the leer of a killerthe toothy grin of the jackal.
The front of one of the workers’ trousers bloomed with a dark shadow, and the stench of urine filled the dense air of the close space.
“Leave us alone,” the man whimpered.
The other one sobbed, “Let us go home, my lord. Please let us go.”
“You are excellent craftsmen and I’m sure your families are very proud of you,” Salatis said, excitement making his heart race and his throat tighten.
“Please, Ransar,” one of them begged.
“You will go to the Fugue Plane having done a great service to the Dark Goddess. Perhaps there she will claim your souls and bring them with her to the Plane of Shadow where you will serve her as you served me.”
Olin stepped forward, and set his longaxe on his shoulder.
“Oh, I see,” Insithryllax said. “This little temple of yours is a secret.”
“Careful,” the ransar said, glancing back over his shoulder at Insithryllax.
The bolder of the two doomed menthe one who hadn’t yet wet himselftook that as an opportunity to attempt to run past the three of them and out through the secret door to the ransar’s hidden shrinethe hidden shrine they’d just finished building for him. Olin swung his heavy longaxe from his right shoulder, took the man’s head off in the blink of an eye, and only stopped when the axe haft rested gently on his left shoulder.
Blood fountained from the decapitated man’s neck as his body jerked to the floor. His partner was sprayed in the face, and yelped, trying his best to fend it off. He fell to his knees, then scrambled back until he fetched up against a wall. Babbling incoherent pleas for his miserable existence, he all but clawed the blood from his eyes.
Insithryllax chuckled in a mean-spirited way and said, “Collecting heads, are we?”
He tipped his head in the direction of the altar, behind which was a shelf. On the shelf was a big glass jar, tightly sealed with a waxed cork. Inside the jar was the grimacing, disembodied head of Osorkon.
“I hadn’t actually thought of that, no,” Salatis answered with a laugh. “Anyway, this new one isn’t worth keeping.”
The surviving workman groveled on the blood-soaked floor, crying. He retracted, staring up with pleading, animal’s eyes, as Olin stepped up to tower over him.
“All this blood,” Insithryllax said, “on your new floors.”
“A small sacrifice,” Salatis said, “for the favor of the Mistress of the Night.”
“Weren’t you a devoted follower of Malar just a tenday or so past?” Insithryllax asked.
Salatis stiffened and said, “I’ll thank you not to mention that. Today, here in this place, I live for the dark secrets of Shar, divine daughter of Lord Ao.” He paused and Insithryllax shrugged. “Captain Olin”
Olin brought the axe down again, and the man stopped crying all at once. When Olin tried to pull his axe out of the dead man’s back, it stuck fast. The black firedrake vomited a black fluid over his axe blade and Salatis had to turn away. He could hear the workman’s skin sizzle away, freeing the blade.
“Leave the mess,” Salatis said as he stepped past Insithryllax, ignoring the strange man’s grim smirk. “When Shar has had her fill of their souls, clean it up, and never come back in here again. Is that clear?”
Olin nodded, wiping the blood and acid from his longaxe onto the headless workman’s back.
Insithryllax laughed again, which elicited a sharp look from the black firedrake. But Salatis left the shrine, confident that no more blood would be spilled there, until he ordered it spilled.
32
3 Ches, the Yearofthe Staff (1366 DR) The Village of Kurrsh
She couldn’t see the man with the scar on his face, but he could hear him. It was as if he rode in the cart behind her, whispering in her ear the whole way.
You have no idea what he’s using this for, the ghost told her. You’re helping him. Don’t help him. What do you think is going to happen?
Phyrea had no idea what was going to happen, but she didn’t care. For the past two days she’d had enough to concern herself just handling the cart. She hadn’t spent much time driving carts after all.
“Please,” she whispered as she passed the first of the little cluster of waddle and daub buildings that comprised the village of Kurrsh, “just shut up.”
She closed her eyes for a bit, letting the horse lead her, as the man with the scar on his face flooded her mind with a raw sense of righteous indignation.
“You’re afraid of him,” she whispered with a smile, and opened her eyes.
I can’t be afraid of anything anymore, the man answered. But I can see what you cannot see, and hear what you cannot hear. I know that he has no feelings at allnot for you, not for anyone. He cares only about this hole in the ground. He’s manipulating you to help him when you know you should be fighting against him. Fight against him, Phyrea. Turn the cart around. Take us back to Berrywilde where we belongwhere we all belong.
Phyrea sighed and brought the cart to a stop. Four children wandered by, looking at her with unashamed curiosity. Her cart was loaded with plain burlap sacks. They couldn’t know what the sacks contained, but whatever it was, it wasn’t very interesting, so they kept going, speaking to each other in low voices. They smiled, giggled even, as they passed. From the way they walked and spoke, she could tell they were in no hurry, and they were happy.
Don’t go in there, the man whispered. If you go in there, I can’t help you.
“You don’t appear to me when I’m with him,” she whispered. “Why?”
The ghost didn’t answer.
Phyrea climbed down off the cart, tied up the horse, and went into the squat little building. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of ale and pipeweed. Though it was a warm afternoon for so early in the springthe sun was shining evena fire crackled in the hearth. She saw them right awaythe place wasn’t that bigbut she stood just inside the door and watched them for a moment.
They sat at a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by the farmers and simple country folk of Kurrsh, and they blended right in. Even the dwarf didn’t seem out of place. And Phyrea, the daughter of a senator, a bitter, resentful, petulant city girl, felt no less at home.
She smiled and walked to their table. The dwarf noticed her first and tapped the other two on their arms. When Devorast saw her, he smiled, and Phyrea’s heart melted in her chest. She missed a step, almost stumbled, but slipped onto the chair next to him.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Hrothgar said.
She nodded, her mouth dry, and looked at Devorast when she said, “I had some trouble with the cart. I felt like a peasant woman.”
Devorast smiled again and said, “How did you like it?”
She made a show of sighing, and showed her teeth in a wide grin. “It wasn’t so bad.”
The third man looked at her in a way Phyrea was accustomed to being looked at by strange men. He tried his best to pretend he wasn’t looking at her body, scanning her curves, sizing her up. She could tell his mouth was dry, his breathing just a little shallow, his heart maybe even racing a bit in his chest. She smiled at him, and he looked down at his mug of ale.
“You’re the alchemist,” she said.
“Surero,” the man answered.
“A pleasure.”
“And you brought what he needs?” asked the dwarf.
Phyrea nodded and said, “I have fifty fifty-pound sacks. I hope that will be enough.”
Devorast and the dwarf looked to Surero, who shrugged and said, “It’ll get us started, but there’s a lot of earth to be moved. I’ll always need more.”
“I have to ask,” she said. “Why saltpeter? I mean, I thought my father sold it to the army for some reason, and I don’t know what elseis it spread on crops to make them grow better… something like that?”
