Temple Hill (18 page)

Fhazail was late. It was bad enough the fat steward had sent word virtually demanding this meeting. Graal hated to be at anyone’s beck and call. Then to keep him waiting …

The orog struggled to rein his fury in, lest he do something foolish and incur Xiliath’s wrath.

This insult was just another in a long list justifying Graal’s hatred for Fhazail. Add it to the appalling sight of yellow and orange silk shirts clinging to mounds of rolling fat, or the repugnant scent of perfumes and powders that embraced Fhazail like a desperate lover. It took days for Graal to purge their lavender stench from his nostrils.

It was more than just a physical revulsion that fueled Graal’s hatred. Fhazail’s attitude was galling to the orog. Graal inspired terror in lesser creatures, and he reveled in it. But in Fhazail’s case there was no pleasure in the fear. Fhazail was brazenly craven, he kowtowed and groveled

and whimpered and whined too easily. It was second nature to him. Fhazail felt no shame, no humiUation, no debasement when he cowered at one’s feet, and Graal felt no power from intimidating such a fawning sycophant.

It even went deeper, Graal suspected. Graal could kill Fhazail on a whim, the steward knew that. Yet Graal sensed that somehow Fhazail was always in control of the situation. The corpulent coward always knew exactly how far he could go, and beneath his trembling exterior Graal suspected Fhazail was toying with him, laughing at him.

Despite the urge, Graal knew he mustn’t kill Fhazail. Not yet. Xiliath was very specific about that. Fhazail was his master’s most important spy within the Cult of the Dragon, the key to getting the package for Xiliath’s own use. Once the package was delivered and Yanseldara’s doom assured, Graal hoped, Fhazail’s usefulness would be served. Then there would come a reckoning.

Graal heard wheezing coming from far down one of the darkened tunnels branching off from the small smuggler’s den. Soon he could see flickering points of light tracing their way across the walls, floor, and ceiling of the rough hewn passage, the flame from the torch reflected and refracted by the garish gemstones set into Fhazail’s audacious rings. The orog cared little for such baubles and trinkets. Wealth was only useful for the power it could buy. Fhazail was obsessed with such ostentatious displays. One more reason to lust after the steward’s death.

Fhazail jogged into the room, his flab shaking and quivering with each labored stride. He gasped out an apology, but his words were all but lost in the roaring bloodlust that exploded in Graal’s head at his sight. The orog struggled to suppress the rage, but the world became a vision of red.

Prostrating himself at Graal’s mighty boots, Fhazail begged for his life. Words the enraged monster before him could no longer even understand. He was deaf to pleas, and devoid of mercy. Graal slowly raised his blade, savoring this long awaited moment.

A single word from his victim pierced the veil of his fury, halting his blade… Xiliath …”

The name momentarily stayed Graal’s hand. The orog knew little of fear, yet he was ever conscious of his master’s awesome wrath. He took a deep, growling breath and held it. His pounding heart, eager for the slaughter to come, began to slow. The fog of berserker fury receded.

“Repeat what you said,” Graal snarled, “and I may let you live.”

Without question or hesitation, Fhazail reiterated his pleas. “Forgive me, Graal, but I bring Xiliath news of the Dragon Cult’s package.” His begging sounded humble and sincere, his voice a near shriek filled with fear and terror.

Yet in the steward’s eyes Graal could see something else. Fhazail knew he would not die tonight. He had pushed Graal to the very brink of a mindless wrath that would bring on swift and brutal death, but with a single word the steward had averted a bloody fate yet again.

“I don’t know whether to kill you for demanding this meeting, or for making me wait,” Graal threatened. But he knew it was an empty threat, and Fhazail knew it, too.

“When you hear my news you will understand,” Fhazail explained. “The cult is moving the package, tonight. My plan worked.”

“You never did explain your plan,” Graal noted. “Xiliath might want to know where the gems he gave you went.”

“I gave them to a thief,” Fhazail said. “A down payment for the job. I hired her to break into the cult’s warehouse. When Azlar heard about the attempted burglary, he panicked. He fears the package is not safe in Elversult. They are taking it out of the city tonight, as soon as it gets dark.”

Graal raised his fist in anger, and Fhazail scuttled out of range. “Fool!” Graal spat at him. “The Masks cannot know anything of this! They have been infiltrated by Yanseldara’s spies! If she learns of the package the plan is ruined!”

