Emperor of Ansalon

Chapter 12

After sleeping for most of the day, Ariakas awakened to a steaming bath followed by a massage from his valet, Kandart. The man was a middle-aged Nerakan mute, completely attentive. Deciding that he enjoyed the life of nobility, the warrior followed his relaxation with a meal of tender roast lamb, and by the time he had briefly honed his white sword, it was time to set out once again into the streets of Sanction.

Ariakas had some difficultly finding the Fungus Mug; the bar occupied a street of seedy taverns in a district composed exclusively, so far as he could tell, of seedy taverns. His only clue was the West Bridge, and after an hour of fruitless searching he concluded that 'around the West Bridge' could serve as a direction to something like a thousand saloons and taverns.

And none of these thousand was a place called the Fungus Mug. He tried asking passersby and received replies varying from completely uninformative to down shy;right hostile. He began the second hour of his search along a dingy row of alleyways that ran perpendicular to the busy Bridge Road. Pedestrians hurried through these alleys, keeping their heads low and their ears alert. Here, too, flopped the destitute, the drunken, the losers at gambling … and anyone else temporarily bereft of lodg shy;ing and funds. Sometimes these pathetic wretches begged for alms-pleas that Ariakas inevitably ignored, or responded to with a kick of his heavy boot. Occasion shy;ally one would wait until he'd passed, and then slip toward the warrior's back. Ariakas whirled several times, half-drawing his huge sword; always the culprit scurried away.

In the third alleyway, he felt a glimmer of optimism. Several stocky characters trumped along in front of him, and though they were heavily cloaked, they looked like dwarves. Then, too, there was a scent on the air here that actually suggested mold and mildew, like a cellar that was flooded and left closed. In time, he saw the small sign, chiseled stone set in a wooden frame. Beneath a carved image of a stout drinking glass Ariakas made out the words: "The Fungus Mug." The stonecarver had added a curious detail to the mug: it seemed to be puff shy;ing out gentle clouds of steam, as if the contents were very hot.

Pushing through a low doorway, Ariakas was forced to duck his head. He remained stooped within, for the ceiling support beams were exactly the height of his fore shy;head. His first sensation was the overpowering smell he had detected in the alley-it was as if he had entered that cellar he had earlier imagined. The next thing he noticed was the nearly complete darkness of the inn. He could hear sounds of laughter and angry words exchanged in a variety of languages. Somewhere a glass broke, and a female voice joined the cacophony.

Ariakas bumped into a stone ceiling support and mut shy;tered in vexation. He massaged his forehead and groped his way past the obstacle. A huge fireplace stood in the far wall, and within the vast hearth the remains of a coal-fire smoldered. The embers did not cast much light, but slowly Ariakas made out vague details of his surround shy;ings.

There were many tables between him and the fire shy;place, and most of them seemed to be occupied. The laughing and bickering immediately around him ceased, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious. A long, low bar stood along one wall, and small oil flames glimmered in several places behind the bar. Hunched silhouettes showed Ariakas where the customers were, and by avoiding these he found a seat facing the barkeeper.

Sitting, he now got a good look at the little flames. Each flared beneath a copper kettle, and from these con shy;tainers steady clouds of steam escaped. He watched the bartender fetch several empty mugs from dwarven cus shy;tomers and refill them from the steaming pot. A waft of steam floated past his nose, and he realized that the warm liquid was the stuff he had smelled even out in the alleyway.

"What'U it be-I ain't got all night!"

The cantankerous voice drew his attention down, and he saw the shadowy outline of a dwarven barmaid, fists planted firmly on her hips, face upturned. Though he couldn't see details of her features, the irritation in her voice blended well with the other sounds of debate and disagreement in this place.

"An ale, cold as you've got it," he replied curtly.

"Don't get your hopes up," she retorted, ducking behind the bar. She drew a mug from a tap, and brought the stuff over to Ariakas.

The warrior flipped her a silver piece, declaring he'd be ready for another in a few minutes. When she marched off, presumably to harass a few more cus shy;tomers, he turned and slumped his elbows on the bar, wondering how to go about finding Tale Splintersteel. Tasting the brew, he found it palatable, if a bit more bitter than the grainy eastern ales he was used to-but nowhere near as bad as he had already decided the steaming stuff in the pots must be.

