blocked by an iron door, the terrified screams of the Righteous Man still filled his ears and chased him like a specter. The hopeless sounds of a helpless animal, those screams. He felt no guilt for the betrayal, of course-Nine Hells, that's why the Zhentarim had placed him with the Night Knives in the first place.
He actually felt a certain satisfaction for a job well done, but even Riven found it mildly distasteful to leave the Righteous Man as food for a demon. No way for a man to die, he thought. He would have preferred to drive a dagger into the old man's back and have done with it.
Abruptly, the screaming ceased. He stopped running, steadied his breathing, and listened for a moment. Nothing. Satisfied, he ascended the rest of the long staircase at a walk. By the time he reached the door at the top, he had fully regained his breath. He took a moment to compose himself. Knowing that he had nothing to fear from the dread, he took his time. When he felt ready, he pushed open the door and walked into the lower level of the Night Knives' guildhouse.
The long hallway to either side of him stood empty and dim. Torches hung from wall sconces along the uneven plaster walls and cast shadows that looked uncomfortably similar to the black nothingness of the dread.
It's long gone already, he assured himself, long gone.
Still, the screams of the Righteous Man echoed in his brain and sent a cold shudder up his spine. Out of long habit, his hands fell to his saber hilts as he walked.
The lower level of the guildhouse was used mainly for storage, training, and worship. It also doubled as a final defensive strongpoint in the unlikely event of some kind of frontal assault on the guild. At this hour, the area stood empty. The main hallway Riven walked served as a spine from which branched all of the other rooms, hallways, and stairs of the lower level. At the northern end of the hallway, behind a sturdy door, stood a small storage chamber with a concealed trapdoor that opened onto a secret access route into the city's old sewer system. At the southern end of the hall is the old man's shrine, he thought with contempt. He glanced behind him down the hallway to the double doors of the shrine and sneered in derision.
Over the past three years the Righteous Man had quietly spent guild proceeds to build an elaborate worship hall dedicated to Mask the Shadowlord. Riven had seen smaller temples dedicated to so-called 'legitimate' gods.
What a waste of coin, he thought. Pissing away valuable time and resources, the Righteous Man had led the guild in a service every tenth night of every tenday since. Over time, more and more of the Knives had attended and more and more had come to actively worship Mask. So much so that the worship had come to dominate the activities of the guild.
Idiots! he sneered. This place was becoming more priesthood than thieves' guild with every passing day. I did you all a favor tonight. Riven had made a point never to set foot in the shrine. He despised gods, even Cyric, the patron of many of his fellow Zhentarim. Reliance on the gods made men weak, overconfident, and willing to rely on miracles rather than their own abilities. He figured that the fate of the Righteous Man was the ultimate fate of all priests, for priests kept their eyes on a god and not on the world around them. Riven had spied on the Knives for the Zhentarim for years, all the while holding the implicit trust of the Righteous Man. The old fool's faith had made him stupid and blind.
Weeks before, when the Righteous Man had told him about the Shadowtome, Riven had sent word of it to Malix, his Zhentarim superior. Then, upon retrieving the book and returning to Selgaunt, he had not taken it directly to the Righteous Man. Instead, he had taken it to Malix for study. Based on the book's contents, Zhentarim mages had easily determined that the old man planned to summon a dread. Riven was told how to sabotage the delicate binding. At the time, he had thought he would have to create an excuse to be present for the summoning, or that he would have to break in during the casting of the spell, but the old fool had actually required him to be present! Witness this, lieutenant! Riven had almost laughed aloud. The arrogant ass!
Though Riven knew little of magic-he disdained spellcasters almost as much as priests, trusting his steel over spells any day-even he had seen the potential danger of turning a demon loose from its binding, possibly turning it loose on Selgaunt. Malix had laid that fear to rest, though. The Zhentarim did not fear the dread running amok in the eity because, according to the Shadowtome, it could not long endure existence on this plane. Since negative energy made up so much of a dread's being, existence on this plane-a plane full of positive energy-caused it immense pain.
