Authors: Thomas M. Reid
Kovrim turned back and looked at the assassin with the coldest, most baleful stare he could muster, though the other man’s words sent an ominous chill down the priest’s spine. He wasn’t certain what Junce was suggesting, but he knew it did not bode well for him and the other Crescents.
“Go ahead,” Junce said, gesturing, “take a look. I know I’m going to enjoy this.”
He turned, walked to the far side of the torture
chamber, and pulled open another door, disappearing through it and pulling it shut behind himself.
Kovrim shook his head in mute frustration and turned back to the window.
The portcullis began to rise, and a moment later, the two guards who had manhandled him into the torture chamber appeared again, dragging Hort along with them, still in his chains. He was being led along willingly, if sullenly, but when he saw the room, his body stiffened, as though he had gotten a sudden, uneasy feeling. The guards shoved him to the floor and turned back to the exit, where the portcullis was already dropping again. The pair sprinted through the narrowing gap and vanished.
Hort climbed to his feet with a muttered curse and looked around, examining the surroundings. Kovrim made a loud grunting noise, willing Hort to look up, and after a moment, the grizzled soldier spotted the priest looking down at him.
“Well, this is a fine mess we’re in, eh, sir?” Hort called up, trying to sound cheerful.
Before Kovrim could grunt a response, there was the sound of a heavy door opening and closing. Hort looked up toward the near side of the balcony, just out, of Kovrim’s sight, and scowled. Then Junce strolled into view, looking down at his captive.
“Watch carefully,” the assassin said, and chuckled. “This is going to be interesting.”
The heavy door on the left side of the pit began to rise. Kovrim, panic welling up in him, willed Hort to find a way out, to climb up to the balcony, out of harm’s way. But the old soldier turned and eyed the opening portal warily.
No! Kovrim tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled, nasally whine. Don’t do this!
As the heavy barricade reach its zenith, Hort’s expression changed from concern to horror. He began
to back away, turning toward the portcullis and running to it as fast as his chains would allow. “No!” he cried out, yelling down the blackened hallway. “Raise the gate! Raise the gate!”
Kovrim stood, transfixed in a state of helpless horror, as something began to emerge from the interior beyond the barricade. A man shuffled out, or what once must have been a man. Its movements were awkward and jerky, and Kovrim could see that it was undead.
The thing’s skin was discolored, like one continuous bruise, all purplish yellow with tinges of blue at the joints. Pustules of yellowish ichor also covered its sagging, lifeless flesh. Muscles moved beneath the surface like burrowing grubs, and its clothing, that of the guard there inside the Palace of the Seven, hung filthy and loose, torn and deteriorating.
A zombie.
As soon as the nasty thing was fully into the room, a second and a third followed it out of the tunnel. They shuffled without pause directly toward Hort, who was bellowing and banging his manacles on the bars of the portcullis, pleading to be let out of the deathtrap in a voice that rose ever higher in panic-induced pitch.
Kovrim screamed, too, or tried to. He pounded his steel fists against the bars of the window, trying desperately to distract the zombies, all the while furiously but futilely attempting to dislodge the thick wad of leather so firmly clamped between his teeth. If he could only speak, he could help, cast a spell or drive the undead things back, away from Old Bloagy, or he couldbut it was useless.
The priest watched in horror as the zombies closed in on his companion, watched as Hort turned, screaming, and began to pummel the walking dead things his fists. The soldier used the length of chain
stretched between his wrists to good effect, like a garrote, wrapping it around the neck of one of the zombies as though he were trying to strangle it. Being undead, it did not need to breathe, but Hort held it firmly there anyway, shifting it back and forth, using the creature as a shield against the slow, witless attacks from the other two. For a moment, Kovrim thought that perhaps the man would survive the horrible assault, that Hort might destroy the zombies before they rent him to pieces.
But eventually, the chain sawed clear through the held zombie’s neck, and its head went bouncing away while its body slumped to the floor in front of Hort, twitching uselessly. The other two ignored the downed corpse and pursued the man. Hort backed away, waiting for an opening while licking his lips in desperation, but he looked strange to Kovrim, slow and ill at ease.