Looking up and down the bar, his eyes grew further accustomed to the gloom. The warrior observed several other humans, but most of the customers had the short, stocky outline of dwarves. He noticed, with curiosity, that the dwarven figures were universally cloaked in dark cloth, often with garments wound so tightly as to expose only eyes and mouth. Others had their faces free, but hid their features within deep hoods. Though the dwarves used their hands frequently, both for drinking and for communicating, they all wore gloves. Often they gestured with clenched fist right in the face of a com shy;rade, and he saw several dwarves shoving each other back and forth brutally. Among humans, he would have expected such duels to explode into fights, but the dwarves seemed able to settle their differences thus, with one or the other finally conceding and the whole group sitting back down.

"Well, drink up if you want another-like I said, I ain't got all night!" The barmaid barked at him, appearing suddenly out of the darkness. Her face glowered at him from the depths of her hood. The dwarf woman's skin seemed pocked and rough, though Ariakas could see no details in the dim illumination.

He drained his mug, and when she returned with the refill, he asked a question. "That stuff in the pots. what is it?"

"Tea," she explained brusquely.

Ariakas grabbed her shoulder as she turned to go.

"What's it made from?"

She looked at him fiercely, apparently torn between bashing him on the jaw and answering his question. "Mushrooms. Zhakar mushrooms," she answered, jerk shy;ing free of his grasp and starting through the darkness again.

He regarded the pungent scent critically. So the Zhakar dwarves liked 'mushroom tea,' he reflected with a grimace-quite a difference from the other dwarves he had known, all of whom preferred drink of a much stronger nature.

His curiosity grew. What horrid plague effects caused them to cloak themselves so heavily? And if the argu shy;mentative atmosphere in the bar were any indication, they were more hostile and unpleasant than any other dwarves he'd encountered-and that included a fair number who lacked social grace.

At this point he didn't even try to solve the problem of meeting Tale Splintersteel. He could barely get two words out of the barmaid who worked here-he could imagine the reaction he'd get if he asked to meet the most important Zhakar in Sanction. His reflections were interrupted by a startling clap on his shoulder. Ariakas reached instinctively for his sword, then held his hand at the sound of a familiar voice.

"So, warrior-our schemes bring us together again in Sanction!" Ferros Windchisel's hearty words sent a sur shy;prising jolt of pleasure through Ariakas.

"Your escape was successful I see. Congratulations!" The man pumped the dwarf's hand as the Hylar slumped onto the seat adjacent to Ariakas. He felt a warm flush of friendship; the presence of Ferros brought back the memories of his stay in the tower.

"And you, too-though I began to wonder. I kept my eyes on that drawbridge for a couple of days and didn't see any sign of you coming out."

"No-as it was, storms closed in before we could leave. I was trapped there for the winter," Ariakas said softly. He couldn't bring himself to tell Ferros that it had all been a test, and that his reward had been the 'pris shy;oner' in the top level of the tower. "I didn't get to Sanc shy;tion until a few days ago."

"You did what?" sputtered Ferros Windchisel. "What about the ogres?"

"You did a great job of leading them away," Ariakas said with a grin. "The snow was so deep after the first storm that they couldn't get close to the mountain."

"By the way, you're looking good," Ferros noted. "Your face isn't in two pieces anymore."

Ariakas scowled, annoyed by the reminder of his encounter with the two kender. "It healed over the win shy;ter," he explained tersely.

Ferros squinted at the human and then shook his head with a rueful grin. "Pretty gutsy, that-to live in an ogre den."

Ariakas squirmed uneasily, uncomfortable with the knowledge that, like himself, Ferros Windchisel had been a pawn in the Dark Queen's test.

"I wish I'd had that luxury," the dwarf continued, grumbling good-naturedly. He shook his head. "One night I had to kick a bear out of a cave just to get a place to sleep. And those ogres weren't any too pleased with me, either. Had to bop a couple of 'em when they kept following me too close."

"Did you winter in the mountains?"

"Nope-made it into the lower valleys before the heaviest snows hit, then I was able to clomp down into Sanction by mid-Cold-Rust. You'd be surprised how warm it stays around here, what with these mountains smoking and belching all the time."

"You've been here all that time?" inquired Ariakas, surprised. "I thought you had some pressing business to attend to."

"I do!" Ferros agreed, subconsciously lowering his voice and looking furtively around. All the nearby dwarves argued and bickered with their comrades, pay shy;ing the two companions no attention whatsoever.

"You knew about my quest?"

"Only that you had a reason for exploring the Khal-kists," said Ariakas. "You never told me about it."

"I came here looking for dwarves," Ferros Windchisel explained without preamble. "All the way from Thorbar-din-on the trail four years before I got captured by ogres."

"Thorbardin?" Ariakas had heard of the place. The name conjured pictures of dwarven legions gathered under the banner of the mountain dwarf king. When considered from his own eastern homeland, Thorbardin was impossibly distant, so far removed that it might have been located on another world.

