The Edge of Chaos (5 page)

He sprang for the wall and jammed his fingers into the cracks between the stones. Scrabbling, he pulled himself up, then swung his feet onto the window’s sill.

His feet found purchase and pushed him higher. Using the grip of his right hand as an anchor, he swung across and extended his left arm to reach for the edge of the small window slit. Outside, thick wisteria vines stretched and snapped as the tower’s extra weight proved too much for them to support.

It was coming down.

Behind him, the monstrous creature turned and flicked its tail again. This time Duvan wouldn’t be able to dodge. Through sheer force, he lunged up and into the narrow window. The tail spike would hit him, he knew. But he still might be able to escape.

The spike hit, and Duvan felt the impact. But the deadly needle didn’t touch him; instead, it penetrated his backpack and stopped, blocked by something inside.

That was lucky.

The window opening was tight, and the stone scraped rough against his skin as he squeezed through. In seconds he was out—and hanging off the side of a crumbling stone tower that stuck out over the abyss. Just the place he wanted to be.

If he got on the top of the cylinder, he might make it back to the ledge, assuming it was still there. A glance to the cliff

face showed him that Beaugrat and Seerah had already started climbing back up to the jungle.

Oh, how he longed for level ground.

Inside the building, the manticore launched itself at the window. Not the smartest move, as it was nigh impossible that it would actually get through. Duvan climbed away from the opening anyway. He’d been wrong about the manticore’s demolition skills once.

After pulling himself to the side of the tower that was most horizontal, Duvan half crawled, half scampered down the structure. The manticore battered itself against the stone behind him, but this time the baron’s construction held together.

Duvan was about halfway to the ledge when several thick wisteria vines snapped and the tower’s weight grew too heavy for the remaining vines. It started to fall from under him: His stomach lurched into his throat with the sudden freefall, while his mind raced. Was this the end? The long fall to oblivion?

Nothing he had in his pack or on his person could help him now. There was his glideskin—a triangular patchwork of wyvern leather and pegasus feathers that he’d made as an apprentice. He might be able to use the glideskin to slow his fall, but it was buried in the bottom of his pack.

No time to get it out. There must be another way.

The vines holding the tower to the jungle above snapped one by one in front of him. In a flash he realized that if he held on to the right one—a vine still connected to the jungle—he could make it.

He grabbed one and held on, hoping that the vine he held was attached above and not to the tower. The rock beneath his feet crumbled away as he climbed the knotted vines.

The old citadel fell away below him, and the echoing roar of the creature inside it faded and was gone.

Duvan gripped tightly to the vine as he crashed into the pitted stone wall where the tower had once clung, slamming

his shoulder and nearly jarring his grip free. He bounced off but was able to twist around to get his feet in front of him to brace the impact of the second hit.

After he stopped swinging, Duvan found purchase on the cliff face. He took a moment to calm himself and get his bearings.

He was about thirty yards below what was left of the ledge where they’d first landed, where the end of his rope still hung. Most of the ledge was gone now, and what remained looked precarious. The flagstones hung loose, and if they came free they could fall right on top of him.

Duvan climbed carefully up the network of vines to the ledge and found a section that felt solid. He spent a moment taking stock, giving himself a quick once-over. No injuries. He had his haversack and all of the prizes he’d taken. The tome that Tyrangal had sent him to get was still inside it, as was the manticore spike that the book’s heavy cover had managed to stop.

There was a hole in his pack, but that could be patched, and the heavy book had saved, if not his life, then at least a good deal of pain.

Duvan had to smile. All in all, things were looking good.

He decided to keep the manticore spike, which as about the size of his forearm and very sharp, with hundreds of small barbs along its length. He winced at what could have happened to him had the spike impaled him the way one had the sorcerer.

Duvan took his time making the climb back to the top; No need to hurry it. The manticore was gone, and he would emerge from the Underchasm relatively unscathed, all things considered.

When he reached the top, he flopped over the edge and lay on his back, breathing heavily. A wave of exhaustion washed over him as he rested and thanked the gods he’d made it out.

“Thank the gods you survived,” came Beaugrat’s deep voice. “Did you get what you came for?”