What’s the matter with him? the priest wondered. He looks … unwell.
Truly, Hort’s complexion had paled considerably, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. Kovrim could see no wounds, no marks upon the man, but all the same, the soldier acted as though he had been mortally wounded. As the zombies backed him into corner, he went down to one knee, coughing, clutching at his sides.
No, Kovrim thought desperately, no! He wanted to turn away, and yet he could not.
The zombies drew closer, pummeling their prey. Hort cried out, then slid down, and the zombies continued to beat on him long after he stopped moving. The sounds of their blows turned wet, pulpy.
Kovrim’s throat constricted in anguish. The brutality of the fight made his anger burn hot inside. He turned and stared malevolently at Junce, but the assassin had his elbows resting on the railing of the
balcony, watching with bemused interest. He didn’t even notice the gaze, or if he did, he ignored it.
The priest had felt hatred for few people during his long life, but the fury, the savage enmity that coursed through him right at that moment for the man standing on the balcony was beyond compare. His blood pounded in his ears, and his vision was tinged in red. He swore to himself, to Waukeen, that if he got the chance, he would kill Junce Roundface, would strangle him or bludgeon the man with his restraints, even at the cost of his own life. He would never hesitate.
Bathed in his anger, Kovrim did not realize that Junce had started speaking again.
“Normally, we restrain them,” Junce commented casually, “because otherwise, they put up such a fight, and we lose as many new recruits as we create. And that’s not productive, obviously.” Junce departed from the balcony then, moving out of Kovrim’s field of vision momentarily to the sound of a door opening and closing. He reappeared again within the torture chamber, strolling over toward the cage wall behind which Kovrim seethed.
“But I decided to make an exception, just this once,” Junce said, picking up where he had left off. “I wanted you to get to see a little sport, think for a few minutes that your friend down there had a fighting chance. It was kind of funny, actually, watching him get the disease all over himself. That’s really ironic, don’t you think?”
Kovrim glared at Junce, not deigning to give the horrid man the satisfaction of any sort of reaction.
Junce shrugged. “Well, I think it is. After all, what’s the point of fighting something that’s already killed you the moment it gets near you? Your friend was already dead the instant he first bumped up against one of them; he just didn’t know it, yet.”
Realization began to dawn on Kovrim, and his eyes widened in horror. No! he thought again, banging his steel-encased fists on the bars of his cage. No, no, no! Not this! You cannot! You’re a madman!
Junce laughed. “Yes, I see that you understand now. Ingenious, don’t you think? We spread the plague with the zombies, and even though the people think they’ve destroyed the creatures, they get sick themselves. And it’s only a matter of time before our army is replenished. Go on, see for yourself,” he finished, gesturing toward the window at the back of the alcove.
Slowly, horror making his limbs feel wooden, Kovrim turned back around. Gazing down, he saw that the two zombies had moved off already, shuffling back into their lair. But Hort’s body was clearly visible. It was battered and bruised, and already, bulbous, puss-filled bumps covered his skin.
Then the dead man began to move.
The Generon was, as usual, remarkably beautiful. The entire palace had been decorated in silver and gold, the color of coin, in honor of Sammardach: Silver lanterns, pierced globes that swung gently in the evening breezes, hung from every available point. Magical golden streamers of light, conjured by House mages periodically during the festivities, flitted from porch to porch and through the gardens. Inside, Emriana saw the amazing fountain that sat squarely in the center of the main entry hall, transformed for the evening so that coins, rather than water, seemed to dance and splash down its sleek sides. The girl stood transfixed for a few moments, just gazing at the wonder of it all.
But her interest was not held for long, for her
nervousness made her restless. She knew she could not truly enjoy the celebration within the lord’s palace so long as her family was at risk. She knew that she had to find her aunt, and that the search itself could very well be her undoing. Still, she lingered a moment longer, staring at the illusory fountain. It wasn’t so much that the effect was that breathtaking, the girl decided, it was the nostalgic remembrance of her delight as a younger girl.
