Errand of Mercy

Forgotten Realms

The Double Diamond Triangle Saga: Errand of Mercy

By Roger E. Moore

The warrior watched as the flowing veins of magic in the gate dimmed and faded in reaction to his words. A narrow ripple of yellow light rolled out swiftly from the center of the gate like a wavelet from a stone dropped into a pond. The center of the expanding circle was purest black. In a moment, the entire gate was darker than a bottomless pit, framed by two gigantic ivory tusks that glowed with a pale light.

The old warrior turned to look once at his fellows, four men and a woman who stared at the open gate in awe. He shrugged, then unslung his shield from his back and ran his left arm through the straps. Hefting his massive warhammer in his right hand, he studied the weapon silently, turned to the gate again, and stepped forward. He inhaled and instinctively held his breath, walking into the blackness in the center of the gate. Like that, he was gone.

His disappearance was so sudden that the youngest of the group, hardly more than a boy, gasped aloud. It seemed as if the gate had swallowed the warrior in silver armor alive. A few moments later, another warrior, a young man in armor made of golden scales, stepped forward. He held his own warhammer forward, ready to punch out at any foe or obstacle. Then he, too, was gone.

The four who were left glanced uneasily at each other. By unspoken agreement, the knight with the bright two-handed sword went next, followed by the gray-haired man in leathers, carrying his fighting staff out before him. When the older man had vanished, only the woman in robes and the youth remained. They talked quietly, then the young man pulled a knife from his boot, steeled himself, and went through the gate, too.

The woman watched him go. She sighed, then lifted her chin and spoke.

“Close in the name of the past and present lords of Waterdeep”

A circular rainbow of light bloomed from the center of the blackness in the gate. In moments, the gate was as it had been only minutes before, veins of visible magic flowing across its surface. The woman swiftly left the area, descending the flight of stone steps that led away from the gate, sitting atop a small pyramid inside a huge, battle-stained room far underground.

At the only door leading out of the great chamber, the robed woman turned. Raising her arms, fingers spread, she took a deep breath and called out the words to the most powerful spell she knew. Her voice grew louder, and the ends of her long hair rose and separated, charging with electricity. At the crescendo of her spell, she shouted a single word and thrust her hands forward, pointing both her index fingers at the gate.

She forgot to blink. The lightning bolt was stamped on her retinas for an hour afterward, and she was half-deaf from the thunderclap as the crooked bolt, bright as the sun, sprang from her fingers to the gate—and blew it into a million pieces.

He began as nobody, one brown squalling infant among a hundred born that day among his conquered people, the Mar. He was sickly and his mother did not expect him to live long. It was months before his father finally named him Ikavi Garkim. He hoped the boy would make a good carpenter if he survived to his eighth year. His family was tarok, the lowest class of the Mar, and struggled for food and money that the bahrana, the few middle-class Mar, took for granted.

Ikavi survived many illnesses in his family’s one-room adobe home, lost in a sprawling slum that spilled around the gray walls of Eldrinpar, the seacoast capital of Doegan. His stubborn survival was not the only thing that made him different, though. His peculiarity became clear as soon as he could speak. He acted before orders were given him; he mouthed secret thoughts without knowing their meaning.

At first everyone thought this was marvelous, but in the end no one could tolerate it. No thought was safe near him. Relatives and friends ceased to visit the tiny home. Ikavi’s parents punished him for speaking their thoughts aloud; later, to gain privacy, they simply sent him away, or else filled their heads with mindless chants, songs, or prayers when he was near. Ikavi frowned when they did this, which unnerved them.

Other children found Ikavi’s mind-reading annoying. They threw stones at him until he ran back to his home or hid. Ikavi usually played by himself in the hot, dusty streets of his neighborhood: a packed maze of low, baked-mud homes, filled with the cries of children and the shouts of adults. He stole food to survive, like every other tarok child, but his style of theft grew from his mind-reading abilities. As he became better at understanding the thoughts of those around him, he simply picked up things—a piece of fruit, a silver coin, a top, a folding knife—when no one was paying attention. He learned carpentry by reading his father’s thoughts, and he helped his sire carve toys and idols or repair broken furniture on the dusty steps of their home.