Duvan grinned, but there was something in Beaugrat’s tone that raised Duvan’s hackles. “Certainly.”

“Very impressive,” Beaugrat said, running his fingers through his blond hair. “I must say, I thought you were going to die when the manticore landed on the tower.”

Duvan looked over at his two remaining lackeys. The ranger, Seerah, had her crossbow aimed directly at Duvan’s chest, while Beaugrat himself drew a huge two-handed sword. This could be bad; Duvan hated crossbows.

“What do you want?”

“Actually, all the loot you’re carrying will do just fine,” Beaugrat said. “Give it to me.”

“Or what?” Duvan asked, pushing wearily to his feet. “Or we kill you.”

§

Standing below a reddening sky in the monastery courtyard, Slanya tried to retain her calm while absorbing this new request. Leave the monastery? All right. But travel to the change lands? And go past the border where the changeland was rampant? That was impossible to accept. 1

“I can see that this is a surprise for you,” Gregor said. “Follow me and I will explain.” Putting his arm around her shoulder, he guided her into the chapel. They crossed the mosaic inlaid in the chapel floor, a skeletal hand holding a balance—Kelemvor’s scales—and walked into the alchemist’s laboratory.

The laboratory was Gregor’s domain, and Slanya rarely visited it. The smell of sulfurous powder mingled with the aroma of crushed red-bark leaves. One whole wall held racks of crystal vials that contained purified ingredients for Gregor’s concoctions, each labeled with a glyph. Another

wall housed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and scrolls, and a door leading to what Slanya assumed was a storage room, although shed never been through it. On the third wall, coal burned in a narrow oven, and an iron ring bolted to an elaborate stand held a ceramic cauldron over the fire.

In the center of the room was the workbench, perfectly organized like everything else. Racks of cleaned vials stood to one end, ready to be filled and distributed to the next wave of pilgrims headed for the changelands.

“Our need is simple,” Gregor said, closing the door behind them. “We must make more elixir to protect the pilgrims who will participate in the Festival of Blue Fire. I originally planned for a few hundred, but Vraith claims that we may need enough for thousands.”

Slanya nodded. The influx of pilgrims had increased over the past few tendays, and many of them seemed to be waiting until the festival to visit the Plaguewrought Land.

“We only have a few days to make a great deal more, and our supply of plaguegrass is depleted.”

Plaguegrass—tall, brown grass that grew inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Land—was the key component to the elixirs that Gregor concocted to help the pilgrims survive exposure to the spellplague.

“You are the only one I can trust to get this done,” Gregor said. “You have proven that you can accomplish difficult tasks.”

Yes, Slanya thought. I am the one who gets chosen for such tasks. She had been in charge of the team sent to scout this location for the monastery. She had been the one sent to negotiate with the Order of Blue Fire for access to this land. When Gregor or Kaylinn needed someone for a special purpose, Slanya was their first choice.

And truth be told, she liked it. Because, while performing funeral rites and advanced meditation formed the bedrock of

her existence, sometimes the routine grew monotonous and tiring. Still, routine was better than a suicide mission.

“We need more plaguegrass.” Gregor said. “The small quantity that I originally obtained from Tyrangal is depleted. I have completed the preventative for the spell-sickness, and now I need to make a lot more so we can save all these people.”

Slanya looked at Gregor. The passion in his face showed strong and clear. He truly wanted to help these pilgrims. “The formula works?” she asked. “You’re positive?”

His ability to create new concoctions was uncanny, coming partly from his comprehensive knowledge of the effects of herbs and animal parts. But he claimed that his genius came primarily from his spellscar, that his exposure to the spellplague had granted him a lens through which he could see the effects that potions would have on people.

A smile broadened on his face. “Yes,” he said, nodding happily. “All the testing was worth it, don’t you see?” He rubbed his hands together. “And now all I need to do is make enough to protect all pilgrims going to the changelands. But for that I need more plaguegrass—lots more plaguegrass.”

“Why can’t you get more from Tyrangal?” Slanya asked. “Why do you want me to risk my life to go into the changelands?”

