Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 17

Halladon knew he couldn't defeat all three of them, but by Corellon, if he had to perish, he meant to take the shapeshifter with him. He shifted his weight as if preparing to retreat, then dived forward in an all out attack, swinging the orcish blade at the false Gybik's skull.

The creature recoiled, and the scimitar merely gashed its shoulder. Moanda sprang at Halladon from the right, and Kovost, from the left. Off-balance, the half-elf struggled to flounder back on guard, knowing that he wouldn't make it in time.

"Wait!" Kovost barked. "Look!" Moanda somehow halted her stroke an inch short of cleaving Halladon's spine.

Surmising what Kovost must have seen, the half-elf turned back toward the shapeshifter. Sure enough, the pain of its wound had evidently disrupted its ability to maintain its borrowed form. Its flesh expanded and flowed, erasing all resemblance to Gybik, or to anything human. In a heartbeat, it grew half as tall as Halladon. Its body was dead black, its limbs coiled with the boneless fluidity of an octopus's tentacles, and its surface bulged and hollowed as if new muscles and organs were constantly forming and dissolving inside it. Is head was hairless, and without ears, nose, or mouth, but from the center of a triangle of bulging white oval eyes extended a tapered prehensile proboscis as long and pointed as a spear.

"Kill it!" Moanda cried. She edged toward the creature, and it struck at her with Gybik's short sword. She blocked the blow with her buckler, jabbing the spiked boss into the shapeshifter's arm in the process. Pivoting, she swung her broadsword down and hacked the limb in two.

Had her opponent been human, such a maiming blow would almost certainly have ended the combat. But the raw stump of the shapeshifter's arm instantly sprouted a tangle of chitinous pincers resembling lobster claws, and it struck at her again. Caught by surprise, she couldn't quite bring the buckler up in time to deflect the blow completely. She reeled backward with a long gash in her temple.

Bellowing a war cry, Kovost darted forward, intent, like any dwarf facing such a huge creature, on getting inside its reach. The shapeshifter, which didn't seem to be experiencing any particular difficulty keeping track of more than one opponent at a time, slashed at him with one of Gybik's knives. Kovost ducked the stroke, then chopped at the monster's knee, half severing its leg. The shapeshifter stumbled and, grinning, the dwarf ripped his weapon free for another attack. But then six new appendages, each terminating in a pointed shaft of bone like a scorpion's stinger, erupted from the beast's abdomen to stab at him. Driven backward, he dodged and parried frantically.

Meanwhile, Halladon circled behind the shapeshifter and drove the scimitar deep into its back. For a moment the creature froze, affording Moanda and Kovost a precious respite from its onslaught, and the half-elf dared to hope he'd hurt it badly. Then another blank, round eye opened in the nape of its neck,and a huge hand shot from the center of its back to s.n.a.t.c.h at Halladon's head.

Halladon sidestepped and hacked at the thin, snaky arm to which the hand was attached. The shapeshifter's flesh parted with surprising ease, and the severed member tumbled to the ground. Turning, Halladon lifted his blade to cut at the creature's back.

Something struck the half-elf's leg, hurting him and thrusting him off-balance. He fell heavily onto his side. A headless thing resembling an enormous black starfish, each of its arms tipped with a jagged talon and a fanged, slavering maw gnashing in the center of its body, scuttled up the length of Halladon's body toward his head, jabbing at him as it came. He realized it was the severed hand, acting independently of the shape-shifter's body.

He slashed at it awkwardly. The starfish pounced over his blade and onto his shoulder, plunging two of its claws into his flesh to anchor itself. The other three arms poised to stab at his head.

Dropping his saber, which was useless at such close quarters, he grabbed his attacker and pulled. In a flash of pain, the starfish tore free of his flesh. He tried to fling it away from him, but it instantly attached itself to his hand and started to bite him.

Halladon frantically drew his knife, then stabbed and sawed at the creature. After a few seconds, it stopped moving, and with a final flailing of his arm, he freed himself from its excruciating embrace.

The half-elf seized his scimitar, scrambled up, and surveyed the battle. His friends were hard-pressed. The left side of her face red with blood, warding herself with her buckler and boot knife, Moanda tried vainly to work her way back to the broadsword she'd lost, until one of the shapeshifter's hands s.n.a.t.c.hed it up to use against her. Gasping, Kovost lurched desperately back and forth, striking at the ropy limbs that lashed at him from every side.

But all the shapeshifter's arms were currently deployed in front of its body, away from Halladon.

