The Dragons

Chapter 30

1191 PC

Rallak Thartan was a stout, elderly cloth merchant, fortunate enough to have inherited a family stall in one of Xak Tsaroth’s most affluent neighborhoods. Business was good, as it had been since his great-grandfather had first sent a caravan to Tarsis in search of silk. Through his practice of starting work early and staying late, Rallak Thartan had grown to dominate the fabric market in the entire quarter of the city surrounding his modest shop.

Normally these work habits entailed the diligent merchant arriving at his home well past sunset, long after his competitors had closed up shop. But today, as he had done with increasing frequency of late, he decided to pull the shutters in midafternoon and hurry home to the welcoming arms of his wife.

For, lately, those arms had been very welcoming indeed.

It had all begun with a gift, a bauble Rallak Thartan had given his young wife a few months earlier. A simple red sphere, of large size and pure crimson color, it was an orb that was unique and fascinating in a strange way. The globe was beautiful of shade and perfect of shape, and there was nothing like it in any other house in this part of Xak Tsaroth.

Yet to the merchant, the stone had at first represented neither beauty nor a means toward his wife’s affections. It had been, purely and simply, a matter of revenge.

Rallak was still amazed at the fluke of events that had led him to gain possession of the bauble. After all, the orb had belonged for a long time to the House of Garlot, one of the Thartan clan’s major trading rivals for five generations. The venerable patriarch of House Garlot had won the sphere more than a hundred years ago in a clever trade with a dishonest dwarven peddler. The Garlots had displayed the crimson orb in their shop’s anteroom, and it had long been the envy of Xak Tsaroth’s mercantile circles.

Yet time brought changes, and the House of Garlot had eventually suffered a run of bad luck, most notably the state of raving insanity to which the current heir had succumbed. Finally, upon the recent occasion of his rival’s bankruptcy, which would have been cause for Rallak Thartan’s celebration in its own right, the merchant had gained possession of the crimson bauble.

Though he had at first been unimpressed by the physical appearance and qualities of the sphere, which was too spongy to be an actual stone, Rallak Thartan’s wife had been thrilled. She had installed the crimson orb in a place of honor, an alcove in their sleeping chamber, and had it mounted upon a stand of pure gold. Lately he had even wondered if the thing was glowing, for he had noticed a subtle illumination seeping through the shadows of night, a crimson glow that was somehow very similar to that shed by a fading, but still very hot, bed of coals.

Now he hurried home through the busy streets of the city, anxious to hear the latest word about his wife’s treasure. Lately, each day had brought a new development, or so it had seemed. At least, his young bride had eagerly reported to him the details of a seemingly enchanted series of transformations.

She had been pleased to observe the subtle expansion occurring as the crimson orb literally seemed to swell. She had remarked upon flickers of movement within the orb, ripples that periodically showed upon the smooth surface. And, of course, like Rallak Thartan himself, she was delighted by the aura of embers that seemed to emanate from the globe during the darkest hours of the night.

And when Rallak Thartan’s wife was delighted, she had a way of making sure that he was delighted as well. He reflected upon his own good fortune with a bawdy chuckle. The merchant was a man of mature years, ample paunch, and carefully cultivated dignity, but his wife was much younger than he. Her own enthusiasms carried over to him, and lately he had found himself feeling more youthful than he had in years, even decades. And so much of it seemed to have to do with this precious treasure-the stone that clearly wasn’t a stone at all.

He strolled through the entryway of his palatial manor, mildly distressed that his maidservant had failed to open the door to greet him. Still, even that irritation was fleeting. How could he be angry when his mind was anxiously wondering about his wife’s latest surprise?

Up the stairs he lumbered, thinking that the house was strangely silent around him. Where were the sounds from the kitchen, the cooks and maids going about their chores? Still, he wasn’t particularly worried, not even when he caught a faint whiff of char on the air. Somebody had merely been careless with the fireplace ashes; surely that was all.

The blood on the satin quilt of his mattress gave him the first hint that something was terribly amiss. The appalling discovery of his wife’s headless corpse, lying in the alcove where the treasure was kept on display, provided the second.

The third and final piece of the puzzle was delivered by widespread jaws surprisingly powerful for their size, and equipped with rows of needle-sharp teeth. The gaping mouth darted like a striking snake from the tangle of a curtain that had fallen and was now bundled carelessly on the floor. Like a vise the crimson maw closed around Rallak Thartan’s head… and twisted.

Aku Ben Vyneer hauled back on the reins, and the plodding camel shuffled to a halt. With an irritated spit, the animal chomped placidly while the rider climbed down. With a wave of his hand, Ben Vyneer gestured for the file of camels and horses following in his tracks to stop. The men of the long caravan wasted little time in setting up camp. Tents rose with the ease of long practice, and small cooking fires were started, the aroma of strong tea soon wafting through the encampment.

A sea of dunes rolled to the horizon on all sides, unmarred by any sign of an oasis. Nearby, ancient pillars and crumbling walls marked the scene of a waterless ruin. Normally Ben Vyneer would have spent the last few hours of daylight in a steady push forward, urging his tired mounts and men to keep moving, determined to cross this waste in as a short a time as possible. After all, there was no part of Estwilde-or all Ansalon, for that matter-that was so dry, so barren, as this inhospitable desert.