"Aye. What I wouldn't give for a smooth ferry-ride across the Urkhan Sea," Ferros mused. "Thorbardin's a wonder, you know-I'm amazed that I ever got around to leaving."

"Why did you leave?" Ariakas asked. "If you were looking for dwarves, I'd have thought you were in the right place before you started."

Ferros chuckled. "That I was. But, see, I know about the dwarves in Thorbardin-we all do. I'm looking for signs of dwarves that we've lost touch with. Several of my Hylar clansmen have set out on this quest in the last decades. We look for kingdoms around the whole of the continent that, since the Cataclysm, have been closed off from one another."

"And you believe that one of those kingdoms is in the Khalkists?"

"I did believe-now I know!" hissed the Hylar, his voice confirming the triumph of his discovery.

"You've heard, then, of Zhakar?" asked Ariakas.

Ferros looked somewhat deflated. "So, someone told you already, huh? Yup, that's the place."

"Good luck," the warrior noted wryly. "I've heard they kill anyone who even gets close to their borders. No one even knows where it lies!"

"Except for the Zhakar themselves," said Ferros, ges shy;turing to the dwarves crowded around them.

"That's why you're here? To get directions?"

"An invitation would be even better. I've learned they have a head honcho here in Sanction. I figure if I could talk to him, tell him why I'm looking for Zhakar … well, that'll be someplace to start, at least."

"You're looking for Tale Splintersteel, I take it?" Aria-kas asked.

Ferros managed to look crestfallen and indignant at the same time. "Do you know everything about these guys?" he groused. "Here you get to town yesterday and already you've learned what I've scraped together in the last three months!"

"Cheer up," Ariakas said. "I'm sure there's something you know that I don't."

"I don't even know what brings you into this tea-dive," Ferros complained.

"As a matter of fact, I'm looking to meet Tale Splinter-steel myself."

"So you know him, then?"

"I don't even know what he looks like," the warrior admitted.

"There I've got you!" crowed Ferros. "I not only know what he looks like, I know where he's sitting!"

Ariakas nodded, impressed. "Care to share that infor shy;mation?"

Ferros made a pretense of considering his request, then grinned good-naturedly. He nodded toward the darkest corner of the bar, where Ariakas discerned noth shy;ing more than indistinct shadows gathered around an unusually long table.

"Splintersteel's the one at the head of the table," Ferros explained. "The only dwarf I've seen in here who doesn't get a lot of lip."

"Well, let's go talk to him," suggested Ariakas, rising to his feet. At first he wondered if Ferros were about to object, but then the Hylar shrugged and stood beside him. The human warrior pushed his way through the Zhakar huddled at the various tables, working toward that darkened alcove.

Gradually the bar fell silent around them. The dwar-ven customers suspiciously watched the pair.

"Watch my back," the warrior hissed as quietly as he could, and he felt Ferros clap him on the shoulder to sig shy;nify that he'd heard.

By the time they reached the long table, the Fungus Mug had fallen silent as a still winter night. This close, he could see perhaps a dozen dwarves seated along the sides of the table, and each of them seemed to have his hands out of sight. The warrior readily imagined that each held a weapon-they could easily leap to their leader's defense if Ariakas should make any suspicious move.

Stiffly, he bowed to the dwarf, who was still half-buried in shadows, the man's eyes shifting back and forth between the bodyguards to either side of the table. "Tale Splintersteel?" he inquired. "I request the honor of an interview.. regarding a business matter that may yield considerable profit."

"Impossible!" snapped the dark figure at the table.

When he didn't elaborate, Ariakas pressed, his tone hard. "Why is it impossible?"

"Your companion …" replied Tale Splintersteel. "His very presence is an affront to me and my people. He should have the decency to remove himself from my sight."

"Hey, you're no pretty boy yourself!" snapped Ferros Windchisel. "Talking about affronts-"

"Perhaps you could wait over there," Ariakas said softly provoking a sputter of indignation.

"I will grant you your interview, human," noted Tale Splintersteel, "if you will first grant me a small entertain shy;ment."

"I'm no harpist," growled Ariakas.

"Not that kind of entertainment-but something that falls well within your obvious skills."

"What do you have in mind?" Ariakas felt an ominous sense of suspicion.

"Kill the mountain dwarf. We shall discuss your busi shy;ness over his bleeding remains," suggested Tale Splinter-steel conversationally.

"Hey-get your hands off me!" demanded Ferros Windchisel. Ariakas whirled to see three or four Zhakar bearing the Hylar to the floor, though Ferros kicked and punched, throwing two of the Khalkist dwarves off.