Then on a hot summer afternoon a tanned, drunken soldier, one of the sharp-nosed conquerors called the Ffolk, staggered down Ikavi’s home street after taking a wrong turn on the way back to his barracks. The poverty-stricken Mar fled before him, fearing the soldier would cut them down or otherwise abuse them. He could do this with impunity. No Mar had the rights of a Ffolk.

Ikavi’s father was away at the market selling items they had carved the previous day. Ikavi himself sat on the steps of his home, a folding knife and a wooden figurine in his dirty hands. The soldier saw him, pointed, and shouted an order. Out of habit, Ikavi peered into the man’s mind, intrigued by unfamiliar words and images. The man spoke and thought in the harsh consonants of the invaders’ Thorass, not the liquid Mar an tongue Ikavi knew.

Perhaps the soldier sensed this psychic intrusion and resented it, or perhaps Ikavi did not obey his orders quickly enough. The man drew his sword and lunged at the child. Ikavi’s mother saw and rushed between them to block the blow. The angry soldier shoved the shrieking woman aside and turned to the disrespectful boy.

But the boy was already upon him, enraged that a soldier would lay hands on his mother. With the speed of a leopard, Ikavi stabbed the soldier in the heart before the drunken man could dodge the blow.

Ikavi, no one’s fool, would have gotten away if the dying soldier’s comrades had not appeared just at that moment, looking for their inebriated companion. With little trouble, they chased and caught the Mar boy.

One soldier had an axe. In those days, it was the practice to immediately execute tarok troublemakers of any age without trial. The enraged soldiers forced Ikavi against the steps of his own home and bent down his head. His family looked on from a distance and screamed.

“Stop.”

The word, spoken in Thorass, came out of thin air. Startled, the soldier lifting the axe drew back. The others looked up from their struggle to hold Ikavi down, searching the street for the speaker.

“Bring the boy alive to the palace, now,” continued the voice. It was neither soft nor-loud. It held neither emotion nor humanity. It reached into every hidden place up and down the street. The soldiers froze like frightened rabbits. They knew the voice well. The man with the axe dropped the weapon and hid his hands.

Wrestling the youth to his feet, three soldiers finally forced Ikavi to go with them, arms pinned behind his back. The last two soldiers picked up the axe and the body and sword of their comrade, then marched off to the palace behind the others.

Ikavi’s hysterical family bewailed their loss. They knew Ikavi would die at the hands of the hated Ffolk. They mouthed empty words of revenge and fell asleep in their tears and sorrow.

Yet on the following morning there he was, right at the door of their home, not only alive but wearing the silk clothing of a Ffolk noble child. He had with him a retinue of palace guards and a nervous Ffolk healer who cured his mother’s bruises. Ikavi said little, only that the mage-king himself had ordered that he stay at the palace from now on. His family would not be punished. His mother hugged him briefly, but let him go. Everyone else in his family was too stunned to react.

Ikavi went away. In the evenings he could be seen standing in the high windows of the palace’s lone tower, looking down at the countless poor dwellings beyond the city walls. He had been saved by the mage-king of Doegan, Aetheric III, the unseen master of Doegan’s great bloodforge— but saved for what? No one knew at first. The haughty Ffolk of the palace hated the child’s presence, especially as he’d slain a Ffolk soldier, but they dared not challenge the mage-king’s decree.

After his arrival at the palace, Ikavi was regularly brought into the mage-king’s meeting halls. It soon became clear that he was being trained for some purpose. The Ffolk soon feared little Ikavi almost as much as they feared their mage-king, for the boy’s telepathic ability was combined with a great knowledge of the kingdom and its people, and many secrets beyond. Military officers and priests were ordered to teach him all they knew. Ikavi was given political and military powers, which were gradually increased and sharpened.

In time, Ikavi Garkim was acknowledged to be the mage-king’s personal agent in Doegan. He was loyal and patriotic, educated and well-spoken, determined and ruthless. At last the mage-king sent his voice to the Chamber of Councilors and announced that Lord Ikavi Garkim was one of them. Doegan, said the mage-king, was infested with unseen forces that would bring it low unless they were stopped. Only Lord Garkim—a small, brown, flat-nosed outsider in a sea of white, sharp-nosed faces—could detect those unseen forces, and he had been given almost unlimited authority to root out such evil wherever he found it.

