Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 16

"Evidently we came through the night all right."

"Of course," Kovost said. "Didn't I tell you..."

Someone gasped.

The half-elf turned. His face ashen, Gybik was squatting beside Silbastis. Gybik had no doubt attempted to rouse him, but Silbastis wasn't moving.

The other adventurers hurriedly gathered around the corpse. This time, the throat wasn't shredded.

There was only a single neat, round puncture.

"Whatever killed Osher," Gybik said shakily, "it followed us."

"And this time it apparently slew its victim in his sleep," said Halladon, queasy with grief and dismay.

"Stealthy as it is, I wouldn't be surprised if that's how it usually kills. It was likely only a fluke that Osher awoke."

"Poor man," said Moanda, gazing down at the body. "I enjoyed his tales of the sea. Even if I was sure he lied with every other word."

"Poor him and poor us!" said Gybik. "If the killer came twice, it'll come again."

"I'm afraid you may well be correct," Perys said, crouching. "Hmmm. Once again, the creature didn't leave any tracks."

"There isn't much blood on the ground, either," Halladon said. "That's odd, too, don't you think?"

"Everything about this is 'odd!' " Gybik snapped. "Blessed Tymora, what terrible thing is stalking us?"

"Perhaps we roused something in the catacombs," Perys said somberly. "Some sort of guardian the mages of Netheril left behind to ward their treasure."

Halladon shrugged. "We didn't notice any signs of such a thing while we were there, but you could be right."

"Whatever it is," Perys mused, "how can it come, kill, and depart at will? Unseen.. . without leaving a trace? In my experience, even invisible creatures generally give some sign of their presence. Why did it only slay one of us, when others lay sleeping and thus at its mercy as well? And most importantly, how do we protect ourselves from such a thing?"

"It attacks in the dark," Kovost said. "We could travel by night and sleep by day."

The long-legged scout shook his head. "Not in this country. I understand that you and Halladon see better at night than we humans, but there's still an excellent chance we'd take the wrong path or blunder over the edge of a precipice."

"Now that we know the killer's tracking us," Moanda said, "let's lie in wait for it."

"That's worth a try," Perys said. "If it doesn't work, we'll simply have to try to shake the creature off our trail, set up camps that are more difficult to sneak into, and maintain the double watches with especial wariness."- he looked at Halladon-"Unless you can do something more with your sorcery."

Feeling useless, the half-elf shook his head. "As I've told you, I've only mastered a few spells, and I don't see how any of them could help."

Moanda made a spitting sound.

"H," muttered Kovost, his brow furrowed. "d.a.m.n it, what was Osher trying to tell us?"

"I'm afraid that what Perys said still holds," Halladon said sympathetically. "I don't see how you can possibly guess it."

"The Soulforger smite you!" snarled the dwarf. "At least I'm trying to help!" Shocked by hiscomrade's outburst, Halladon stepped backward.

"No!" Kovost bellowed.

After burying Silbastis, the adventurers had marched about two leagues, then wasted precious hours lying in ambush for a foe that never came. Afterward, they pushed themselves hard to cover as much ground as possible. Despite the weariness their pace engendered, Halladon had at first been too apprehensive to sleep well. But the next two nights had pa.s.sed without incident, inspiring the brittle hope that the company had outdistanced its nemesis, and this evening exhaustion had finally dragged him down into a profound slumber.

Still, when Kovost's shout jolted him awake, he comprehended instantly that someone else was dead. Groggily, he disentangled himself from his covers and stumbled over to where the dwarf and Moanda were standing. Gybik joined them a moment later.

The companions regarded the inert form at their feet. To all appearances, Perys, like Silbastis, had perished without ever waking. Once again, there was little blood on the ground.

His boyish face contorted with anger, Gybik rounded on Kovost and Moanda. "What's the matter with you? You knew this fiend was skulking about. You were supposed to check on us!"

"We did," Moanda said. "Again and again. I. . . I don't know how it got to him without us spotting it."

"'H,'" said Kovost, gazing at his feet. His fist clenched on the haft of his axe as though he thought he could pound the solution into his skull.

Shivering, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to pick up his mantle, Halladon crouched beside the body. As he'd expected, he didn't find any tracks.

"None of us will reach Sundabar," said Gybik in a fey voice. "We're all going to die in these awful mountains. Unless.. ." He dashed to his pack, tore it open, scooped out a handful of gems, and brandished them at the night. "Take them back! We don't want them anymore!"

The darkness didn't answer. "Be a man," said Moanda in disgust.

"'H!'" roared Kovost suddenly, no longer perplexed but inspired. "'H,' by all the G.o.ds!"

Halladon felt a thrill of hope. "Do you actually know what Osher meant?"