In that split second, Ariakas made his decision. His hands grasped the sword hilt over his left shoulder, and with one whistling slice the white blade flew from the scabbard, whipped through the air, and cut a deep gouge in the shoulder of the Zhakar holding Ferros's arm. With a cry, the wounded dwarf dropped to the ground, and the entire bar exploded into uproar. Ferros cursed and drew a small axe from his belt, forcefully chopping his other captor.

"Kill them both!" howled Tale Splintersteel, leaping to his feet and gesturing his followers forward. Even in the confusion, Ariakas was surprised to note that the influ shy;ential Zhakar was little more than three feet tall-a foot shorter than Ferros Windchisel.

Then armed dwarves surged at them from all sides. "Back to back!" the warrior shouted, and the Hylar piv shy;oted to match his own maneuver. The two fighters fended off a press of Zhakar dwarves, Ariakas driving his white blade over and over into the crowd of shadowy figures.

"Hold, you fools!" Tale's voice rose to hysterical levels, and the chaotic crowd of attackers paused for a moment.

"Form ranks!"

"Quick-over here!" grunted Ferros, darting toward the wall of the large room. Ariakas followed, realizing that their slim chances improved if they could get solid cover at their backs.

"After them!" cried Tale Splintersteel. The horde of howling Zhakar must have numbered a hundred or more, and as Ariakas killed the first two it seemed that ten-twenty! — more leapt in to take their places. He grunted as a steel blade bit into his arm, and then cursed as another cut gouged his knee-even as both attackers fell dead from the lightning-fast back-and-forth of his counterblows.

"I'm down!" gasped Ferros Windchisel, collapsing back against the wall, pierced by a Zhakar sword.

Ariakas stepped to the side, straddling the body of his friend as the rabid dwarves lunged closer, driven to fury by the prospect of victory. The slashing of that white blade couldn't hold them at bay for long. His weapon seemed to be the only brightness in the place, gleaming like ivory as it rose and fell. What was it about that sword?

Call on her name in a cause that pleases her, and the great fury of her vengeance will be revealed in your hand.

"Well, Queen," he muttered. "If ever I've had a dire need, this is it!" He brandished the sword, not sure what to expect. A sneaking Zhakar hacked a deep cut into his thigh, and he shouted in pain. Blood trickled down his leg, and Ariakas wanted to slump back to the wall. Only the knowledge of Ferros Windchisel's inevitable fate kept him on his feet.

Snarling his frustration, Ariakas swung the weapon hard enough to decapitate the Zhakar who had wounded him. "Please, Mistress!" he cried, in real desperation. "In the name of Takhisis, all-powerful Queen of Darkness, please come to my aid!"

The hilt trembled in his hand, groaning with a sound reminiscent of the crushing avalanches he had heard throughout the winter. A deep rumbling shook the very foundations of the inn. Even the Zhakar sensed the dis shy;turbance, ceasing their attacks and falling silent in suspi shy;cion and fear.

Abruptly, a blast of cold air slashed him in the face, and a noise like a howling blizzard shrieked through the Fungus Mug. Wind eddied and swirled, driving stinging needles of ice against Ariakas-but that was nothing compared to the fate of those who stood at the other end of his sword. An explosive cone of murderous frost swept outward, freezing flesh and blood, slaying dozens of shocked, terrified Zhakar in the instant of its assault. Whirlwinds gusted through the room, sweeping over tables and chairs, frosting clothing and skin into brittle sheets of ice. Across the room, shutters erupted outward, and the howling of wind rose.

In panic, the surviving Zhakar ran screaming away from this nightmarish warrior and his deadly weapon. Ariakas looked for Tale Splintersteel in the crush, but he could see no sign of the dwarven merchant-lord. Their business was not concluded yet.

As a wide circle opened around him, Ariakas seized Ferros under one shoulder and roughly lifted the Hylar to his feet. Supporting his injured companion in one hand and brandishing the blade in the other, the man slowly dragged them both from the Fungus Mug. Dur shy;ing his deliberate advance to the door, none of the Zhakar made a move against him, perhaps because fully a quarter of the bar was filled with frozen dwarf statues, mute reminders of the price of resistance. The rest had been frozen by fear.

Finally, the pair tumbled across the threshold and into the alleyway beyond. A crowd had gathered, but these humans and Zhakar quickly parted as Ariakas, growling as he breathed, half carried Ferros away from the Fungus Mug. He stopped for a moment, realizing that he still bore his sword. As he moved to resheath the weapon, Ariakas looked at his sword and nearly dropped the dwarf in his astonishment.

The gleaming blade, once pure white, had changed to an absolutely unblemished sheen of darkest, inky black.