The Gossamer Plain (4 page)

Vhok waved his hand in dismissal. It was not a conversation worth pursuing, in his mind. “How is she?” he asked.

“She is well, and still has Dwarf-friend firmly in her charms,” Zasian confirmed. “I performed the enchantment earlier tonight, in fact. All is set.”

Vhok nodded thoughtfully. “And she does not remember it?” he asked. “She has forgotten everything?”

“Everything of significance,” he replied. “She seemed a bit disoriented, as you might expect, but that will pass from her mind quickly enough. She will have far too many other things to think about.”

Vhok nodded once more and tapped his finger upon his lips, lost in thoughts of his alu lover. Aliisza was in a very delicate position, and any complication could mean her life. Though the cambion would be disappointed to lose the beautiful creature as his consort, he was far more concerned with the implications of her failure to complete her mission. Should her true purpose be exposed, should she fall before she completed her tasks, the rest of the plan would almost surely fail, and he would not be able to orchestrate Helm Dwarf-friend’s downfall. That, above all else, was paramount.

“You are certain this will work?” asked the half-fiend.

Zasian shrugged. “As with any plan of this complexity, there is always the chance of unforeseen complications. I cannot say that I am certain, and I give you no guarantees.

But I know what Tyr’s lackeys are about. They are becoming proactive, seeking to turn any opportunity to their advantage. They will seize any excuse at all to stake a claim in her future. If we have laid the groundwork subtly enough, they will take the bait. Now we can only let it play out and see what transpires.”

“Are you certain of her condition?” Vhok asked. An odd feeling of remorse passed through him for a moment, but he brushed it aside.

“I checked again this evening, before traveling here to meet with you. Your own divinations are accurate.”

“The deception is necessary,” Vhok said, as much to himself as to the priest. “There is no other way to reach the garden and the Lifespring. She cannot know yet the part she plays.”

Zasian shrugged again. “As you said yourself, it is but a single piece of the puzzle. An important piece, to say the least, but only one.”

Vhok nodded once more, then drew himself out of his worries. There were more immediate things to deal with. “Very well, let’s conclude this business. Lead the way.”

Zasian nodded and moved to the sarcophagus directly opposite the doors through which Vhok had entered. Moving behind the massive stone coffin, the man made a motion with his hand.

Vhok felt a deep, low rumble reverberate through the room. He watched as a portion of the wall behind the sarcophagus shifted and slid from view, revealing a passage just beyond. An orange glow spilled from the chamber, the light of several ordinary torches. Zasian gestured to Vhok and to the passage.

“After you,” he offered.

The cambion stepped past his counterpart and entered the hallway.

Two paces later, Vhok found himself in a very different sort of temple, one far more sinister in appearance. In shape and structure, the chamber was identical to the one he and Zasian had vacated. Unlike the austere simplicity of the previous room, the second chamber felt menacing. The square stone columns were replaced by twisted, sinuous pillars, and the stone itself was ruddy in color. Instead of a series of sarcophagi, each niche housed a dais topped by a high throne. Each chair faced the center of the room, where a forbidding altar of black marble shot through with green veins and carved in the shape of a jutting fist rested.

Figures dressed in a manner similar to Zasian occupied each seat except one. As Vhok surveyed the men and women arrayed before him, haughty and self-assured gazes returned his own. Some of those gazes roamed over his noble, almost elven features, noting the silver hair contrasting his olive complexion, undoubtedly finding him handsome. Certainly many a female, human or otherwise, had fallen under his sway after being charmed by that exotic countenance. Other eyes lingered on Burnblood, the elven long sword resting on his right hip, or Scepter Malevolus, the steel rod engraved with black runes that dangled from his belt on the left side. The potently magical scepter marked Vhok as ruler of the Scourged Legion. He had taken that title after he had slain his mother, the marilith Mulvassyss, and pried it from her dead fingers. No doubt some among the Banites in the secret chamber pondered the cambion’s prowess with it, perhaps assessing his worth to stand among them.

The cambion was hardly intimidated, though he could imagine how a mere human might be cowed into submission before an audience of seven priests of Bane. The power radiating from the group was palpable, and Vhok knew enough to appreciate and respect the minions of the Black Hand.

