Errand of Mercy (7 page)

There was nothing but silence.

“His attention is elsewhere,” said Garkim with a sigh. He picked up a grape and ate it. “He is quite prompt about responding otherwise.”

Kern lowered his warhammer as well. He knelt down and picked up his chair, setting it upright but not taking his seat yet. “A fine way to say hello,” he muttered.

Garkim smiled slightly. “One gets accustomed to it.”

Noph noticed that his hands were trembling. He swallowed and locked his fingers together on the tabletop to calm them. “Can—” he started to say, but stopped himself hastily.

Garkim caught his gaze. “You may go on,” he said.

Noph glanced at the others, then licked his lips. “I was wondering… does the mage-king have … can he hear what we are saying?”

“That is entirely possible,” said Garkim easily, “though I don’t believe he is doing so now. He uses his sorcery to investigate various places around our kingdom and particularly our city, but it is difficult to say whether he hears everything that is said by his subjects, or sees everything they do, even within his own palace. He has so many things on his mind lately, it is impossible to know what he is doing. In the meanwhile, I say again that we have a few minutes before we meet him. It would not hurt to eat.”

Miltiades nodded and slowly took his seat again, eyes fixed on the tabletop. He picked up the yellow apple before him and regarded it solemnly. “Enough questions for now, then,” he said. “Let us enjoy our repast, then speak with the mage-king. I am sure we will have much to talk about.” He bit into the apple, devouring his reflection whole.

Shortly, Lord Garkim led the five visitors on another journey down two more halls, passing great windows overlooking gardens, portraits in faded oils, skylights and crystal chandeliers, and other palace finery. Thick rugs muffled their tread. The air smelled of sea spray, and the endless roar of waves whispered in the distance.

At the end of the final corridor was an ornate set of double doors, each of dark, polished wood and half again the height of a man. Two guards stood at ease there, one before each door, each holding a poleaxe upright in one hand.

“On guard,” said the man on the left, spotting Garkim. The two came to attention.

“The Councilor of Internal Investigations, Lord Ikavi Garkim, and five visitors, here to see the Emperor, His Majesty, the Mage-King Aetheric III,” responded Garkim, loudly and clearly.

The two guards stepped apart, putting their backs to the walls on either side of the double doors. Garkim nodded to the men, each a head taller than he and light-skinned, and he walked past them to the door. He caught hold of an elaborate brass handle on one door and turned to face the knights.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and he opened the door for them. Beyond was a vast, darkened hall whose floor was made of flat, fitted stone.

Miltiades’s face betrayed astonishment. “Is this all the guard your king has?” he asked. His right hand caught the shaft of his hammer and gripped it lightly. The other four men saw this and stopped, unsure of what was going on.

“It is all the guard the king needs,” said Garkim with an edge to his voice. “If you suspect a trap, I am more than willing to enter first. That would be a grave breach of protocol, of course, but if it would ease your fears …”

The old knight glared at the smaller man. He then strode first into the dark chamber. The great room was flooded with light as he crossed the threshold. Kern followed on Miltiades’s heels, Jacob and Trandon behind him.

Noph hesitated, looking back down the corridor the way they had come. No one else was present. The two guards bore no weapons other than their poleaxes, which were too elaborately decorated to be true battlefield weapons. Noph thought he smelled some sort of liquor, like rum, in the air. The red-faced guards stared at each other, ignoring the youth. They seemed to have the same skin rash that others in the palace had—nasty stuff. The flesh of one man’s cheek seemed dry, flaky, almost … scaly. Noph glanced at Garkim, who indicated with a gesture that he should enter the room.

Noph turned and went into the chamber after the others, but he stayed close to the door, thinking Garkim might shut them all in. Nothing of the sort happened. Garkim casually followed him into the illuminated hall, pulling the great door shut as he did and giving the youth an empty smile.

“There is no mage-king here,” called Miltiades, his voice echoing in the vastness of the room. He had undone the thong on his warhammer, and the weapon dangled from his right hand, ready for use. “You are a liar, Garkim.”

Noph stopped and stared around the great room in astonishment. This was a throne room? It was huge, but there was no furniture, and the room had a dank odor to it. The walls, as high as three-story buildings, were covered with floor-length red curtains. The ceiling was a great length of high rafters from which a few globes cast a dim, watery magical light over all.