“Spare me, wrathful Graal!” Fhazail squealed, pitifully raising his pudgy hands over his head to shield the expected blow. “I have not betrayed Xiliath to the Masks! I found a young woman who was freelancing her talents. She has no connection to the guild.”

“And what became of her?” Graal asked, slowly lowering his hand. “Is she dead?”

“Much to my surprise, she escaped with her life, though I doubt she had even a glimpse of the package. Somehow she killed the guardian. A naga. The door to the room where the package was kept was still locked. She knows nothing.”

Graal scratched at his jutting lower jaw with his grimy, discolored nails. “One less snake-beast in the world to serve the dragon worshipers. Xiliath will be pleased at that. Continue your report.”

Emboldened by the orog’s reaction, Fhazail stood up and brushed the dust of the small cave’s floor from his knees.

“Azlar wants to move the package to a cult stronghold hidden a few miles outside the city. Right now they are scrambling to clean up the mess in the warehouse. He wants to leave no trace of the cult’s presence behind, nothing that might tip Yanseldara off to their plot. He

ordered me to oversee the operation. I couldn’t get away. That was why I was so late in coming here.”

“And the workers? They are being silenced, I presume?”

Fhazail nodded. “Of course, most fearsome Graal. Azlar used his magic to alter their memories, for the most part. A few ran off in terror when the naga’s body was discovered. They know better than to speak of what goes on in the warehouse, but I convinced Azlar of the need to send me out after them just in case they let slip a rumor of what they have seen. That’s how I managed to get away to meet you.”

“And when you find them?” Graal asked with a malevolent grin.

Fhazail shrugged. “I was given money to entice them to come back to the warehouse. If I can convince them to return, Azlar will erase their memories as well. If not, I will notify the cult assassins. They will deal with the workers and anyone they might have spoken to. I hope it does not come to that.”

Graal laughed. “You are weak, Fhazail. I would not bother with the bribes, or the assassins. I would kill them myself.”

The steward shrugged. “I lack your warrior’s conviction.” Then he added, “I must go back to my search for the workers soon. Azlar will grow suspicious if I do not return in a timely manner.”

“Wait,” Graal said as Fhazail turned to go. “I will report this news to Xiliath. I have no doubt he will act on it immediately. We cannot allow Azlar to bring his package to the cult stronghold. Your work in this matter is not done.”

Swallowing hard, Fhazail asked, “What would you have me do, O mighty Graal?”

“I will take some of my men, and set an ambush for

the cultists. We will steal the package, and with any luck kill Azlar in the process. The loss of their prize and the death of such a promising mage from their ranks will leave the dragon worshipers reeling.

“You must lead them into the ambush, Fhazail. The usual place, just outside of town. I’m sure you remember.”

“But… but how am I to make Azlar take that route?” Fhazail protested.

“Use your powers of persuasion, Fhazail. I’m sure you will be most convincing.”

An all too familiar look popped into the steward’s eyes. “Perhaps I could be more convincing if Xiliath provided me with inspiration of a monetary nature.”

“No haggling,” Graal warned in a low voice. “Now is not the time for your games.”

Fhazail’s head tilted ever so slightly as he gave the orog a brief, appraising glance. “Of course,” he replied after assessing the situation. “Now is not the time for games. I will go at once.”

To the casual glance, there was nothing remarkable about the warehouse. To someone hiding in the shadows, watching for the past several hours as deepest night fell, it was evident something important was taking place inside.

Corin had been watching the building since the early dusk. He had seen figures arrive in small groups of two or three every half hour, their forms hidden by dark, hooded cloaks. Elversult had a temperate coastal climate, it rarely fell below freezing even in the heart of winter. Now that they were in the first few days of the Sunsets, and spring was just a few tendays away, only foreigners from the southern desert lands found it necessary to bundle themselves up in such heavy garments. Foreigners, or those with something to hide.

A knock, a slight delay while passwords were exchanged, and the mysterious figures would be ushered in. Over a dozen so far, plus those that were already inside before Corin’s vigil began.

In the ghastly light of their torches, Corin caught occasional flashes of armor and weapons peeking out from beneath the robes. Once he even caught a glimpse of an insignia—the unmistakable emblem of the Cult of the Dragon.