The dwarf gave him a savage grin. "Oh, I believe so, Elf-get. I should have figured it out before, but I was overlooking the obvious. No one ever saw the killer sneaking into or out of camp because he was here all the time, using magic to murder his comrades silently from a distance. He made sure to butcher Osher first lest the priest divine the evil in his heart, then did his level best to persuade the rest of us to ignore the clue our poor friend left us. 'H' stands for Halladon!"

The half-elf gaped at him. "That's insane! You've seen my magic, paltry thing that it is. You know I can't cast a spell that could kill someone without the sentries noticing."

"We've only seen what you've chosen to show us," Moanda said. "Who knows what other filthy sorceries you command?" Her broadsword with its eagle-head pommel whispered out of its scabbard.

"But why would I kill Perys and the others?"

"That's an easy one," Kovost said. "You want all the gems for yourself." Behind him, Gybik was approaching. He looked less angry, less certain of Halladon's guilt than the others, but he had his short sword in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.

Loath as he would be to strike at his friends, their demeanor was so menacing that Halladon could only wish he'd buckled on his own sword. But like his bow, quiver, and pack, it still lay next to his cloak and blankets. All he had were the dirk and pouch which never left his belt. "You're wrong," he said.

"Think about it. I reached Osher's body ahead of everyone else. Were I the killer, I would have wiped the 'H' away."

"Maybe you didn't notice it in time," Moanda said. "At any rate, we see the truth at last, and your serpent's tongue won't convince us otherwise. Take him!" She and Kovost surged at him, with Gybik bringing up the rear. Scrambling backward, the half-elf rattled off a spell.A quartet of Halladons, identical to the original in every respect, flickered into existence around him.

Wheeling, he broke for the trees, his illusory twins aping his motions as swiftly and precisely as reflections in a mirror.

His comrades gave chase. Gybik's knife whizzed through one of phantasms, bursting it like a soap bubble. A slash of Moanda's sword dispersed a second illusion, and she snarled in frustration.

Halladon plunged into the pines. Kovost's axe spun past him and for an instant, the half-elf grinned.

The weapon wasn't balanced for throwing, and the short-legged dwarf wouldn't have hurled it if he hadn't fallen behind.

Moanda and Gybik began to collide with the branches and trip over the gnarled roots which Halladon, with his superior night vision, was avoiding. By the time the remaining illusions winked out of existence, he'd lost himself in the night.

The wind howled and snow flurried down from the sky. A rampart of towering storm clouds, like a second tier of mountains stacked atop the first, veiled the midday sun. As he trudged along shaking, hugging himself for warmth, Halladon strained to listen. He didn't think his erstwhile companions would attempt another ambush, but then, he hadn't thought they'd mistake him for a murdering traitor either, and in any case, it wouldn't do to catch up with them before dark.

After his escape, he'd felt a bitter rage at the way his friends had turned on him, but the emotion hadn't lasted. He knew that Moanda, Kovost, and Gybik hadn't wanted to believe him a murderer. With the company dying one by one, it was imperative that they figure out how it was happening, and the dwarf's accusation had had a superficial air of plausibility. It should have come as no surprise that Halladon had failed to persuade the others of his innocence, especially since he had no alternative explanation of his own to offer, just as it was only natural that they'd taken up arms against the supposed author of their misfortunes with such dispatch. He understood why they'd behaved as they had, and he forgave them.

Which was just as well, because it was vital that he reunite himself with them. No doubt with malice aforethought, they'd taken his gear with them when they moved on, and, inadequately clad and armed, bereft of his grimoire, rations, and water bottle, he had virtually no chance of making it out of the Nether Mountains. Even if properly equipped he likely couldn't survive the trek alone. The rugged, predator-infested country was simply too dangerous.

Obviously, he could only regain his comrades' trust by revealing the true killer, and it occurred to him that he might now be in a better position to do precisely that. The foe was adept at concealing itself from whatever guards the adventurers posted. But perhaps a hidden observer, lurking just outside the camp, someone of whose presence it was unaware, would be able to spot it.

It seemed a promising plan. To try it, all he had to do was make it through the day.

His extremities grew numb, and his breath crackled in his nose. Occasionally he trudged past a hollow in the ground or in the escarpment beside the trail. He'd feel sorely tempted to huddle there to escape the freezing wind, but he didn't dare let his friends get too far ahead. Instead, he imagined dancing hearth fires, steamy saunas, drafts of mulled red wine searing his throat and kindling a glow in his belly, and a feather bed heaped with eiderdowns with a warming pan tucked underneath.

It didn't seem to help much. He promised himself that if by some miracle he survived this nightmare, he'd flee to sunny Chessenta where winter was a myth, and never wander north again.

