Shadow witness

CHAPTER SIX

Cale left Thamalon alone with his thoughts and strode purposefully out of the library. The household still bustled as the house guard and staff finalized the cleanup. Some quietly hailed him but he ignored their greetings. His mind was focused on only one thing-making the Righteous Man pay for hurting his family.

He took the steps of the spiral staircase two at a time. When he reached his room, he gently closed and locked the door behind him. For the briefest instant, doubt reared its head and caused him to hesitate. The realization that he would likely never again see his home and family, and that he would probably be dead before tomorrow, hit him like a fist. Gale stubbornly blinked away the tears beginning to well in his eyes.

do it because I have to, he told himself. Ten years of my selfishness nearly killed Thazienne tonight. One way or another, it had to end. The lies, the schemes, the cover up-all of it had to end, tonight.

Resolved once again, he glanced around the safest room in which he had ever lived and tried to fix its image in his memory. The extra-long, wrought iron bed Shamur had thoughtfully acquired especially for him. The leather bound chair in which he so often fell asleep while reading. The worn oak night table with its tarnished oil lamp. In contrast to the rich but tasteful decor of the rest of Stormweather, his room looked like the spartan cell of an Ilmaterite monk.

Thazienne always tells me I live like a cloistered priest, he thought, smiling. His smile dissolved into a frown when he realized that after tonight, he would probably be dead and she wouldn't tell him anything again.

Unconsciously, he had kept his belongings to a minimum. So he could easily run away, he supposed. His room contained nothing personal.

Except for one thing: the locked pine trunk that stood at the foot of his bed. That trunk was personal. The lone link to his past in Westgate, it held his blades, enchanted leather armor, and his prized necklace of missiles-the gear of Gale the assassin. The gear that had saved them when thirty Zhents had ambushed Cale and Jak a month ago. That escape had been dose and had cost him all but one of the explosive globes on the magical necklace. He had told himself afterward that it didn't matter because he would not need it again, even while a part of him secretly had hoped for the opportunity.

And now I've got it.

He realized now the self-deluding nature of the fiction he had maintained. He had told himself that he would not wear his equipment again, yet he had kept it and lovingly tended it through the course of ten years. Why?

Because I'm a killer playing at a butler, he realized. A killer trained by the best killers the cities of the Inner Sea have ever seen. He smiled, glad now for his Night Mask training. Cale was thankful to the gods for the character that allowed him to kill a man without remorse. Tonight, he was laying the fiction of Erevis the butler to rest. Tonight and forever after, he was Cale.

He walked to the night table, pulled out the drawer, and removed a small iron key from an ingeniously hidden recess he had carved into the wood backing. He carried the key across the room gingerly, as though it was hot, and knelt before the trunk. There he stoppedHis hand shook uncontrollably. He understood that opening the trunk and donning his gear inside Stormweather-something he had never before done-signified the end. The end of his life as the Uskevren butler. The end of his life as a member of a family. The end of the happiest period he had ever known. He hesitated-it also meant the end of a ten-year lie, he harshly reminded himself. And the end of putting the people I love in danger.

With a snarl, he shoved in the key and turned it. The click of the lock sounded the death knell of Erevis the butler. Cale was back, this time for good. He threw back the lid and removed his gear.

Like a viper shedding its skin, he stood and peeled off his butler's attire. Out of long habit, he neatly folded his doublet, pants, and hose before placing them on top of the bed. Surprised at himself, he smiled.

Perhaps the butler isn't altogether gone out of me, he thought, and hoped.

He pulled on his leather armor-still strong and supple despite the passage of years due to its powerful enchantment. It was the first thing he had worn in a month that fit him correctly. The smell of it reminded him of Westgate and of all the corpses he had left in foe wake of his escape from the Night Masks.

Grimly, he strapped on his weapons belt. The weight of his long sword and daggers hanging from his hips felt right. He welcomed the feel of steel at his belt, easily adjusted his stance and movements to the familiar burden. Carefully, as though unveiling a jewel, he drew forth from a velvet bag the necklace of missiles. He thoughtfully rolled the delicate links and final explosive globe between his fingers before clasping it about his throat. He threw on a lightweight, midnight blue, hooded cloak, loaded his pockets with some fivestars, a tinderbox, and three wax candles, then made ready to leave. He walked to the door, turned to take one last glance around the room, smiled sadly, and strode into the hgjl.

