'This is a worthy cause, to be sure-but I'm afraid that the matter of timing creates a bit of difficulty. My business here in Baldur's Gate is sure to occupy me for the rest of the year… though perhaps after that?'
Keane shook his head regretfully. He wondered if the cleric spoke the truth or simply raised the issue for negotiation purposes. 'I'm sorry, Lord Inquisitor, but His Majesty was most insistent that I return as soon as possible. Isn't there a way that you could make the journey quickly, returning here to resume your business, and not incidentally earn a respectable fee for your good efforts?'
The magic-user knew that clerics did not possess the wizard's ability to teleport instantaneously from one place to another, which had been the means Keane used to reach Baldur's Gate from Corwell. But he also knew that other paths were open to the servants of the gods, such as gates through the astral planes and other-dimensional paths that allowed equally rapid transport.
For a moment, he wondered if the cleric really spoke the truth, for the man's lips remained locked in that firm position, causing his beard to twist into a tight circle around his mouth. But then he relaxed slightly.
'It just might be possible,' he allowed, 'though I can make no promises. By the way, what sort of, er, 'inducement' did your king have in mind?'
'I'm authorized to offer as much as fifty thousand pieces of gold or the equivalent in jewels, gems, or platinum.' Keane knew the amount would put a significant dent in the royal treasury, but it was a fee he felt certain that the king would pay. In addition, he could see, with some satisfaction, that the offer had cut right to the core of the inquisitor's being. Hyath blinked, and this time he forgot to purse his lips. Keane saw his eyes slowly widen as he no doubt considered the charitable works that such a sum would allow him to accomplish.
'As I explained,' the priest said after a few moments reflective silence, 'my time is difficult to rearrange. But there is a possibility….'
'I truly hope so,' Keane prodded. 'Do you need a day to decide? I'm afraid I won't be able to linger much longer than that. I'll have to seek help in Waterdeep, or Amn….'
'Bah!' The cleric shook his head derisively. 'Neither of them offers a cleric worthy of the title patriarch!'
'You'll forgive me'-Keane's voice was soft, precisely polite-'but I'll have to see that for myself.'
The inquisitor smiled then, his expression surprisingly friendly. Nevertheless, the Ffolkman thought he detected a hint of craftiness in the cleric's visage.
'I'll do it,' Hyath agreed suddenly. 'Give me until tomorrow morning to make my arrangements. Then we can depart. We'll travel together, I hope.'
'Certainly,' Keane agreed smoothly, not at all sure how the cleric intended to make the journey.
'If you will accept the accommodations of my humble abode for the night, we can be off at first light. Will you be my guest?'
'I'll have to get my bags, but it'll be a pleasure.'
'We'll send a man for them. Come, allow Bishou Harmanius to show you the gardens while I attend to my business. The roses are in full bloom, and I've been told that our hedges are the finest along the Sword Coast.'
The cleric was already in motion as Keane rose to follow him from the parlor. As if he had known his patriarch's intentions, the bishou awaited them in the central hall, beside a circular marble fountain. The inquisitor instructed him as to his plans, then turned back to Keane.
'Please, treat this home as your own. I'll see you again at dinner-and then, as I told you, we'll depart for Corwell at first light.'
The fire burned high, consuming many oak trunks with insatiable tongues and greedy fingers of flame. A keg of firbolg rotgut, horrific of stench and searing of taste, made the rounds of the throng, passed from giant-kin to troll and back again. Thurgol sat near the fire, enjoying the warmth of the gathering and the exalted status that gave him his prime seat. Even the presence of the great troll Baatlrap, squatting across the blaze from him, did nothing to detract from his pleasure.
The eyes of a wolfdog flashed golden in the firelight. The creature raised its shaggy head and blinked at the approach of a stooped firbolg clad in a billowing dress. The giant-kin hag regarded the great canine for a second, and then the beast swiftly rose and slinked away from the fire, yielding its place to the giant female.
