But the cleric’s gaze was drawn to the crucified figure abovethe circle of cultists. Arms and feet spiked to the stone-worked wall, the seer raised his head and stared out of the wreckage of his eyes, no doubt fixed upon a glorious vision of the Dark One.
Though Durgoth’s followers called him “Blessed One” out offear and respect, the cleric knew that it was this man, gazing upon the true face of divinity, who was truly blessed. Rescued by Durgoth’s followers fromwhat would have been a life of endless toil trying to eke a meager existence from the stony soil of a farm north of Redspan in the Bandit Kingdoms, the seer would now spend the remaining days of his existence as the holy prophet of an ancient god. Durgoth wondered if the man had finally accepted the grace that had been given to him.
A torrent of words spilled out from the seer’s bloody mouth,capturing Durgoth’s attention. He recognized the flowing lilt of AncientSuloise. Though he could not understand the old tongue, he noted with satisfaction that Jhagren’s young apprentice, himself already familiar with thevagaries of that almost dead language, sat beneath the seer, soft-boned face held tightly in concentration as he painstakingly copied each word. Durgoth watched as the boy pushed back a strand of blond hair, head cocked slightly to the side.
Adrys. He recalled the boy’s name after a moment. A brightlad, if a bit too devoted to his master, yet still useful. Though the boy did not quite move with the practiced ease and calm deadliness of Jhagren, Durgoth had witnessed the novice training. Adrys would prove a versatile weapon with the right encouragement. He reminded himself to reward the boy well when all of this was over.
His thoughts were interrupted as Adrys let out a shout in another unfamiliar tongue. This time, it was Jhagren who responded, firing what were obviously questions to his excited student. After a moment, the monk bowed low and made his way to Durgoth.
“Blessed one,” he said, with more intensity than the clerichad ever heard him use, “the final quatrain is in place. We now have thelocation of the key’s resting place.”
At first, Durgoth simply stared blankly at his advisor, unable to register what he had said. As the monk’s words sunk in, however, hisheart raced.
“Jhagren,” he almost shouted in his excitement, “cut the seerdown when he has finished, but make sure he does not die. I have another use for him. And then summon everyone into the main hall. We have much to do.”
The cleric smiled as he watched his followers complete the rite and scramble to obey Jhagren, who walked among the cultists like a predator stalking prey. Soon, Durgoth thought, he would avenge years of humiliation. Once they had retrieved the key, his ultimate plan would come to fruition At last, Tharizdun would be free.
Part 1
“Terror is a holy gift…”
1
Kaerion thought it might be different this time.
But it never was.
The walls were white, the pure white of marble cut from mines in the Cairn Hills. Elaborate stonework decorated the walls and recesses of the temple, relieving the simple, austere lines of its basic design. Statues of strong-jawed men and women, shields held forward, swords raised, gazed proudly back at him. Everything here bespoke strength and courage, forthright commitment in the face of adversity.
From a distance, the soaring lilt of a warm soprano cut across the silent temple, caressing each note, spinning a gossamer web of sound. He recognized the hymn, one of his favorites. He had chosen it for his own Dedication.
In came the procession, a line of gray-robed figures, hoods drawn, heads bowed, their stately gait carrying them forward as if they were floating. The boy walked at their head. Clad in a simple white tunic, his serene face broken by the hint of a smile, he marched toward the simple stone altar in the center of the chamber with wide- eyed innocence.
Kaerion wanted to step forward, armed with the knowledge of what was to come, and carry the boy away, but some force held him back. He tried to shout a warning, but the sound of a rich-voiced alto singing a harmonic line swallowed his voice as soon as he had opened his mouth. He looked around desperately for someone to help him, but could not find a single ally.
That’s when the screaming began.
In a single, dizzying moment, the beautifully rendered hymn shattered into painful dissonance. Kaerion clapped dirt-crusted hands over his ears, desperate to escape the cacophony. Slowly, the screams faded, yet he could hear another voice, distant and faint but growing louder. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the scent of blood that had begun to pollute the air, and strained to make out what this new voice was saying. It came to him slowly-
“Kaerion, get your gods-blasted ass out of that bed!”
The nightmare shattered as a boot connected hard with his side. Kaerion groaned, his already full bladder protesting the abuse, and swatted feebly at his attacker. His stomach twisted fiercely, nearly disgorging last nights gristly mutton. Only sheer force of will and a tongue swollen to twice its normal size spared him that indignity.
Another groan escaped his lips, this time in response to the throbbing in his head, which had quickly outstripped the pain in his side. Rubbing scarred hands across eyes nearly crusted shut, he forced himself to gaze upon the visage of the demon that had ripped him from sleep.
A harsh, angular elven face stared back at him, arched brows raised even higher-in anger or amusement, it was always difficult to tell. Theelf raised a gloved fist, obviously prepared to strike again, but Kaerion held up one arm in entreaty, wondering when the gnomes would finish their incessant hammering inside his skull.
“Peace, Gerwyth,” he mumbled, “or so help me I’ll throw yourbony elven carcass right out the window.”
A ghost of a smile cracked the elf’s imposing facade, drawingthe alien features in starker relief. Delicate cheekbones rose even higher, accenting the angular lines of his face. Long blond hair, pulled back from a high forehead by a silver circlet, flowed around the curved expanse of ears, only to fall into a jumbled cataract around shoulders covered by a dark green cloak. Beneath the folds of the cloak, metal studs glinted softly in the candlelight.
“Damn it, Kaerion, this is serious.” All trace of levity fledfrom the elf’s face. “We’re in trouble again, and I’ll be hung and quartered ifI’m going to die because you can’t get your ale-sotted wits about you.”
“What now?” Kaerion asked, rising unsteadily to his feet. Theroom spun viciously, but he managed to catch himself before he fell by grabbing on to the stone wall to his left. His hair stank of tabac, and the sour reek of his sweat filled the small room. It nearly made him vomit, but he mastered his rebellious stomach once again, instead releasing only a single noisy belch.
“Gods’ blood, Kaer!” the elf shouted. “How long are you goingto go on doing this to yourself?”
Kaerion ignored the question-as he always did. He was far toosober to think about the circumstances that had brought him to this place. All he really wanted to do was find a dark corner and drink his throbbing headache into quiescence.
“You said we’re in trouble,” he replied, with considerablymore aplomb than he felt. “What kind of trouble?” He thought perhaps reasoningwith his old friend might reduce the likelihood that he would continue to shout.
“Do you remember the merchant who needed caravan guards tohelp transfer his assets from Hammensend
