sneer, he attacked.

Arilyn sidestepped Cherbill’s lunge with contemptuous ease and parried the next several attacks. The soldier changed his strategy. At least five inches taller and one hundred pounds heavier than his opponent, Cherbill tried to overwhelm his slender foe with sheer physical strength. His heaviest blows were turned aside, and soon the soldier’s face began to betray exhaustion as well as the first icy touches of doubt.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“Arilyn Moonblade,” the half-elf declared firmly, abandoning the dry whisper of the cleric for her own clear, resonant alto. She pushed back the purple cowl and let Cherbill Nimmt see the battle gleam in her elven eyes.

“I was sent to recover the stolen artifacts. I was to barter for them,” she said in a contemptuous voice. “Or do you prefer battle?” Using the two-handed grip that five years of study at the Academy of Arms had not changed, Arilyn raised the moonblade in challenge.

Cherbill seemed to recognize the name. He gulped audibly and let his sword clatter to the floor. “I have no interest in dying.” He held up his hands in surrender, then nodded at the bag of artifacts. “Take what you came for and leave.”

Arilyn studied him for a moment, her expression dubious. Honor prevented her from attacking an unarmed man, but neither did she trust him to let her go.

“Go ahead,” he urged.

She slid her sword into its scabbard, then turned to pick up the bag. Cherbill Nimmt apparently did not know about an elf’s peripheral vision, for he grinned in triumph and pulled a long, slender dagger from his belt. His expression said clearer than words that, yes, perhaps the stupid elf-wench could fight, but she was still no match for him. He lunged for her back.

Arilyn whirled and knocked the dagger out of Cherbill’s hand in a lightning-quick movement. His jaw hung slack for an astonished moment, then firmed as he closed his eyes and prepared himself to receive the killing stroke.

“Arm yourself.”

Her command stunned Cherbill into compliance. He stooped to retrieve his sword, then faced her warily.

“Why?” he asked simply. “If you’re going to kill me, why not have done with it?”

“Why not indeed?” Arilyn said dryly. For a moment she wished that the Harpers were not quite so picky about certain matters. As her Zhentish informer had observed, if ever a man needed killing, it was this one. The Harpers were willing to discount her past adventures, but they’d made it clear that assassins—however noble their causes or honorable their methods—were frowned upon. For the most part, Arilyn honored the Harpers’ wishes, but at the moment she did not regret that circumstances had again cast her in the role of honorable assassin.