The other lords took to Ikavi as they would to a serpent in their beds, but they, too, knew a bit about the unseen forces arrayed against Doegan, and they felt their lives were better with the serpent at their sides than not. Left with no other choice, they smiled in his presence.

Ikavi Garkim had been nobody and was now the mage-king’s right hand. But whether he was better off than before was a question not even Ikavi could answer.

Lord Ikavi Garkim, Councilor of Internal Investigations, returned to his old neighborhood an hour before dawn, twenty-six years after he had left. Twenty hand-picked soldiers were at his back and a hacking machete was in his right hand. No one noticed him or his soldiers as they walked down the deserted street in the half-light. They were invisible, covered by magic so that even a wizard would be hard pressed to find them, their boots wrapped in cloth to muffle their steps. The sky glowed pink in the east, the sun still low behind the distant mountains. The wind at their backs was cool, a breeze blowing from the shores of the Great Sea. A sparrow chirped from a rooftop.

Lord Garkim recognized the doorway where he had once sat and carved wooden toys at his father’s side. He had steeled himself for this moment, but it still hurt. His fingers tightened on the thick leather grip of his machete.

Prepare yourselves, he ordered, sending his thoughts behind him to his soldiers. He sensed their excitement and fear. He took a breath, unaware that he was walking faster, then leaned forward into a dead run for the open doorway. Now! he signaled.

He went through the doorway with his left arm up, covering his face. The edge of the doorway suddenly blazed with red glyphs as he went through. Trap—

A roar of flame burned his skin from all sides. The pain, even muffled by his protective magic, was terrific. Instinctively he shut his eyes, saving them from being scorched along with his clothing and hair. He ran into someone and had the presence of mind to shove hard with his left hand, then hack down with his right. The razor-sharp machete slashed through flesh and bone. Stumbling over a carpet, Garkim and his screaming victim fell to the floor.

Garkim shoved himself up, keeping his eyes shut to boost his awareness of the thoughts around him. He could hardly have seen anything in the unlit house anyway. He hacked a second time at the struggling figure beneath him, then sensed more people around him and lashed out at the closest one. They were ragged figures who moments before had been eating their morning meal. Garkim sensed their alarm, read their sudden fears, knew their plans to escape.

And smelled their meal. His nose was filled with the stomach-churning odor. He nearly vomited then, but redoubled his wild attacks and fought down his nausea. Blows landed on his arms, whether from fists or clubs he couldn’t tell. He got up to strike at a man trying to get behind him. Someone else, a woman, grabbed one of his legs and clumsily tried to force him down. The air stank of fresh blood and burnt meat. Garkim gripped his machete with both hands and fought like a crazed man, the screams and curses of those whom he wounded ringing through the cramped room.

As Garkim killed the ragged people, he read their minds. Accursed names and unspeakable deeds blew by him in a typhoon wind. This one had cut the throat of a girl who knew his secret. That one, who spied on soldiers, was going to run to a house across the street where he would hide in a cellar. The woman biting into his left thigh had sacrificed her baby to join this group. Garkim knocked her away, then killed her with a blow to the head.

No one was left standing near him. He opened his eyes. The last ragged one alive was running for the doorway, but suddenly stopped and ran back toward him. The man must have seen what had happened to the others who had fled into the street. Garkim read his mind. It was the man Garkim wanted most.

Garkim threw his machete hard at the man’s legs. The man cried out and stumbled when the blade hit. He crashed into a low table and fell, knocking several baskets down over him. Garkim was on him in an instant. His fingers caught the man’s filthy hair and pulled his head back as far as it would go without breaking his neck.

“Your master!” Garkim shouted in Maran, one knee planted in the man’s back. “Name your master!”

But there was no master in the man’s thoughts. He had never seen his master, the high priest of the Fallen Temple. His dreams had told him what to do, only his dreams. The injured man’s thoughts spilled out in a flood. Garkim read flickering images, listened to scattered words, and found nothing more of interest. For three decades he had studied the worst secrets imaginable and had seen horrors to fill ten lifetimes. The horrors present in this mind were no different.