Lady of Poison

CHAPTER 17

A bone petal fell from the stem of the flower. It fell only half a foot to the slab of rough cut stone that supported the flower’s vase. In a way completely unlike a flower, the petal cratered the stone slab as if shot from a crossbow. The sound of its impact thundered around the petrified walls of the Close. The new crater overlaid another, slightly older crater. Only a single petal remained.

One of the two figures standing near the slab said simply, “Anammelech is dead.”

Damanda had spoken. She had entered the Close to confer with her lord when the petal fell. She looked at the final remaining petal. The remaining petal signified her connection with her master who stood nearby. In the aftermath of the other petal’s impact, she was the most important agent to the Talontyr’s campaign north of the Great Dale by dint of survival alone. Her brother blightlords were dead. She remained to be tested.

The Rotting Man cursed, using a language once reserved for raising abominations by a race not native to Faerun. No living creature had spoken that language for eight thousand years, but such was the heat of the Talontyr’s fury that he broke an ancient covenant in breathing the words aloud. Each syllable crystallized into a locustlike entity with hatred for blood and a carapace of shimmering purple. With an effort of will, the Rotting Man switched to a less potent tongue, one with less likelihood of its merest utterance binding even his soul to an unmentionable darkness.

The shimmering creatures buzzed about the Rotting Man’s head for a moment, surprised by their release from whatever nether dimension they had resided. Damanda stiffened, wondering if she was going to be tested sooner than she expected. The curse-born insects buzzed away like misshapen horseflies but quicker, and with malice aforethought.

“Are those something I’ll have to deal with too?” wondered Damanda, waving after the flitting creatures. She figured that with the way things were shaping up, the Rotting Man couldn’t afford to lose another lieutenant to one of his fits of rage.

The Talontyr, cloaked in his swathe of rot, ceased his curse rampage. He spoke, his voice initially unsteady from its unintended foray, “I rather think yes. Later. We have more pressing tasks to attend.”

“The cleric and his small band?” asked Damanda, though she already knew the answer.

What else had so occupied her lord’s mind these last few tendays? The Rotting Man was quiet with the details, but whoever the “cleric” was, the Talontyr seemed consumed with reports of his progress, which he received from agents unknown to Damanda, or perhaps via simple spells of divination.

The Talontyr answered, “Gameliel’s failure seemed an accident, but Anammelech’s breakdown indicates a trend, don’t you think, pretty Damanda?” He extended fingers not quite bereft of flesh, running them through the air near the blightlord’s face, coming close, but not touching, Damanda’s pale features.

Despite her special nature, she was still relieved to avoid that touch. She said, “The cleric and his group have had their successes, but their path seems clear. They are coming here. No matter their power, they can’t hope to stand against you, Talona’s favored, and your strongest servants, not to mention your… project.”

The cloaked figure laughed then. Damanda was inured to unpleasantness, but she still had to resist stopping up her ears to keep that sound out.

Still chuckling, the Rotting Man said, “Your fellows had but one taskbring the Child of Light to me here in the Close. In their incompetence, they not only lost their lives, but they also impeded the cleric, who had already decided to bring that which I seek directly to me in his own misjudged initiative.”

Damanda said nothing but leaned closer to indicate her interest.

“You wonder how I know all this? There is a spy in the Nentyarch’s Court. Yes, it’s true. He has served our cause before with bits of information channeled through Anammelech, but he took an audacious step. He revealed himself. In a bid to leapfrog his way into Anammelech’s heart and good graces, Fallon has plucked the Child of Light from the cleric and even now seeks to deliver the Child directly to me.”

“Fallon? Who’s he?”

“One of the Nentyarch’s hunters. Anammelech turned him. This Nentyar hunter is in our pocket. Anammelech has kept me appraised of Fallon’s reports and progress.”

Damanda frowned, realizing her brother blightlord had accomplishments in some areas greater than her own, another reason to be glad that Anammelech was not around to receive the Rotting Man’s accolades.

“Anammelech had a delightful ambush arranged.” Some of the joviality left the Talontyr’s demeanor. “That ambush seems to have backfired, but I pray that Fallon is still ahead of the cleric and that the traitor elf has the Child of Light with him.”

“Does he?” wondered Damanda. “We just ‘saw’ Anammelech fall, how can we be sure that Fallon is not also dead, and the Child of Light back in the hands of the cleric?”

Her voice was tight. She wondered what force had overtaken her, making her question her master and thereby precipitate harm to herself. The Rotting Man was not one to gainsay without consequence. Of course, most harm could not long impair her, given her supernatural resilience.

The Rotting Man shook with some unnamed palsy but did not strike down Damanda. He turned and walked a few short strides. He stopped before one of the great petrified trees that formed the periphery of the Close.

He said, “Anammelech plans ahead. He equipped his spy with a means to communicate with his paymaster. I can also access that communication link.”