A more naive girl, she thought. She missed those carefree days, when nothing mattered but whatever interested her at a given moment.
The mages of House Darowdryn had tried several different magical tricks to see if they could locate or even retrieve Xaphira from her undisclosed location, but all their efforts proved fruitless. Wherever Emriana’s aunt was being held, magic had been employed to keep her there, and to keep the site a secret. However, the wizards had been able to guide Emriana in the use of a scrying crystal, which she had then used to locate a few of the older woman’s belongings. Peering through the crystal, the girl could see that Xaphira’s weapons had been carelessly left lying upon a crude wooden table in a dimly lit stone chamber. At one point, a shadowy figure had passed near the table, and Emriana caught enough of a glimpse of the clothing to realize it was that of Lord Wianar’s House guard.
Xaphira was, indeed, imprisoned in the Generon.
The wizards had also considered further scrying and possibly trying to magically transport someone to the chamber, but they ended up dismissing it as too dangerous. Besides, they had explained to Emriana, Lord Wianar’s own wizards had the entire palace well shielded from such magical intrusions. She would have to get inside the walls of the Generon before she could employ any magic to track down her aunt.
After the discussion of how best to go about doing that very thing was concluded, Ariskrit had insisted that Emriana let the house staff pamper her royally. It was amazing to the girl what a hot bath could do to wash away the stench of dead fish, and she had settled in for a well-deserved nap. She had had no idea just how tired she was from her various ordeals over the course of the past day, but when she woke up, it was late afternoon, and she felt much better.
Emriana had chosen a red dress for the evening, subtly but symbolically representing her goal of finding Xaphira. Still, it was a wonderful outfit, pulled from the deep and varied wardrobes of a distant Darowdryn cousin who matched her in size. The dress was trimmed with thread-of-gold highlights, and it had a matching cape and cowl in a steel gray with red and gold highlights. Over the dress, Emriana wore a traditional Chondathan golden chain-and-gem bodice, the whole thing covered in yellow sapphires. And she had also donned one of the customary masks that all the women within the Generon would be wearing, an old symbol of a forgotten time when one’s identity was best kept to oneself. Emriana doubted anyone who knew her well would have any difficulty recognizing her, but the mask made her feel a little more secure, a bit more anonymous.
Pilos had decked himself out in his most formal priestly garb for the occasion. His white silk trousers and shirt shone in the moonlit night, and the doublet he had donned over that was a deep crimson color. He wore a slender circlet of gold atop his head, a symbol of his rank as Abreeant. Together, they made a rather fine couple, Ariskrit had proclaimed, causing both Emriana and Pilos to blush furiously.
The family members attending the celebration had traveled to the Generon in splendid covered coaches, arriving to much fanfare, for House Darowdryn
was one of the half dozen or so wealthiest Houses in all of Arrabar, and its comings and goings were constantly heralded. Emriana and Pilos stayed close to the family initially, blending in with the crowd during the family’s formal announcement. Shortly after that, they entered a grand ballroom, filled with guests. A high balcony sported a sextet of musicians, and many of the partygoers were dancing to the lively tunes.
On the far side of the chamber, up on a dais, Lord Eles Wianar sat with his guest of honor, the Grand Syndar Lavant, by his side.
Emriana wanted to spit, and she felt Pilos stiffen beside her. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get some air.”
Together, they drifted off by themselves at a natural pace, wandering in and out of the palace’s open chambers, casually strolling about the grounds. Just getting away from the sight of the hated priest seemed to lift Pilos’s spirits, and Emriana felt much better.
After perhaps half an hour or more of pretending they were just a happy young couple seeing the splendors of the Generon, Emriana began to keep watch for a means of slipping away from the party and into the less-trafficked sections of the palace. It was not going to be easy, she realized, for despite the festive nature of the celebration, Lord Wianar’s guards were still in abundance and still discreetly stationed at just about every ingress that led into more private areas.
“We’re going to have to climb over a wall somewhere,” she whispered as they strolled along a balcony that followed the curved wall of a great central dome. “Someplace where we won’t be seen,” she added.