Midnight's mask

CHAPTER 10

The intensity of the sensations and images issuing from the Source lessened. Ssessimyth's tentacles spasmed slightly in perturbation. The ruins in which he nested shifted. Stone grated against stone. The whole vibrated above him. His startled minions communicated their pleasure and terror to one another.

Ssessimyth sensed the Source awakening from its long sleep. Something on the surface had drawn its interest. It was trying to climb out of its torpor.

Ssessimyth linked his mind to the Source's external perception and sent his consciousness surfaceward. The projection did not allow him to see images or hear sounds so much as it empowered him directly to perceive facts.

He sensed a calm sea, and in the distance, a ship. Some of the surface dwellers aboard had sensitivity to the Source's emanations, though they had not yet sensed them. The Source, even in sleep, must have perceived the sensitivity. The presence of other creatures with mental powers was drawing it up from sleep, drawing its attention from Ssessimyth.

Anger surged in Ssessimyth, ire that a creature other than him might dare draw on the bliss of the Source. It was his, and his alone.

He tried to lull the Source back into its sleep, failed, then struggled to force the Source to turn its attention fully to him. The Source resisted. Ssessimyth still perceived the images and sensations that he wished, but the experience paled in intensity from that to which he had become accustomed. He was left as little more than an observer, when he long ago had grown addicted to being a participant.

His tentacles spasmed again, shaking loose a rain of unstable stone and particles. The call went out among his minions for one of the priests to come forth and interpret Ssessimyth's movements.

Ssessimyth controlled his anger. Still drinking the mind of the Source, he called upon a power innate to those of his kind, something he had not done in decades.

A pulse of power went forth from him, powered by his will, and raced for the surface. Even if he could not fully control the Source, he could at least destroy those who were trying to share it with him. Then the Source would again be his alone and he could sleep at the bottom of the sea and dream lives and worlds.

Far above him, he knew that his magical power was darkening the sky, summoning the wind. Probably the sea already was beginning to surge. He used the Source's power to send a mental projection to the priests of his minions, ordering them to take to the surface and kill the interlopers. If the storm did not force the ship back or sink it, his minions would kill everyone aboard.

Within moments he sensed the urgent, excited preparations of his minions as they organized their warbands. He returned his attention to the Source and tried to lose himself in the pale images it showed him.

Demon Binder cut through the sea. With her smaller topsails unfurled over the mainsails and the elementals pulling her through the water, she fairly skipped over the waves. Hours passed. The day dawned and moved toward welcome night and still those on board had seen no sign of the slaadi's ship.

Magadon used the visual leech from time to time to ensure that the slaadi were still sailing west. They were. The slaadi's ship had only the wind to propel it. Cale knew Demon Binder had to be gaining.

As dusk fell, darkness gathered in the sky ahead. Cale saw it for what it was: a thunderhead as black as a demon's soul. It looked as though a titan had charred the clouds. Lightning split the cloudbanks. The light from the setting sun caught the moisture in the air before the storm and created an arc of color that reached across the sky. The crew of Demon Binder seemed to regard it as an ill omen. Under the thunderhead, the air was hazy with rain.

The crew stopped for a moment in their work and all eyes looked westward, to the gathering storm. Nervous mutters sounded across the deck.

Captain Evrel said, "A colored arc at sea is the bridge between us and the Stormlord's realm. And that looks to be enough of a storm that Talos would take a father's pride in it."

Magadon, standing near the captain on the forecastle and eyeing the clouds, said, "I do not think it is natural. It gathers too fast."

"The slaadi?" Jak asked, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Evrel had the sense to pretend he had not heard, or at least had the sense to ask no questions.

Magadon shrugged. "No way to know."

"Doubtful," Cale said. He shaded his eyes with his hand against the light of the setting sun. "They do not know we are after them."

Evrel said, "And they would be fools if they brought that storm down themselves. They'll be caught in it, same as us." He paused, looked a question at Cale, and said, "That is, if we're sailing into it."

Cale looked into Evrel's face. "Captain, it is important that we catch those we're after. I cannot tell you why it's important, but it is."

He offered no more than that, and in truth, could not offer more. He did not know what the slaadi or the Sojourner planned. He knew only that it would not be good.