The Talontyr began to spew syllables toward the tree, giving voice to a rough and somehow obscenely urgent chant. He ran his slender digits across the gnarled bark, caressing it. The dead wood began to shift and mold itself, soon-enough forming the likeness of a face. Damanda thought the features seemed elven and possibly masculine. Sometimes it was hard to be sure with that androgynous race.

The face spoke, saying in a weak voice, as if relayed from a great distance, “Who’s there? Is that you, Anammelech?” Though the face was that of an elf, its texture was that of petrified wood, briefly animate through the workings of the Talontyr’s sorcery.

“It is to Anammelech’s master you speak,” intoned the Talontyr.

The expression on the woody face grew slack with amazement then fear. When it could speak, the face sputtered, “My Lord, I… Where is Anammelech?”

“Anammelech is dead, Fallon. He fell to those who pursue you.”

“Marrec and Elowen? I didn’t think they had the power to contest a blightlord. Where are they?” squeaked the voice, its spike in tone betraying sudden apprehension.

“I don’t know their precise location, Fallon, but you can be assured that as we speak they are growing closer to you. You have only a small chance to escape them, but you will, if you do as I command,” instructed the Rotting Man. “If you fail, they’ll likely kill you. Don’t think that I won’t summon your spirit, from whatever afterlife it attempts to find, so that I can punish you for your failure. I have devised punishments that even the dead fear to feel.”

Damanda knew that last boast to be true.

“Of course, my lord. Instruct me,” shuddered the faraway voice of Fallon.

“They will catch you if you stay above ground. You must lead them into a trap, below the boggy forest.”

“Below?”

“Yes. This forest was a dark place, even before my arrival,” chuckled the Rotting Man. “Why do you suppose the Nentyarch placed his seat of power here in the center of the Rawlinswood? To seal the unquiet Nar demons that still walk the blind paths below us. To stopper up Under-Tharos.”

“Nar demons?” quavered Fallon.

“Do not interrupt me, elf. You may not know it, but Dun Tharos extends its crypt-like tunnels deep underground, though the Rawlinswood has choked shut most entrances. While my Close sits at the center of Dun Tharos on the surface, the extent of the city is far vaster below ground, showing only its tip here in the light. In truth, the Close is surrounded by a subterranean complex of great plazas and wrecked temples devoted to demonic powers. The treasures of NarfelPs fallen lords lie in buried storehouses and underground conjuring chambers. It was one of the reasons I chose to take this place as my own. Secrets can be had here that even I, Talona’s favored, could stand to learn.”

“I am to venture into this complex?”

“You are. I am sending Damanda to meet you. She can guide you through some of the most dangerous portions.”

The blightlord smiled slightly upon hearing her name and the purpose the Rotting Man intended for her. She always enjoyed a chance to walk Under-Tharos. She was a seeker after lost secrets, too.

The Rotting Man continued, “You must keep pressing forward, Fallon. The demons bound by the sorcerers of fallen Narfell sleep; you can pass by them, but they are sensitive to the presence of mortal life, and in your wake they shall open their eyes. The cleric and his band will find roused demons barring their path. They will be turned back, or they will be killed. Either way, I succeed.”

Fallon had the temerity to stutter, “What if a demon gets me and this child that you prize?”

“Keep moving. Do not linger in any one area too long. Do this, and you will live. Stay alive until Damanda reaches you. That is the only task you have. If by chance you should fail… well, the child whom you accompany may survive events that your frail flesh cannot, but I’d rather not put that surmise to the test.”

“How will I find an entrance?” asked Fallon’s rigid image.

In answer, the Talontyr touched the animate wooden mask on the forehead. The face screamed in sudden pain. The wood lost its coherence and gradually flattened back to stiff, petrified uniformity. The scream faded slowly away.

The Rotting Man turned to Damanda. “I implanted the location of the entrance directly into his mind. It seemed easiest.” His eyes narrowed “My new pawn will be entering through the Barrow of the Queen Abiding. It is the Barrow onto which the Arches of Xenosi connect, after all. He’s nearly on top of the entrance already. From there, he has a fairly straight path to us here at the center.”

“What about the Lurker in the Middle?” asked Damanda. She remembered the name from another of the Rotting Man’s foray’s into the dungeons. That group had found the main passage contested by a creature, perhaps a demon, though that was uncertain, of considerable power. “Won’t Fallon and the child have to pass the Lurker to reach here, not to mention all the rest?”

“That’s why I’m sending you. Intercept him before the reaches the Middle Lurker. Keep the child safe from the Lurker. I do not much care what happens to Fallon, of course. He may serve as a useful distraction, should the Lurker prove too formidable. In fact, when I touched his mind, I implanted a seedling of control that should render him incapable of doing anything other than what I command.”

Damanda took a deep breath. “As you will, Lord. Allow me to take my leave, so that I can make preparations. I should depart immediately.”

The Rotting Man waved her away, saying, “I expect to see you again soon, Damanda, with the child by your side.”

“You shall.”