Praying it would ignore him just long enough for one more sword stroke, the half-elf charged it.

Since his cut to the torso hadn't slain it, he decided to attack the monster's head. Scimitar raised, he leaped into the air, and at that instant the shapeshifter's proboscis whipped all the way around its skull to hurtle at his face.

He was certain he was a dead man, but his sword hand knew better. It beat the proboscis to the side, then buried the scimitar in the creature's skull.

The shapeshifter stiffened, let out a ghastly buzzing sound, then dropped. Within moments, it began to melt into a foul-smelling slime.

Dead as it looked, Moanda and Kovost approached it warily.

"Are you all right?" the dwarf asked Halladon.

At first, too winded to speak, Halladon merely nodded. "It stuck me a few times," he wheezed at last, "but not too deeply. What about you two?"

"The same," said the barbarian, hand pressed to the cut on her brow.

Kovost peered down at the rapidly dissolving carca.s.s. "What in the name of the Keeper's beard was this thing?"

Moanda snorted, her usual response to anything she considered a foolish question. "It was unpleasant, and now it's dead. What more do you need to know?" She turned to Halladon, inclined her head, and grumbled a phrase in her native language three times over. Then, when he peered at her in puzzlement, she gave him an exasperated scowl. "That's how my people apologize. Don't you cityfolk know anything?"

"I'm sorry, too, lad," Kovost said. "We should never have doubted you. I'll carry the shame of it to my dying day. Tell me how to make it up to you."

Halladon grinned. "Depend on it, it will be a long, arduous process. But after we tend to one another's wounds, you can make a start by building up the fire and cooking me a gigantic supper."

Strange Bedfellows

Keith Francis Strohm

"Fair travel, Captain Aidan, 'tis a chill wind blowin' this eve," called the young guardsman, his purple cloak drawn tight against the cold.

Aidan turned to face the officer standing within the guard post of the Upper City Gate and grunted.

In the dancing light of the torches, he could make out the lad's beard'ess face. No matter how hard he tried, Aidan couldn't shake the feeling that the Purple Dragons recruited younger every year.

"Luck yerseif," his gravelly voice carried across the deserted stretch of the Gateguard Road, "sunrise is still a fair bit away."

With a gruff laugh, he turned and continued somewhat unsteadily up the road into Tilverton proper.

In truth, the Dragonet was right-the night air carried a chill bite. Aidan could feel his old bones throb under the wind's lash. Still, winter's bl.u.s.ter couldn't touch the warmth that flooded from his recollection of the past.

Tonight had marked his last official day as a captain in the Purple Dragons. He was mustering out, and the memories of his former companions-many of whom had spent the evening toasting his health in the taproom of the Windlord's Rest-covered him like a comfortable quilt.

He'd come a long way since leaving Skull Crag and wandering the West Reaches of Cormyr-certainly further than he had ever dreamed after signing with the Dragons in Greatgaunt. For the past twenty seasons, he had made Tilverton his home, working hard to keep peace and uphold law. He loved the city and felt that, in his own small way, he had helped make at least this part of Faerun a better place. It was tough to put that behind him.

Aidan sighed and turned off the main road, wending his way through back alleys toward his home.

In the distance a cur barked, and the captain's hand strayed reflexively to the dagger at his belt. The weapon was new, given to him this very evening by Commander Haldan Rixnmersbane, and its weight pulled unfamiliarly at his side.

A slight scuffling sound brought him to a stop. He peered into the shadows, the dagger drawn almost without thought, and waited.

Nothing.

Cursing himself for a beardless cadet, Aidan relaxed. It took a few moments for him to realize that he still held his weapon. The dagger felt natural in his hand, almost like an extension of his fingers, and he marveled once again at its gem-inlayed hilt and razor-sharp edge. Truly it was a n.o.ble's blade, a gift he had received this very evening from Commander Haldan. It was a token, Hal-dan had said to him later, of Lady Alaslyn Rowanmantie's appreciation for his "unswerving dedication to Cormyrean justice."

He chuckled out loud at this memory Haldan always did have a flair for the melodramatic. Even when they were cadets struggling through training, Aidan had thought his younger friend had missed his true calling.

Still, the dagger was a great gift, and he would carry it with pride as a reminder of his service to Cormyr.

Ahhh. . . you're still drunk, he thought.

Aidan sheathed the blade, hawked, and spit before resuming his weaving journey. The taste of Thungor's bitters lay heavily in his mouth, and he still had a fair distance to go.