“Your life will not be at risk, my child,” Gregor said. “I have enough of the elixir to protect you while you complete the task. And unfortunately Tyrangal has no more plaguegrass. Neither does anyone else. It only grows inside the Plaguewrought Land. It’s quite amazing that she had some to begin with.”

Slanya stood at balanced readiness and waited for him to continue. She had made her decision; she would go regardless of the risk. She had never been inside the Plaguewrought Land, but the benefits to those who came into contact with the spellplague would be immeasurable.

And despite his recent obsessions, Gregor had saved her life and had given her everything. She trusted him and would do whatever he asked.

“I have two doses of the elixir left,” he continued. “You will take them with you, and they will protect you from the spellplague remnants.”

Slanya nodded.

“I need someone I trust to do this for me,” Gregor said, putting his hand on Slanya’s shoulder. “Vraith has offered to help, but I don’t want the Order of Blue Fire involved. Just between you and me, I’m not sure I trust their motives, and I’d rather they stay ignorant of the elixir’s ingredients.”

“Very well,” she said. “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Gregor said. “First thing in the morning, you will meet with Tyrangal.”

“Tyrangal herself?” Slanya did not follow the gang politics of Ormpetarr, but even she had heard of the secretive woman who commanded a sizable fighting force to keep the peace. She had a reputation for ruthlessness and cunning.

“Yes,” Gregor said. “I have spoken with her, and she’s agreed to help. Someone who works for her has been inside the changelands and will act as your guide.”

Slanya blinked. Everything was happening so fast. “I’ll need to get my things prepared.”

Gregor nodded. “Yes, but hurry. I’ve arranged for you to meet with Tyrangal. She’s expecting you at dawn.”

********* ***

“Whoa, whoa,” Duvan said, circling carefully away from the cliff edge. “Let’s talk this over before anyone gets hurt.” He continued his slow sideways walk to put his back to the jungle.

“The only one who might get hurt is you,” Beaugrat said.

“It’s two against one. You’re tired and, frankly, look like you’ve been through the Nine Hells.”

As the other man spoke, Duvan gathered detailed stock of the situation. Beaugrat and Seerah stood slightly apart with the horses behind them. No getting to the horses without going through the two of them. Smart.

He could run for the forest; that might be his best bet, if he could get the crossbow off him. The ranger clearly wanted to shoot him. The setting sun’s light made her pale skin and blonde hair seem limned in blood. No uncertainty showed in her eyes; she clearly hoped he would try something so she could pull the trigger.

Duvan cursed himself for not seeing this coming. He rarely trusted anyone, but Beaugrat had been one of Tyrangal’s men. And over the years he had come to trust Tyrangal. But now, this riffraff could kill him here and take all his possessions—including the book he’d risked his life to get for Tyrangal. In fact, they would be stupid to threaten that and not do it.

The main question on Duvan’s mind was, would they kill him even if he gave up the treasure?

Not that giving up the book was even an option. At least not a permanent option, but he might be able to use it as a delaying tactic until he could figure out a way to kill them. He’d made a promise to deliver the book to Tyrangal if he found it, and Duvan never backed down from a promise.

Kill or he killed. It was a strategy that he’d often lived by, and one which had served him well. The other strategy he liked was “run or be killed.” So, he mused, it was decision time: fight or flight?

“I didn’t find much,” he said, more to buy time than anything else. “Just a few things, most of them worthless.” Duvan took another step, adjusting his posture so that he’d be ready if an attack came.

“Well just see about that,” Beaugrat said. “Hand over your sack.”

“I think you know that’s not going to happen.”

A predatory grin spread across the big man’s face, reminding Duvan eerily of the manticore. “Seerah,” Beaugrat said, “on the count of five, if he hasnt given over the haversack, put an arrow in him.”

“Now hold on.” Duvan put on his most reasonable expression. “Drop this mutiny, and I promise I’ll pay you double what we agreed.”

The sun had set and dusk was nearly here. Not many shadows to hide in if he could get away, but the waning light would make it difficult to distinguish shapes. Under the jungle canopy, this would be perfect for invisibility.