“I did not he,” said Garkim mildly, walking past the stunned Noph. “The mage-king is here.” He approached the other four men, who warily took up positions in a semicircle facing him.

“Noph, open the door!” ordered Kern, pointing with his free hand. Startled, the youth hacked up and reached for the door handle there.

“We are here,” said a deep voice that filled the chamber.

The men in the room—all but Garkim— whirled, searching for the source.

“Then show yourself!” Miltiades called out angrily. “We have come too far and lost too much already to be amused by trickery!”

“There is no trickery here,” said the voice. “This is where we meet our guests. We are the emperor of Doegan.” There was no anger in the voice. There was no feeling in it at all.

Garkim waited patiently, standing with hands clasped before him, while the four men before him continued looking around the room. Their weapons were readied but at the moment useless as toothpicks.

“You are here to find Lady Eidola of Neverwinter, the intended bride of the Open Lord of Waterdeep, Piergeiron Paladinson,” continued the voice. “The High Mage of Waterdeep, Khelben Arunsun, who is called the Blackstaff, determined that this city of Eldrinpar was where Lady Eidola’s kidnappers had taken her. You are here to find Lady Eidola and to destroy the thing that prevents Khelben Arunsun from magically scrying our city, so that he may determine where Lady Eidola is being held and send such assistance as you may need to rescue her and bring her back to Waterdeep.”

None of the men answered. Kern, Trandon, Jacob, and Noph stared at Miltiades, who turned to stare at Lord Garkim. Garkim returned the stare impassively.

“Miltiades of Phlan,” said the voice.

“Yes,” said the paladin, his tone dangerously low.

“Lord Garkim has spoken to you of the bloodforges.”

Miltiades looked away from Garkim at the red-curtained walls around the room. “He has. Why do you not show yourself?”

“We are here. We meet with you as is our custom.”

“Is it because of your bloodforge?” Miltiades scanned the room at eye level, then squinted up at the rafters. “Do you not appear before us personally because you wish to conceal some power of your bloodforge?”

“We are here before you, Miltiades of Phlan. We are very near you in body. We meet with you in this manner because there is no other way to meet with you.”

“You’re with us more in spirit than body, maybe?” said Jacob. Miltiades and the others looked at him. He gave a wry smile and shrugged. “Couldn’t think of anything else to say,” he said apologetically.

“I don’t get this,” said Kern. He moved away from the others toward the long wall to the right of the door they had entered. “This is the craziest meeting with a king I have ever had.”

“Miltiades of Phlan.”

“Speak your mind,” said the paladin sharply, starting to walk toward the wall on the left side of the room from the door. Jacob caught on and began walking toward the far wall opposite the double doors, examining the curtains.

“Lord Garkim explained the nature and powers of the bloodforges to you.”

“He did not explain very much,” said the paladin. He reached the wall and carefully began to probe the thick red curtains with the head of his warhammer. They seemed normal enough. He pushed in, and the hammer head thumped into the wall behind.

He abruptly looked down at his left hand. The ring given to him by his wife Evaine was glowing faintly. Poison? Where?

“A bloodforge was used to kidnap Lady Eidola,” said the voice. “It was not the bloodforge of Doe-gan that was involved in this act. Your lady was taken by the bloodforge of Ysdar.”

Miltiades snorted skeptically. He carefully knelt down by the curtain, so that the wall was on his left side. With his left hand, he reached down and picked up the bottom of the curtain. He raised his hammer with his right hand and prepared to strike, expecting a venomous creature.

Behind the curtain was a solid black wall, its surface slick and glossy. Miltiades smelled mildew and must, noting cobwebs were pulled away as he lifted the curtain’s bottom. He looked back at Lord Garkim, who watched him intently without moving, arms folded in front of him.

“Who is Ysdar?” said Kern, far across the room. He poked the curtain before him. A low clunk sounded through the room.

“Ysdar is the leader of the Fallen Temple, an evil cult within our lands. We are not sure of Ysdar’s present or former identity. The cult preys upon all peoples in all countries here. It has captured or excavated its own bloodforge and now uses it against our imperial domain and all other kingdoms and states in this region. Ysdar is the spirit of annihilation. Were you to destroy the bloodforge that shields our domain from Ysdar’s legions, you would doom us and all our subjects. The Imperial Reaches of Doegan would be an eroded wasteland in less than a decade.”