Evrel stared into Cale's face for a moment, chewed his moustache, and finally nodded. Over his shoulder, he said to Ashin, who stood at the helm, "Steer a course right into it, Ashin."

"Aye, Captain," answered Ashin without blanching.

Evrel summoned Gorse and ordered, "Batten down every hatch on this tub. Not a drop gets into the hold or she'll founder for certain. All spare rope below decks is made into lifelines. Turn the decks into a web and remind the men to take extra care. If anyone goes over in that storm, there'll be no gettin' him back."

Gorse nodded, eyed Cale, Magadon, and Jak, and turned to his duty.

"Gorse," Evrel called to his back, and the mate spun. "Find something suitable and round up Rix. Have him make an offering to Talos."

Gorse nodded and hopped to his work, barking orders at everyone within earshot. The crew answered his commands immediately and set to their appointed tasks. They knew their business well.

"An offering to Talos?" Jak asked Evrel.

"Ship's custom," Evrel explained. "You encounter a storm at sea, you throw a sacrifice to the Stormlord over the bow and ask him to spare the ship. Rix is no priest, but he takes the duty seriously enough that Talos might hear him, or at least won't be offended by him trying."

Jak nodded, looked thoughtfully ahead to the gathering storm, and back to the captain. He reached into a cloak pocket and pulled out a large garnet.

"Give him this to sacrifice, too," the little man said.

The captain laughed aloud and took the gem.

"A storm at sea makes a man feel small, doesn't it?"

Jak only smiled sheepishly.

"This also," Magadon said. The guide withdrew from his pocket an almost perfectly round, polished river stone that featured bands of gray and red.

"It's not worth much, but it took my fancy. I've had it for years. Kept it for luck. I took it from the bed of the Cedar River, deep in the Gulthmere. Who knows, it may please the god of storms."

The captain took the stone, added it to Jak's gem, and left the three of them alone on the deck.

"Can't hurt, I figure," Jak explained to Cale and Magadon.

"I thought the same," Magadon offered.

Cale stared at the black, lightning-torn sky ahead and wondered if he shouldn't have offered Talos something himself.

Azriim watched the storm clouds gather. The crew watched them too and muttered nervously. Lightning veined the clouds. Thunder boomed overhead. The wind picked up, carried to them the smell of rain. Sails snapped in the rising breeze. The swells started to grow. The ship began to noticeably rise and fall in the waves.

"That ain't no natural storm!" A sailor perched in the crow's nest atop the mainmast called his observation down to the captain.

Murmurs of agreement sounded from the rest of the crew. Eyes looked accusingly at Azriim, Dolgan, and Riven, the "wizards" who had brought them trouble.

"It's as natural as the rock your mother struck against your head at birth," shouted another crewman, and the joke elicited some nervous smiles from the crew.

Beside Azriim, Dolgan projected, We may have a mutiny if we force them to sail into that.

Riven snickered and answered, We kill a few and the rest will fall into line. I've seen it before.

Azriim smiled at that. None of that should be necessary.

His spell still held Captain Sertan enchanted, and from everything Azriim had seen, the crew would follow their captain down the River of Blood if he commanded it. They would grumble, but they would obey.

"Come," Azriim said. "Let us go see Sertan."

The three of them walked over the maindeck to the captain, who stood beside his helmsman near the sterncastle. Azriim smiled a greeting while he eyed the Sojourner's compass, sitting on a stool beside the helm. The needle pointed directly into the storm and-if Azriim was not imagining it-it also pointed ever so slightly downward.

Sertan, one hand holding a line above him, nodded at the sky and said, "My friend, we should turn back. I've seen ships vanish in storms that made less dire promises than that one."

"She's a black heart," the helmsman agreed.

Azriim made a show of looking at the cloudbank and nodding. He turned to Sertan and said, "My friend, we need to continue onward. I can double your pay, if need be. It's important that we proceed. In the name of our friendship, don't fail me now."

Riven masked a laugh with a cough. Even Azriim had to admit that he was laying it on pretty heavily.

"More coin does drowned men no good," Sertan answered, though the sly look in his eye belied his words. "And I no more want you to drown than me."

I will eat him, Dolgan projected. And you take his form.