His instincts about the naga had been right, but Corin cared little about the cult, or their business here. He had come with only one purpose in mind.

Ever since the conversation with Lhasha at the Weeping Griffin, Corin had begun plotting his revenge. The half-elf s description left no doubt in Corin’s mind about her contact’s identity. Once, long ago, Fhazail had betrayed the White Shields, set them up and led them right into a trap. He had Corin’s friends killed, played a part in taking his hand, and somehow managed to shift the blame onto the White Shields themselves. He had broken Corin’s once proud spirit, and driven him into a nightmare of alcohol and despair.

Corin had always felt his meeting Lhasha had been pre-ordained. He sensed some greater force had brought them together. Lhasha had saved him, delivered him from his torment. She had dragged him out from beneath his burden, healed his spirit, and restored his honor and sense of purpose. He refused to believe it had all been mindless chance and random circumstance.

At first, Corin felt the gods had seen fit to bring them together to give him a second chance, a long overdue reward for the pilgrimages and contributions to Lathander’s Church on Temple Hill. Now he understood the real reason behind their meeting. Inadvertently, Lhasha had brought Fhazail back into Corin’s life. The gods had sent her as a courier, she had brought him a chance for revenge!

Or so he hoped. There was no real reason to believe Fhazail was working for the Dragon Cult, but Corin’s instincts said it had to be. How else could Fhazail know about the mysterious package? Duplicity was a fundamental aspect of the steward’s character and Corin was certain Fhazail would be trying to betray the cult as he’d betrayed the White Shields. The warrior could not even begin to fathom what treachery Fhazail plotted against

the dragon worshipers, and he didn’t care. He only cared about slicing open the steward’s rolling belly.

So he went to the cult warehouse, and waited. Corin’s only link to the man who had taken away everything he valued, his instincts had lead him there in pursuit of his prey, and he trusted his instincts.

If he was right, his vengeance was close at hand. Corin had watched a small army disappear into the warehouse over the past few hours, soon they would all come out. He needed to be ready. He might only get one chance to strike before the cultists took him down.

He shook his head, trying to gather his hatred into a lethal, focused rage. Despite his bitterness and anger about what Fhazail had done, Corin’s mind kept returning to his fight with Lhasha.

His words had hurt her. They betrayed her trust in him. He had lied to her, and in his duplicity he saw something of Fhazail. The resemblance sickened him, but he had no other choice. Corin lusted after nothing but vengeance and he would willingly surrender his life to get it. But he wouldn’t sacrifice Lhasha, he couldn’t ask her to accept the risks of a suicide mission. Driving her away was the right decision—this mission was his and his alone. His brothers in arms deserved no less than to have their deaths avenged.

Despite his conviction, he could find no peace. A small voice inside his head—Lhasha’s voice—urged him to give up his quest for retribution.

This hate is of your old life,” it whispered, “let it go. A new beginning awaits. Come with me to Cormyr and we can both be reborn.”

Other voices answered, those of his fallen comrades. “You are a warrior!”

“You are a White Shield!”

“Remember the fallen!”

“The traitor must die!” The voice of their captain rose up from the anguished din. “Avenge our deaths!” Igland commanded. “In the name of the White Shields, Fhazail must pay!”

Loudest of all was Fhazail’s own voice, reverberating through Corin’s skull. “The White Shields were betrayed by one of their own!” it shrieked, just as Fhazail himself had done from the witness box at the inquest as he pointed the finger of blame and hurled accusations. “Corin One-Hand cannot be trusted!”

“Corin One-Hand is waiting for you, Fhazail,” the warrior whispered to the night. “You can trust in that.” Mercifully, the voices fell silent.

An hour later the cultists began to emerge. First came several runners, hurrying on ahead to scout a clear path through the all but deserted Elversult streets. They scurried through the darkness, a few returning minutes later to report that the route was free of prying eyes. Of course they didn’t see Corin, who stayed motionless in the shadows across the street. Lhasha had taught him well.

A phalanx of warriors marched out next, their armor and swords no longer hidden beneath robes. Every second one carried a bright torch, the shadows surrounding them were banished by the light. Illuminated by the flickering fire, Corin could plainly see the mark of the Cult of the Dragon emblazoned on their breastplates.