Fallon’s head pounded, as if someone had driven a spike through his skull. He couldn’t quite recall where he was…

The elf studied his surroundingsbroken cobbles, through which sickly grass protruded, and nearby, hooves. His gaze climbed higher, and he saw the pony and the child seated quietly in her saddle. A silent expanse of gray forest enclosed them to either side, though they were within a partially clear lane. He remembered his conversation with the Rotting Man, then, and groaned.

In fact, the pounding in his head was an image of the lane, brutally imprinted on his consciousness. In his mind’s eye, a spectral map revealed that the lane completely petered out at the foot of an overgrown mound not far from where he lay. Knowledge on how to open the mound, no, the barrow, rose like gorge in his throat. He groaned again, loudernot good.

The elf was in pain, but he rose to his feet in a fluid motion, a testament to his race. The square of a cobble had pressed a red mark into his face.

Fallon considered, rubbing his jaw. Anammelech had assured him that Fallon’s pursuers were as good as dead, but it was Anammelech who had departed the flesh. The blightlord’s killers were probably right behind him. While being caught by those who thought him a betrayer was an unsettling thought, he was more afraid of his apparent new status in Rawlinswood. He answered directly to the Rotting Man.

As Anammelech’s secret ear in the court of the Nentyarch, he was well rewarded. Other than his last act, the kidnapping of a child, he’d never taken any outright action that made him feel as if he was actively betraying the Nentyarch. With Anammelech’s death, his service had apparently passed directly into the Talontyr’s keeping. He wasn’t foolish enough to regard that status shift as a good thing. He didn’t know what would be asked of him next. More worrisome, he was pretty sure the Rotting Man cared not at all for Fallon’s safety.

Looking through the growth of the forest, he knew that his options were limited. He was in too deep. If he fled his commitment to the Rotting Man, he did not doubt that he’d turn up dead quick enough. Even if he did escape, the Nentyarch and his hunters would dispense their own justice, if they should find him. The only thing to do was soldier on. The pain in his head seemed to promise worse should he fail in that decision.

Fallon took the pony’s reins. The small horse’s eyes rolled in its sockets, but the child on its back had a calming influence on the beast. The little girl, about five years old, judged the elf, sat her saddle quietly, oblivious to her state and surroundings.

Fallon said, “You’ve brought me a lot of trouble, girl.” No response. He’d expected none. He wondered if he could get some sort of reaction out of his captive.

“Lucky I don’t have your skin for a cloak. That’s probably what the Rotting Man has in store for you.”

The calm blink she treated him with belied any discomfiture the child might be feeling. He shrugged. The girl was damaged, despite everyone’s interest in her. He hoped her state was known to the Talontyrhe didn’t want to be blamed for her shortcomings. Still, he couldn’t help feeling the slightest bit sorry for the little tyke…

He hastily put that thought from his mind. Down that road lay a quantity of self-recrimination that Fallon was not prepared to accept. Considering the consequences of his actions on others was something for which he knew he didn’t have the moral fortitude.

Fallon led the pony and its rider along the evaporating lane. He hadn’t seen a stone arch for the last several hundred feet, and cobblestones were few and far between. He might as well have been walking through native forest.

The barrow was visible ahead. Brown grass covered it, though bare patches of earth showed through in many places. Only his “gift” of knowledge from the Talontyr alerted him to the mound’s significance.

He moved to the edge of the earthen heap, raised one hand and inscribed a sign on the air, according to his special instructions. By the time he finished tracing the sigil, the lines he’d imagined solidified to visibility in the air.

“Huh,” he commented, surprised.

The sign, a complex figure featuring a star inscribed within the circumference of a circle, pulsed though the color spectrum, beginning then ending in coal black. Without further fanfare, the floating symbol fell on the face of the mound, enlarging in size as it fell, so that the diameter of the figure easily reached ten feet across as it impacted the earth. The figure melted away, but as it did so, the earth framed within the circle did likewise.

An earthen staircase descended downward, the steps small and cramped, the angle steep. A rush of stale, dusty air plumed from the opening, blowing back Fallon’s hair.

He nodded appreciatively at the entrance’s appearance then frowned.

Fallon lifted Ash from her saddle, setting her on her feet. He said to the small horse, “You’ve reached the end of your use, damn the luck.”

Fallon pulled his sword free, deciding to tie up a loose end. The pony continued to stand peacefully without moving.

At the last moment, he held back with his intended thrust. Too much thinking about consequences, damn him. Ash’s mount fixed the former Nentyar hunter with his gaze then dashed away up the lane.

Surprised at his softness, he decided that running down the horse would only cost time that he probably couldn’t afford. Maybe the discovery of the horse without its passenger would worry his pursuers, and give him a little more time. The drumbeat of pain from the image implanted in his head by the Rotting Man seemed to be growing, and he didn’t want complications.

Fallon sighed as he unstowed the hooded lantern he had brought with him out of Yeshelmaar. Its fanciful designs of leaf and bough reminded him again of what was behind him. He carefully filled the reservoir with clear oil all the same.

Taking the girl’s hand, he and the Child of Light descended into the Barrow of the Queen Abiding.