Noph spoke up, gazing up at the ceiling. “What is the Fallen Temple? We hardly know a thing about it, no disrespect to Lord Garkim here.”

“The Fallen Temple is the twisted remnant of the most powerful of the five Temples of the Southern Clave which joined the Right Armada, the fleet assembled and led by our ancestor, King Aetheric I, from the Moonshae Islands to the shores of our Utter East. As divine punishment for the vile offenses committed by the priests of this temple during the voyage of the Right Armada to the Utter East, all priests of this temple were stripped of their holy powers and spells. As mundane punishment for endangering their fellow voyagers, they were stripped of their right to vote at the last Great Council, and they gained no collective or individual fiefs from the Founding Lords as they divided up the Utter East.

“These heretics, bitter at their punishment, sought out other high powers that would invest them with a semblance of their former abilities. Their descendants found a patron native to this land, a corrupt and ancient entity that has sought to destroy all life here, from ourselfdown to the lowest beggar. The bloodforge of Doegan is our shield against this wickedness. Your plan to destroy our shield would reduce all you see to ruin. You would murder our empire for the life of one woman.”

“Miltiades,” called Kern. Everyone turned to look. The youthful warrior in the golden armor was holding up the bottom of the red curtain nearest him. Behind it was a wall of mortared stone.

There’s a rock wall back here, too,” called Jacob.

Miltiades looked up. He tugged the curtain bottom, then stood and jerked. The top of the curtain tore free of several spikes holding it up near the ceiling. Miltiades hauled back on the curtain abruptly. It ripped and fell away in the center, tearing further as he walked backward, still gripping the cloth.

Behind the curtain on the left wall was a vast jet wall, shiny though smudged with dust. The wall seemed to have depth to it, looking less like polished marble than like dark, almost opaque glass. Miltiades dropped the curtain. The whole center of the wall was now revealed in the steady light from the ceiling globes.

Lord Garkim cleared his throat. “That was not polite, nor was it wise,” he said to Miltiades, in mild irritation.

Miltiades did not answer. He stared intently at the black wall. Far above him, the globes of light nearest the wall dimmed. The shadows of the paladins lengthened and stretched before them to the shining wall.

Jacob and Kern quickly headed toward Miltiades. Trandon carefully reached up and put his right hand inside his vest again, his left hand clutching his tall quarterstaff. Noph thought about pulling out one of his knives. Something was very strange about this place. He turned, saw that he was near the door out of the room, and moved over to it. He reached for the door handle again, making sure it would open.

As he did, the door gave a low thump, as if something had been moved against it. He seized the door handle and shoved on it hard. It did not move. He threw his shoulder against it, accomplishing nothing. “Locked!” he shouted, a shred of terror flooding into his voice. “We’re locked in!”

“Garkim!” Miltiades shouted, tearing his gaze from the wall and spinning on his heel. He lunged for the councilor and seized him by the front of his ship-decorated tabard. “Garkim, what thing is hidden behind that wall?” he roared in the smaller man’s face.

Garkim glared up at the larger man. His dark eyes were bright with rage. “You will know very soon,” he said quietly. “You are not a wise man, and your manners are barbaric. You are hardly better than your ancestral brothers were when they lost their holy powers and turned their grand church into the Fallen Temple.”

“What are you talking about?” the big warrior growled.

Garkim measured his next words. “I am talking about the Fallen Temple. In these lands it is also known as the Temple of the Broken Hammer.”

Miltiades suddenly froze. The rage melted from his face. His mouth fell open as his eyes grew wide.

“Tyr’s church?” Miltiades whispered. He sounded like a child. “That was Tyr’s church?”

Only Garkim’s burning eyes answered him.

The warrior’s hand relaxed, releasing Garkim’s clothing. Miltiades took a step back, his face drained of color. “Great Tyr above,” he gasped. His right hand fell open, letting his warhammer dangle from the strap on his wrist. “Great Righteous Tyr, that couldn’t have happened. You lied to Kern when you said—”