The tight alleyway eventually turned, opening into a slightly wider street. Aidan walked in the center of the road, careful to avoid the refuse and offal piled on either side. Rats were common enough in Tilverton, but the captain had seen enough savaged corpses to know that other creatures sometimes lived on the castoffs of civilization.

The shadows in the lane suddenly shifted. Several cloaked shapes melted out of the darkness, quickly forming a wide circle around him. His attackers moved forward slowly, tightening the circle.

Aidan once again drew his dagger, grateful for such a practical gift.

"What is it that you want," he asked, pitching the question like a command.

The menacing figures stopped their advance, and for a brief moment he thought he had a chance to control this situation. A voice spoke from deeper within the alley's shadows, and he knew that these were not common foot-pads, frightened by the first display of resistance.

"I believe you have something we require," the voice said.Aidan shook his head and started to protest, until he remembered the dagger. Even in the pale moonlight, its gems burned incandescently, like a beacon to every greedy eye.

"Ahh," the voice said again. "I see we understand each other. . . captain."

Aidan's mind whirled. This was no chance robbery; the thieves had come for the knife. He could hand it over to them, in which case they'd probably cut his throat and be done with it, or he could make them think twice about ever tangling with another Purple Dragon. Either way, he didn't expect a fair fight-only a quick death.

With a silent curse, Aidan made his decision. "The only way you'll get this dagger," he shouted at the shadows, "is by pulling it out of your own chest!" Crouching low, he centered his balance and tossed the dagger from hand to hand.

Silence greeted Aidan's declaration, punctuated only by the rapid beating of his own heart. After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again.

"You have made an unfortunate choice, captain."

The tw.a.n.g of a fired crossbow propelled his body into action. Aidan dove to the side, feeling his heart race as it pumped the blessed fire that sustained him through a lifetime of battle. He rolled to his feet and met the first of his cloaked attackers with a thrust to the gut. His dagger cut through the figure's leathers and bit deeply. He turned the knife and withdrew it quickly, ignoring the thief's dying gurgle.

Several more attackers rushed in, and he soon found himself parrying a flurry of kicks, punches, and sword thrusts. Grizzled muscle and old bones no longer moved as quickly as they used to, but Aidan's years on the battlefield kept him alive-at least for the moment.

G.o.ds, I can't keep this up for too much longer, he thought desperately. His breath came laboririgly now, like a desert steed's on its last length. Another sword swept close to his head. He ducked under the swing and lunged forward, scoring one of his opponents across the leg, but the move left his flank exposed. Aidan turned quickly, trying to shield the vulnerable area-and wasn't fast enough.

He cried out as a blade pierced his side, shattering the bones of his ribs. Another sword raked across his thigh and he fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. Aidan lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, to move, to grab his weapon, but to no avail. His limbs were cold and sluggish; he was no longer their master. With great effort, he looked up at the cloaked figures approaching him with their swords drawn. They moved slowly, unhurried, almost calm. That's when he heard it, a roaring in his ears like the raging of an ocean of blood. It grew louder, drowning out the creek of leather, the cries of the wounded, and even his own heartbeat. This is it, he thought, this is death.

Somehow, he had always believed there would be more to it.

Aidan watched as one of the thieves raised a sword above his head. Silently mouthing a prayer to Tyr, Tymora, and any other G.o.d who would listen to an old, dying soldier's last words, he waited for the final blow.

It never came. Instead, the alleyway burst into light. Aidan could see another cloaked figure step from the shadows, green fire arcing from its hand to his executioners. In the sick emerald light he caught a glimpse of the newcomer's face, small-nosed and boyish, beneath a thick cowl. Again and again, his mysterious ally called down eldritch flames upon the thieves, who fell back, screaming.

He struggled to stand and fight, wanting to help the cowled man, but the pain of his wounds called him back. He collapsed and watched his own pool out into the road, reflecting green tongues of flame, until the darkness claimed him.

Aidan awoke in a simple, run-down room. A small fire burned in an old mantle, casting flickering shadows against the walls. He lay still for a moment, wondering how he had survived. The straw mattress upon which he had slept was lumpy, pressing uncomfortably against his lower back. But, he thought wryly, it's better than bleeding to death on a cold dirt floor.

Aidan sat up slowly, expecting a great deal of pain. He gasped, partly in wonder and partly in disbelief, as his movements offered him only slight soreness. What's more, his wounds looked as if theyhad been healing for weeks. He ran his fingers along the length of two angry looking scars, their puckered redness the only thing distinguishing them from the countless marks upon his warrior's frame.