Shut up, Azriim answered his broodmate.

Dolgan crossed his arms and huffed.

"Come now, you are no ordinary seaman," Azriim said. "And this is no ordinary crew. Dolphin's Coffer can cut a path through that, I have no doubt. Triple the pay when we return to a Sembian port."

Sertan frowned, but licked his lips greedily.

"I thought you were disembarking? You will be returning to the ship then?"

"Of course," Azriim lied, smiling. "We will disembark for a time, descend below the waves, and return. How else would we get back to land?"

Sertan chewed his moustache.

"Come, my friend," Azriim chided. "Nothing dared, nothing won. Isn't that right? I'm offering all I have. It's that important to me."

Sertan's Sembian greed and Azriim's enchantment made the outcome a foregone conclusion. After only a few moments, Sertan nodded and said, "Done. And we'll get you through."

To the crew, Sertan shouted, "String some lines, lads, and reinforce the sail rigging! Get the boys out of the nests! No one on the masts! We're sailing down that storm's gullet and out its arse."

Azriim allowed himself a smile. He had won the only battle with Sertan that he would have to fight. Once the storm had a grip on Dolphin's Coffer, there would be no turning back.

Outside the former temple of Cyric, Vhostym prepared to cast one of the most powerful spells known to any caster on any world. The magic defied categorization. In the end, it brought into being what Vhostym willed-but within limits.

The casting required for its power a small tithe of the wizard's own being. Vhostym, of course, had only so much to give, or would have had only so much to give, if it had been his being that would power the spell. But it would not. Instead, he would draw on the stored power contained in the Weave Tap. The artifact would power the spell, sparing Vhostym the necessity of sacrificing some of his already dwindling lifespan.

Unfortunately, the spell brought with it certain peculiarities. The magic could have only limited effects on sentient beings. Perhaps that suggested something about the power inherent in a self-aware creature, but Vhostym chose to ignore the implication. Too, the spell could be capricious. The magic required that the caster articulate his will. Sometimes the spell answered the caster's intent, and sometimes-when the caster tried to do too much-the spell answered a strict interpretation of the caster's words, which often led to a perversion of the caster's intent.

Still, Vhostym had no choice but to use the spell. No other magic could accomplish what he wished. He readied himself and began.

In his mind's eye, he pictured the uninhabited island that he had chosen to be the site of his triumph and his death. He pictured it as though seeing it from far above, as he had often done in his scrying lens-a sheer-sided, mountainous chunk of land that rose high from the sea. Human sailors called it the Wayrock. Vhostym called it his.

He looked upon the temple before him-empty, dark, also his. He sensed the latent amplification properties present in the stone. Properly awakened, that power would turn the temple into the largest magical focus ever made or conceived. And Vhostym would need it. For the spell he was about to cast was feeble compared to the spell he planned to cast after all the pieces of his plan were in place. With it, he would create and control a Crown of Flame.

He focused, and opened the connection between his mind and the primitive sentience of the Weave Tap. The artifact reached across Mystra's web and drew power from the mantle of Skullport, where its seed had been planted. It channeled that power to Vhostym.

Arcane energy rushed into him until he was nearly aglow with it. Holding his hands out before him, ignoring the pain of his failing body, he spoke the short stanza of his spell.

Power continued to gather in him as he spoke, enough to obliterate an army. He controlled it, concentrated it, projected it outward to the temple.

The magic took hold and the temple vibrated under the magical onslaught. The stone shimmered silver. Vhostym gave voice to his will. "Let this tower and all of its current contents be removed at once to the Wayrock. Let a suitable foundation be prepared there upon which the tower can safely stand as it does before me now, and let the tower so stand."

Vhostym's hands shook, glowed white with the power they channeled. The tower shook, flared brightly, then. . disappeared.

The magic departed Vhostym. He sagged and disconnected himself from the Weave Tap.

He allowed a smile to split his thin lips. He was close now. Very close.

Only a jagged hole in the soil indicated that the western Tower of the Eternal Eclipse had ever stood in the vale. Vhostym had erased it.

He took a moment to let his strength return, then spoke the words to a spell that would transport him to the Wayrock.

He wanted to prepare his new spell focus for his next casting.