Zasian manipulated the door through which he and Vhok had entered, shutting it silently. Then he moved to the empty throne and seated himself upon it, joining his companions. Once he was settled, the leader, whom Vhok knew as Dreadlord Holt Burukhan, held his hand up, as though commanding silence, though no one had spoken. The high priest uttered a soft prayer to his dark god, then gestured around the chamber. When he finished, he gazed at Vhok.

“The chamber is warded,” Burukhan said, his voice dispassionate. “No one has followed you to this sacred but secret place. We may speak freely.”

Kaanyr Vhok wanted to snort in derision, but he managed with some effort to keep the noise to himself. He knew enough about spies to understand that no secret meeting chamber was foolproof, and anyone who thought otherwise was asking for trouble. Even hidden away in a room concealed behind the tombs of the dead, far below the world of daylight, someone might figure out where they were and employ magical means to listen and watch.

From where he stood near the entry, Vhok surreptitiously cast a spell of his own. He kept the gestures concealed and muttered softly to himself so that the gathered Banites would not notice his work. When he was finished, he strolled to the altar, confident that he would be aware of someone listening or watching the proceedings magically.

“Let us beseech the Black Lord to grant us wisdom and strength,” the dreadlord began, turning his gaze from one priest to the next. “Let us ask him for the might to bring all our enemies low and the cleverness to rule our ever-growing dominion in his name.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes, and the other priests joined him.

Vhok wanted to grimace, but the cambion kept his face bland as he looked around at the praying clerics. Each one

seemed to smile in fervent delight at the prospect of wreaking havoc in the name of their god. The zealousness of Bane’s followers never ceased to annoy Vhok, but he knew he had to keep such disgruntlement to himself. If he had any hope at all of ruling Sundabar, he would need their help. The city was too well defended, too difficult to overthrow by force. He had tried and failed too often to continue down that foolish path, so he needed a new plan, with allies on the inside. It was a shame that the only ones with any true potential to assist him in his endeavors were such mindless fanatics. Vhok found almost all of them exasperating.

Only Zasian seemed to think for himself, to exhibit any cleverness at all. Vhok liked him. The man was confident but not arrogant. He knew the dangers of pride, and sought in all things to find accord among his own kind—so unusual among Banites, for whom competition and strife seemed to ruin as many machinations as brought fruition and success. Zasian actually had potential as a long-term ally. Vhok doubted he would be able to tolerate the other priests at all, if not for Zasian.

Burukhan finished his prayer and began eyeing the other Banites. His gaze was both critical and expectant, as though he sought to confirm the eagerness in their faces, ensuring that they reveled in their god’s power as much as he did, but hunting for some sign that their piety might be lacking. Their rapturous smiles and glittering visages seemed to satisfy the dreadlord.

“Step into the center of the chamber, hellspawn,” Holt Burukhan demanded, gesturing toward the altar. “Step forward so that we -may hear your words clearly and judge their worth plainly.”

Vhok eyed the dreadlord with distaste, but he did as the high priest bade and moved nearer the altar. For long moments, no one spoke, and the cambion began to grow

agitated under the assemblage’s scrutiny.

“Zasian has told us of your offer,” Holt said at last. “You “wish an alliance.”

It was more a statement than a question, but the silence following the high priest’s words dragged.

Vhok nodded at last and said, “There is much we could gain, working together.”

“Indeed,” one of the Banites, a woman, replied. “We well understand what you might gain, seating yourself upon the throne of Sundabar, but how does that serve our interests? Share with us, if you will, what benefit you see for us in this proposed alliance.”

Vhok glanced at Zasian, taken aback slightly. The cambion presumed that the other man had already won the assembled clergy over, and that the meeting was just a formality. It seemed the alliance was not as sealed as he had thought.

“You get to see Helm Dwarf-friend deposed, and your church becomes the sole divine power in the entire valley,” the half-fiend replied. “All your adversaries—the servants of Helm, Torm, and Tyr—are cast out of the city, their temples destroyed. Your companions, the Zhentarim, establish a monopoly on commerce within the walls. Quite a lucrative bargain, if you ask me.”

“Such a Utopia is within our grasp without your aid, fiend,” another cleric said, his voice gruff.