By mid afternoon, the cold had reduced him to a miserable, shambling somnolence, his consciousness wavering in and out of focus. Once he roused to find himself plodding down the wrong side of the path, a mere inch from a prodigious drop. The danger jolted him back to full awareness, and that was when he heard the guttural orcish voices whispering from somewhere back up the trail. Thank Corellon he had sharp ears, and that sound carried well in the mountains.

It would be suicide to confront the creatures here, where there was no room to maneuver. Halladon ran, and though he tried to do so quietly, he heard the orcs immediately break into a run as well. Theywere hunting him.

After a switchback turn the way widened out into a promontory supporting a stand of stunted spruces. Panting, his heart pounding, Halladon hid behind one of the trees and prepared to cast one of the two spells left in his memory.

Three ores trotted into view. They wore ragged garments crudely dyed with ugly, clashing colors-muddy mauves, garish oranges, and mustard yellows. Deep cowls shadowed their swinish faces, protecting their bloodshot eyes against the hated daylight; had the sun been shining, they likely wouldn't have ventured from their lair at all. Even from across the bluff, Halladon caught the sour stink of their blemishedolive flesh. Grateful that he hadn't attracted the notice of a full-sized war party, he let them trot as close as he dared, then took hold of his piece of moss and whispered the incantation.

On the far side of the ores, white light flowered amid the branches of an evergreen. On a brighter day, they might not even have noticed, but on this gray, overcast afternoon the shimmer caught their eyes.

Exclaiming in surprise, they pivoted toward the glow.

Halladon rattled off his final spell. Two slivers of azure radiance streaked from his fingertips and buried themselves in the closest ore's back. The creature collapsed. Halladon sprang to his feet and charged. The remaining orcs began to blunder back around. The nearer one, a pot-bellied specimen with a necklace of mummified ears, caught sight of the half-elf rushing at it and its piggy eyes widened. It tried to swing its spear point into line, but was an instant too slow. Halladon thrust his dirk into the creature's chest.

Knowing he had no chance of taking the last orc by surprise, the adventurer yanked his weapon free and whirled to face it. The creature, a hulking brute with delicately wrought bands of gold-perhaps plunder from some ma.s.sacred caravan-gleaming on its corded, simian arms, threw its spear. Halladon dodged it by a hair. The orc whipped out a scimitar and rushed him.

The half-elf had to overcome the advantage of his foe's longer, heavier blade, and he knew he'd only get one chance to do it. He retreated several steps while the scimitar, whizzing through the air, missed him by inches. When he'd taken the measure of the orc's attacks-the creature favored a high, horizontal, potentially beheading cut-he faked another step backward, crouched suddenly below the arc of his adversary's stroke, and drove his dirk into its belly.

With a grunt, the orc doubled over. Halladon stabbed it again, this time in the heart. The brute dropped.

Halladon could scarcely believe he'd single-handedly bested all three of his attackers. Corellon grant that no other creature wanted to pick a fight.

In any case, there was no time to stand and savor his victory, not when Moanda, Kovost, and Gybik were getting farther away by the second. Halladon bent over the third orc, then hesitated. In normal circ.u.mstances, he would have deemed it a shabby, churlish deed to rob the dead, but it would be even more dishonorable to allow himself to freeze to death when his friends needed his help to escape a killer. Hoping it wasn't verminous, he appropriated the orc's malodorous but warm-looking fleece-lined leather cloak, and then the creature's curved, bra.s.s-hilted scimitar.

Shivering, envying his friends their little fire, Halladon surveyed the camp from behind a granite boulder. Gybik and Moanda lay shrouded in their blankets, with only Kovost-who'd wrapped himself in Halladon's bearskin mantle-standing guard. Perhaps the adventurers believed that now that they'd chased their companion away, they were no longer in any extraordinary danger. Or perhaps they'd decided that with only three of them remaining, double watches simply weren't feasible anymore.

The sun had set several hours ago, and by now Halladon had begun to suspect that the killer intended to stay away tonight. The half-elf's stomach was already hollow and achy with hunger, and he wondered grimly how he'd feel after another day without food. Perhaps he should have searched the orc corpses for provender, although the notion of eating the kind of rations such creatures typically carried was almost enough to quell his appet.i.te for the nonce.

Gybik shifted beneath his covers, and the motion drew Halladon's eye. No shadowy ghost or a.s.sa.s.sin was crouching over the thief, and the half-elf was already looking away again, into the darkness beyond the wavering yellow firelight, when it struck him that there was something subtly wrong about theway Gybik had moved. When he peered at the thief more closely, he realized what it was. The small man hadn't just rolled over, changing position in his sleep. He'd raised his head ever so slightly, as if looking about.

It almost certainly meant nothing. Why shouldn't Gybik wake for a moment, glance around to make sure nothing was amiss, and then drift off again? But the motion had seemed sly, stealthy, as if the thief was peeking at his companions, making sure that Moanda was unconscious and Kovost's back was turned. And thus Halladon continued to watch him.