Or some such. Riven had ignored most of Malix's explanation. It was enough for him that the dread would kill the Righteous Man and then leave. He smiled viciously. Kill and then leave. He liked that. He had done the same countless times himself, was doing so again now. Killing and then leaving.
After he walked out of the guildhouse tonight, his time as a Night Knife was over. The Night Knives were over. When Riven informed Malix of the Righteous Man's death, the Zhentarim would pounce on the leaderless guild. Without someone to organize a defense, the Night Knives would be easy prey. The Zhentarim would hunt them down, recruit those who would turn, and kill the rest.
The rest will be a lot, Riven figured, with a backward look at the shrine. Too many of the Knives had become religious fanatics. Far too many. They would not be open to recruitment. Zealots didn't change sides, they were martyred.
This guild is already a cooling corpse, he thought. Other than he and Cale, everyone else in the guild had the mind of a lackey, which was why they had been led to religion in the first place. None of them could lead the guild in a fight against the Zhentarim. They all would be easy fodder. Of course, Riven was prepared to acknowledge- reluctantly-that Cale could lead them, were he so inclined. But he was not so inclined. In fact, Riven suspected that Cale wanted out of the guild, not leadership of it. The leaderless Night Knives would soon be no more, another casualty in Selgaunt's ongoing gang wars.
Still, for the next few days Riven would have to lay low and watch his back. At least until after the Zhentarim hit the guildhouse. If anyone with a grudge survived the coming purge, they might notice his absence, put the puzzle together, and come looking for him. He wasn't afraid for his safety, but he didn't want the bother of fanatics trying to hunt him down.
He smiled, appreciating the irony. The rabid fanaticism of the Knives had been the very reason the Zhentarim had decided to move against them so forcefully in the first place. While Selgaunt's underworld was a viper's pit of competing organizations, none of them had been fanatical prior to the radicalization of the Night Knives. Thieves' guilds acted predictably; religious movements did not. Selgaunt's underworld could not long tolerate an unpredictable actor-unpredictability drew the attention of the city's otherwise disinterested authorities. The Zhentarim could not allow that.
One more reason to spurn religion, Riven supposed with a contemptuous sneer. Where was your god tonight, old man? Holed up in the shrine, maybe? He chuckled aloud. Riven restricted his worship to only three things-sharp steel, cold coin, and warm women, in that order. Anything else was weakness.
Still chuckling, he turned his back to the shrine and strode down the hallway until he reached the oak door that opened into the storage room. Low voices from within carried through the wood. He spared one last glance over his shoulder-his last sight of this den of idiots-wiped the satisfied grin off his face, and pushed the door open.
Two men, Fek and Norwyl, decent thugs, not so decent sentries-hastily stood from their game of dice. Two small piles of silver lay at their feet, and a pair of ivory knucklebones rested on the floor between them. Asp eyes, Riven saw, and smiled coldly. Crates lined the walls. For light, Fek and Norwyl had stuffed a tallow candle into the tap of an empty keg. A filthy rug covered the floor.
'Riven,' Fek said in nervous surprise. The taller of the two, Fek wore a short sword at his belt and looked as though he hadn't shaved his spotty beard in days. A wooden disc painted black and ringed with red at the edge hung from a leather thong around his neck-the makeshift symbol of Mask that many of the guild's members had taken to wearing. Riven managed not to strangle him with it. Barely.
'Fek,' Riven replied with a nod. 'Norwyl.'
Norwyl too wore the black disc about his neck. A nervous little man even shorter than Riven. Norwyl gestured at the knucklebones on the floor.
'Join us?' he asked halfheartedly. 'Fek could use a change in his luck.'
'Piss off,' Fek said.
'No,' Riven briskly replied and pushed past them. He thought about killing them both, a sort of going-away present for the guild, but decided against it. They'd be dead soon enough. 'I'm leaving for-a few days,' he