But, strangely, Aku Ben Vyneer had an interest more profound than even the pursuit of profit that normally governed his existence. It was this interest, perhaps even obsession, that had caused him to order the caravan to such an early halt. Now he stalked about the bustling camp with visible agitation, shouting orders, barking relentless criticism, increasingly distraught as he waited for one particular task.

Thus his men wasted no time in erecting the tent of bright blue silk-the shelter he had recently ordered, specifically made to house his greatest treasure. Once the tent had been pitched, the men left their master to his own pursuits. Ben Vyneer entered the tent and took his place on a soft cushion that had been placed before a large chest, a chest for which he alone held the key.

How long and hard had been the road that led him to this end? He reflected on the question with deep pleasure, allowing himself a moment of tantalizing anticipation before he released the lock. For years he had bargained to gain possession of this chest and its unique contents, even selling his most beautiful daughter to the previous owner, in a clear and well-stated exchange.

But then, when that owner had reneged upon his promise, Aku Ben Vyneer had no choice. Yesterday he had killed the wretched thief, then stolen this most precious of treasures during the dark of the night. Today he had led his caravan far into the desert before daring to stop and inspect his find.

With an unsteady hand, he reached out to take the key in his trembling fingers. He turned the chip of brass in the lock, scarcely daring to breathe as he felt the catch of the latch release. He forced himself to be calm as he reached out with both hands, holding steadily to the sides of the sturdy chest.

Aku Ben Vyneer opened the lid, prepared to gasp in delight at the beauteous treasure within.

But instead he grunted in sudden dismay. Shaking, he pushed the lid back, leaping to his feet to peer into the shadowy container.

The blue orb remained there, but there was a pasty flaking to the perfect surface that had not been there a few days earlier when Ben Vyneer had last inspected his-at that time future-treasure.

“What is happening, my bauble?” he asked, reaching out a hand to touch the blue surface that had once been such a perfectly reflective turquoise. “Has someone harmed you?”

To his surprise, he felt a tiny tingle of a spark as his fingers stroked the smooth sphere. And then the orb moved, pulsing with a very definite, throbbing expansion of its upper surface.

Ben Vyneer fell to his knees, pressing his face to the carpeted floor of the tent, and it was in this posture that the blue dragon found him when it emerged. The wyrmling wasted no time in killing the nomad with a bite to the back of his exposed neck.

Then, well contented, the blue dragon hatchling settled down to its first meal.

The hooded priests gathered in their damp cellar, within a darkened shack at the terminus of a shadow-cloaked alley amid one of the bleakest of Sanction’s wretched slums. Each member of the cult entered alone, with a careful look back and forth in the dark lane to make sure he wasn’t observed. The surreptitious visitors wore robes of dark gray or brown, each walking silently and alone, casting furtive glances that seemed perfectly at home in this city of evil and greed.

One after another the secret members gathered, passing through the incense-filled stall of the spice shop that ostensibly gave this building a reason for existing. Within, each of the mysterious figures repeated the same process: He went to a trapdoor that was designed to look just like the rotted planks of the floor. After checking again for observers, he silently raised the portal and entered.

Moving down the stairway concealed below, the priest joined his fellows in the secret sanctuary, a room of dank, muddy walls, and worn and ancient benches. But these were mere accessories, unimportant attendants to the thing that had founded this order and was now responsible for drawing the group together.

Pulling the heavy cowls of their hoods forward so that each face was fully lost in thick shadows, they huddled around the sacred orb-the treasure that gave them a focus of faith in the tortured chaos that was Sanction. Though the order of secret priests had been in existence for many decades, an air of expectancy had settled around the members during recent months, and this meeting was one of the results.

The orb was a sphere of perfect blackness resting on a marble dais, raised above the assembly of faithful priests. These hooded clerics murmured quietly, until gradually the sounds rose to a steady, rhythmic chant.

Abruptly a robe was pulled away from a slight figure, and a young woman was revealed. A gag distorted her face, tightly binding her mouth, muffling her frantic pleas and outcries. Cruel bonds wrapped her arms and legs, preventing any movement beyond the frantic twisting and thrashing that she commenced as soon as she was revealed. The woman struggled with a vengeance, her eyes wide with terror as she was stretched on the floor before the orb of darkness. Her bonds were then slashed, but only so that her wrists and ankles could be outspread and fastened with metal-studded straps.

The chanting built slowly, still soft but possessed of an urgency, or perhaps even a hunger, that had been lacking moments before. The helpless victim saw the knife as it emerged from the cowl of a black sleeve. A single scream pierced the gloom, breaking through the confinement of the gag as the blade slashed forward, and then, mercifully, her sufferings were over.

Then the sphere of blackness started to pulse, a rhythmic thrumming that grew in speed and intensity. The priests chanted with frantic hope, all eyes fixed upon the sacred orb. Within the cellar, the sound rose to a keening wail.

The rip came suddenly as something terrible and shiny, serpentine and black, pushed through the surface of the collapsing sphere. Acid spurted, a spume of searing liquid sweeping through a full circle, hissing into flesh and cloth, leaving the priests blinded, writhing on the floor, uttering shrieks that slowly faded to moans, ragged breathing, or utter silence.

These were not sounds worthy of attention in Sanction, so there was none who came to see what had happened.

The black, slime-covered serpent slithered down from the marble dais and crept to the nearest of the priests. This wretch, though blinded and crippled by the acid, was not yet dead, and his groans rose into piteous wails as the serpent began to feed.