Even so, in the darkness, he almost missed what happened next. A shape crawled from under Gybik's blankets. At first the half-elf thought it was a rat, and then, from the length and number of its limbs, some sort of enormous insect. Only when it scuttled away across the ground did he discern that it was a human hand, Gybik's hand, apparently, detached from his wrist.

I finally understand you, Osher, thought Halladon in amazement.

As the hand scurried noiselessly along, it changed. The skin darkened, and the fingers lengthened until they resembled a spider's legs. Kovost glanced casually around, and the hand instantly flattened itself against the ground. When the dwarf turned away again, it scuttled on to Moanda and crouched by her neck. Its nails lengthened into claws. The one on the index finger was particularly long and narrow, like a knitting needle, or a mosquito's proboscis.

Halladon had been watching the hand in horrified fascination. Now he abruptly realized that unless he intervened, the barbarian had only seconds to live. He grabbed his scimitar, sprang up from behind the stone, and raced forward. "Kovost!" he shouted. "Help Moanda!"

At once the disembodied hand crouched down, concealing itself among the folds of Moanda's blanket a split second before Kovost reflexively jerked around to peer at her. Obviously seeing nothing amiss, the dwarf surged to his feet, Halladon's cloak falling away from his brawny shoulders. Teeth bared in a snarl, battle-axe at the ready, he darted to intercept the half-elf.

Halladon halted. It was either that or give his friend a chance to strike at him. "Look again!" he pleaded. "The creature, the true killer, is right there beside her!" But when he looked again himself, he saw that it wasn't, not any longer.

"You were mad to think you could fool us a second time," Kovost said, still advancing. At his back, Moanda and Gybik, who possessed two normal-looking hands again, threw off their covers and scrambled up from the ground.

"Listen to me," Halladon said. Moanda and Gybik stalked up to stand beside Kovost, swords leveled. "I've been spying on the camp since just after dusk. I reasoned that the killer might not be as able to hide itself from someone whose presence it didn't suspect, and I was correct. I saw it, and it has been among us all along. You, Kovost, were right about that much. Gybik-or rather, some shapeshifting creature that caught our friend alone, slaughtered him, and a.s.sumed his ident.i.ty-is the murderer. I imagine we attracted its attention while we were exploring the fortress."

The false Gybik goggled at him in perfect imitation of the original. "I.. . what are you talking about?

I'm me!" He looked wildly about at Moanda and Kovost. "I promise I am!"

"We know that," the barbarian said soothingly, or as close to soothingly as her acerbic nature would permit.

"Of course we do," said Kovost. "You couldn't move around the camp killing people without the sentries seeing you. Nor does Gybik begin with an 'H.'"

"No, but 'hand' does," Halladon said. "Our impostor is a kind of glorified leech. It insinuated itself into our company because it craves human blood, and it has a clever way of getting it without being detected. It can detach its hand to skitter about like a little animal. The hand slips a hollow needle of a talon into somebody's neck, killing him so deftly the victim never wakes. The hand siphons its victim's blood and carries it back to nourish its body. Our guards never saw the thing scuttling around because it's too quick and small, and can darken itself to blend into the shadows. Perys never found tracks because it's too light to leave any. The wounds didn't shed as much blood as we would have expected because the shapeshifter took it. It only killed one of us at a time because that was all the sustenance it needed. And Osher didn't try to write Gybik because he never saw Gybik attacking him, just adisembodied, inhuman hand. Don't you see..."

"We see that it's all preposterous," Kovost said.

"Yes," Moanda said, an unaccustomed hint of pity in her voice. "Halladon, you must be mad in truth, to imagine you could cozen us with such a tale. Perhaps it was your dark studies that deranged you. I'll be sorry to slay you, but the shades of Osher, Silbastis, and Perys cry out for vengeance."

"Besides," said Kovost, raising his axe, "you're too dangerous to live."

"Wait!" said Halladon. "Let me prove he isn't Gybik. Let me demonstrate that he doesn't know things the genuine Gybik should know"-he looked the shapeshifter in the eye-"Where did we first meet?"

"The Crowing c.o.c.katrice," the creature said.

The half-elf felt a pang of dismay. "With what drink did we toast the founding of our company?"

"The cider. Jalanthar amber, it was called."

"What did we fight in our first battle together?"

"Three ogres."

Halladon realized he wouldn't be able to trip the creature up. Either it had somehow a.s.similated the real Gybik's memories when it had taken on his form, or else it had gleaned all it needed to know from conversations along the trail.

"That was your final ploy," said Moanda, slinking forward. "We'll give you a proper burial, in memory of the comrade you once were."