"I see you have decided to join the ranks of the living."

The captain bolted up from the bed and whirled toward the sound of the voice, ignoring the protests from tight muscles. A thinly built man in purple robes stood in the open doorway. The shadows from the fire caressed the stranger's face as he entered the room. His lips were full, almost pouty, and Aidan recognized his thoughtful, brooding look as one that often captivated young women.

The man handed Aidan some clean clothes and moved toward the fire, idly poking at the burning wood. "Whom do I have to thank for my life?" asked the captain as he changed into the simple pair of leather breeches and wool cambric.

"My name is Morgrim," he said simply, not turning from the mantle. His voice was smooth and somewhat breathy. It sent a chill down Aidan's spine.

The captain finished changing. "You have my thanks, Morgrim," he said, extending his hand.

Morgrim stopped tending the fire, faced Aidan, and bowed. "Do not thank me. I am a simple priest, it's my duty."

Aidan smiled and awkwardly returned the bow. He'd been around long enough to know that there was nothing simple about priests-especially in Cormyr. "Which G.o.d do you serve, Morgrim?" he asked.

"Cyric," the priest replied softly.

Aid an fell back as if struck by a crossbow bolt. He stared at the young priest in disbelief. A joke, he thought, though why anyone would make light of such a thing was beyond him.

Morgrim moved toward Aidan slowly, arms held out in front of him. In the flickering light of the fire, the captain could see the glint of silver bracers, the symbol of Morgrim's enslavement to his dark G.o.d, on the priest's arms.

"Why?" Aidan asked, searching the room for some weapon he could use against the foul priest.

"Why did you save my life?" If he could just edge toward the door, he would have a chance to bolt out of the room before Morgrim called down Cyric's power upon him.

"Relax," the priest said. "I mean you no harm."

Aidan stopped, instinct warring with the earnestness he heard in the young man's voice. "Why should I trust you?" he asked, firing the question like an arrow at the approaching priest. "When have the servants of Cyric ever told the truth?" Aidan was angry and confused. He knew about the priesthood of Cyric, its dark rites and shadowy a.s.sa.s.sins; it festered like a tumor upon the land. But why did this priest pretend kindness? It didn't make any sense, and he wasn't about to let down his guard until he found out.

Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest's handsome face transform into a mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. "Truth!" he shouted. "You want me to tell you the truth?"

Aidan felt the priest's power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner of the chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan's heart.

He closed his eyes against the funereal force, struggling to breathe. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever emerged. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the silence fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.

"The truth is," Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, "if the Prince of Lies had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak."

The priest moved even closer to Aidan, brushing his fingers across the captain's chest as he finished speaking. Aidan stood transfixed, his heart pounding wildly, whether from Morgrim's words or his featherlight touch he wasn't sure. He only knew that at this moment, he stood closer to death than ever before.

Nervously, Aidan cleared his throat, looking away from the promise in Morgrim's steady gaze.

"Why," he repeated his question, "did you save my life? Tell me, priest."

Morgrim walked toward the old, scratched table and poured himself a gla.s.s of wine. "I have need of you."

Aidan sat down on the bed. "You have need of me," he repeated, his voice quavering betweendisbelief and incredulity, "For what? I will not partic.i.p.ate in your murderous rites-even if you send me to Cyric as a slave."

The priest shot Aidan a glance, bright eagerness alight in his eyes. "And what of yourself? Do you not kill? Does your sword not taste the blood of the living?" Morgrim took a quick sip of wine and thunked his goblet down on the table.

"I am a Purple Dragon," Aidan protested. "I fight against injustice for the honor of Cormyr-"

"You are a soldier! You fight where you're told to," interrupted Morgrim. "When the Cormyrean king unleashes his Dragons upon Sembia or the Zhentarim, what do you think the Sembian farmers say to comfort their families? They say, 'Do not worry, I go to fight for the honor of our people and our land.'

And when tho8e farmers die, pierced by the teeth of your swords and your spears, who is it do you think greets them on the other side of death?"

Aidan tried to reply, to say that he was different. He knew in his heart that he was no murderer, but the words died on his lips. Finally, he said, "I cannot find the words to debate you, priest. But I know what I am."

"Peace, Aidan," the young man said. "It is not your words that I require." Morgrim's voice was gentle, sliding once again into velvety tones. The sound soothed the old warrior, calming him so much that he barely heard the priest call him by name.