Garisa reached the fireside and turned to glare at her comrades. Shaman of the village for many decades, she used the authority of her office to silence the throng merely by the persuasive power of her gaze. Even the trolls ceased their bickering yaps, regarding the female firbolg with expressions of fear, awe, and suspicion.
Thurgol was pleased. If the night was to culminate in success, then it was important that all of them give careful attention to Garisa's words, her story and her prophecy. Though the shaman and the chieftain had discussed in minimal detail what was to occur this night, Thurgol wasn't sure how the old female intended to go about it.
Their task was aided by the fact that Garisa held a unique and honored status in Blackleaf. The old crone of a firbolg was more skilled at healing and medicinal applications than any other resident of that community. In addition, however, she had discovered at an early age that she possessed a modicum of magical ability.
Charming a young warrior into a marriage that had elevated her to most envied female in the tribe, Garisa had worked to develop other talents, such as the healing incantation that worked so well for the broken bones and deep gouges that were the lot of the firbolg warrior's life. Thus her exalted status had remained even after her mate had fallen in the tragic conflict the humans had called the Darkwalker War.
Garisa had also learned to weave simple illusions. She never altered anything very much, but she could create the appearance of a mist in the air, and shape it to match the image she desired. This particular attribute had proven very useful throughout her century-plus of life. And during that entire time, she had kept her slight mastery of illusion a secret from every single one of her fellow villagers.
All the firbolgs of Blackleaf, of course, knew of her skill with herbs. Too, she had a reputation for making accurate predictions based on the reflections created by a few copper coins cast into a bowl of water. Hadn't she correctly guessed the outcome of that wild young Bree filly's mating? She had predicted that within five years the brazen young female would be discovered in the arms of another young buck. Naturally the husband, who had commissioned Garisa's foretelling, spent most of those five years accusing and spying upon his unfortunate bride, until the prophecy had been fulfilled.
Garisa continued to enjoy a unique status among firbolg females, being privy to the decisions of the chieftains and elders. Even young Thurgol, who had come to power when the shaman was already an old giantess, had employed her experience and skills when he had first taken the reins of village leadership, wresting them from old Klatnaught, who had grown just a step too slow to hold on to his post.
Then, of course, the trolls had come. Nearly twenty years ago the gangly humanoids, with their emotionless black holes of eyes-'dead' eyes, Garisa thought-had approached Thurgol with an offer to work for the firbolgs, in exchange for sharing the bounty and shelter of the village. The old shaman had been a lone voice of dissent amid a listless chorus of 'ayes,' and so the trolls had put up some shacks at the edge of the village and settled in.
In fact, the alliance looked innocuous enough on the surface. After all, there had originally been fewer than two dozen trolls, not nearly enough to threaten two hundred firbolgs. For a year or two, the trolls had labored dutifully, hunting and harvesting for their share of Myrloch Vale's provender.
By this time, there were some fifty of them, though none of the firbolgs ever really noticed the addition of individual members. The green-skinned brutes formed a strong and vocal faction, and Garisa found herself increasingly overruled in the rude and informal councils of the giant-troll clan.
Now Thurgol had come to her with this perilous path of warfare against the dwarves. Garisa blamed the trolls for this, as for most everything else. But unlike Thurgol and virtually every other firbolg and troll in the band, she had at least a dim understanding of the changes occurring in Myrloch Vale.
Garisa remembered the druids, remembered them with fear and envy. For most of her lifetime, they had preserved this valley as a sacred wilderness, forcing the firbolg clans into the highlands around the fertile bottomland. There the giant-kin had dwelled for generations, surviving in more or less pastoral existence, though an occasional conflict brought them to blows with their human, dwarven, and Llewyrr elven neighbors.
Two decades ago, when the druids had vanished, nothing had blocked the firbolgs from moving into the well-watered valley, so the tribe had quickly migrated down from their rocky heights. Now Thurgol wanted to fight for possession of that valley, when to Garisa many a highland hilltop beckoned the giant-kin back to their ancient homes.
Yet she was Thurgol's loyal ally, and together the two of them had concocted the plan that, tonight, would