“Why should we trust you?” Holt Burukhan asked. “You and your brutish Scourged Legion have attacked our city repeatedly in the past. We know that the devilish horde you call an army sits now on the periphery, waiting for the right moment to strike. Will you bring them down upon us once more, after you hold the seat of power?”

They’re demonic—not devilish, you simpleton, Vhok thought.

“If you had the means to drive out the Tyrrans and Helmites, you would have already done so,” the cambion answered. “My Scourged Legion will be needed to tear down the walls of those temples and quell any rebellion within the ranks of the city’s army and guardsmen. Once that is complete, I will send them to conquer more territory in my—in our—name, and they will do as I command. All I ask in return for this is that you let me unseat Helm Dwarf-friend before all the citizens of Sundabar, to humiliate him and drive him out of the city, branded a failure. I know you want to see the mercenary gone from Sundabar as badly as I do.” Well, not as badly, but maybe close, he silently added.

“And how will you ruin Helm Dwarf-friend?” Holt asked. “What assurances can you give us that you will turn the populace against him?”

“A fine question,” Vhok replied. “The answer to which I will keep to myself. But suffice to say I will have a means when the time comes. You risk nothing in accepting that answer, for I ask you to do nothing until I return. By that time, my preparations will be complete, and I will share my secret with you.”

And Helm Dwarf-friend, Vhok said to himself, I will witness your fall from grace. I will be the instrument of your utter and unending misery. Mark my words.

For a moment, the cambion reveled in the image of the human mercenary exposed as a fraud and a traitor to his own city. The half-fiend daydreamed the scene playing out, the folk of Sundabar gathered in the square, bearing witness to Dwarf-friend’s downfall and Vhok’s triumph.

A triumph that would not come to pass without the Banites’ aid.

“Very well,” Holt said, just a hint uncertainly. “We shall concede this secrecy to you for the moment. But we will

not seal this alliance, at least not yet. Though you have made a compelling case showing the mutual benefit of our cooperation, you have not assuaged my concerns over the outcome should you—we—fail. If we cannot unseat Helm Dwarf-friend from the Master’s Hall, you and your army simply return to your infernal pit beneath the ground, little the worse for wear. But we”—he gestured around the chamber—”we are drawn out, exposed, and our power crushed between the city and temples. That does not sit well with me. You must bring proof that you can lead the populace, control them. Only then will we lend you our aid.”

The chamber was quiet for some moments longer. Vhok again resisted the urge to grimace, though for a different reason. Dreadlord Holt Burukhan was a fanatic, but the half-fiend grudgingly acknowledged that he was not a complete fool. All the risk lay in the Banites’ lap, and the priests knew it.

No matter, Vhok thought. Once I have the power of the Lifespring, convincing them of the plan’s worth will be the simplest of things. They will feel foolish for ever doubting me. I will have this city. And Bane be damned.

The meeting was over. The gathered assemblage rose to their feet and began to slip out one by one, each by magical means of one sort or another. Vhok watched the priests as they vanished, leaving behind nothing more than a sparkle of magic or a zephyr of breeze to mark their passing. In moments, only he and Zasian remained behind.

“He is a fool,” Vhok said at last, sighing loudly. “A fool’s fool.”

The remark drew a raised eyebrow from Zasian. “Perhaps, but such comments are dangerous. He or his spies might be listening to us at this very moment.”

“It’s all right,” Vhok said. “I warded the room before we began tonight.”

Zasian nodded. “Wise,” he replied. “As did I. Burukhan rarely gives proper consideration to such precautions, I fear.”

“Exactly,” the cambion said. “A fool. And don’t think I don’t know you feel the same way about him, Zasian. I see the wisdom in your eyes—wisdom that flinches whenever that bag of winds speaks. For all his dedication and charisma, Dreadlord Holt Burukhan is not best suited to lead your church, Banite. You are far more able than he to command the hordes who worship your Black Hand.” Vhok knew he spoke that last bit with more sarcasm than was probably wise, but he couldn’t refrain from letting his true feelings trickle out.

Zasian seemed to ignore the jibe. “It is not so uncommon for a man to serve as the power behind a throne,” he said. “Sometimes the masses need a face—a ‘bag of winds’ who can work them into a fervor on his behalf—more than they need a wizened contemplator. I accomplish far more behind the scenes, away from the scrutiny he receives. Burukhan can be the king. I prefer the role of kingmaker.”