He made a line straight for Thazienne's room. He knew that Thamalon, Shamur, and the two boys would no doubt miss him when he was gone-Tamlin perhaps less than the others, he supposed with a wry smile-but they would move on easily with their lives. He and Thazienne, however, shared a special relationship. Not having him around would be hardest for her.

Though he knew it would be difficult, he would not leave without seeing her one final time and telling her goodbye.

Darven stood guard outside her door, no doubt ensuring the undisturbed rest Gale had ordered. The big guard took in Gale's attire and his eyes went wide with questions.

"Mister Gale?*

Gale patted him reassuringly on his bulky shoulder. "Everything is all right, Darven. I need to see Thazienne. I'll only be a moment."

"Of cbursef Still wearing an expression full of unspoken questions, Darven pushed the door open for him and closed it behind.

Gale stood just inside the door, suddenly shaking, wary of approaching Thazienne's bed for fear that his resolve would falter. He realized now that she had been the primary reason he had stayed for so long at Stormweather, and now she was the reason he had to leave. So long as the Righteous Man wanted him, his presence here made her unsafe.

Because Thazienne disdained Selgaunt's fashion trends, much to her mother's dismay, her room exuded a unique kind of strong but still vulnerable femininity. Delicate lace doilies and silks decorated her otherwise sturdy dressing table and wardrobe. Pastel paints covered an unadorned, but rough textured wall. A stalwart yet graceful wooden sleigh bed stood in the center of the room. In it, she lay, still unconscious.

Gale saw that she had thrown off her heavy wool blanket-it had landed in a crumpled heap of purple on the floor beside the bed. Thazienne lay covered only in white sheets. Outlined by the thin linen, he could see the slight rise and fall of her breast. Her breathing seemed stronger now than it had been earlier in the evening.

She's too strong to lose, he thought, and smiled. It was the fire of her spirit that had drawn him to her in the first place. No demon's touch could quench its flames.

He steeled himself and crossed the room. Remembering the unearthly cold that accompanied the shadow demon's touch, he retrieved the wool blanket and gently covered Thazienne's slim body. Some color had returned to her face and she felt warmer to the touch. He pulled a sitting chair close to the bed, covered her small hand with one of his own, and softly caressed her smooth cheek with the back of his other hand. He had never before touched her in that way, miss you if I don't come back, he thought, and brushed a few stray strands of dark hair from her smooth forehead. Of everything, HI miss you the most.

He tried to fight back the tears but they came anyway. For a long while, he simply sat there, held her hand, and wept. As usual when it came to his feelings for her, he could bring himself to say nothing.

Struck with an idea, he wiped away his tears and walked to her small writing desk. He pulled a piece of parchment, a vial of ink, and a writing quill from a sliding drawer. Scribing in his light, precise script, he wrote, Whatever good is in me exists because of you. He thought for a moment, then wrote a verse from one of his favorite elven poems-At armiel telere maenen hir. You hold my heart forever. He signed it, stood, and stoppedWhat would it do to her to learn his feelings if he never returned? Equally important, what would it do to their relationship if he did?

Doesn't matter, he resolved. She has to know. I can't die and not have told her.

He turned and walked for the door. When he reached it, he again stopped.

After a brief inner struggle, he turned again and walked back to the bed.

Though he knew her to be unconscious, his stomach still fluttered and his knees felt weak. Shaking with pent up emotion, he bent over her and gently brushed her lips with his own-the only kiss they had ever shared. Likely the only kiss they ever would share.

"I love you," he whispered. "Ill always love you."

He had wanted to say those words for years. He only wished he had done it sooner.

He turned and walked from the room.

When he stepped back into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him, Darven shot him a wink. "We all knew you were more than just a butler, Mister Cale. The house guard I mean. We all knew."

Cale nodded. "Just Cole from now on, Darven."

Darven cocked his big head quizzically. "Mister Cale?"

"Forget it. Be well, Darven."

He turned and walked down the hall. With each stride away from Thazienne's room, he grew more and more focused, more and more angry. His love for her gave way to hate for the Righteous Man. His hands clenched and unclenched reflexively as he walked. By all the gods, he would make the Righteous Man pay.

Korvikoum, you black-hearted bastard, he thought, invoking a term from dwarven philosophy. You chose to harm the ones I love. The consequence of that choice is that I put you down.

When he descended the stairs, the servants and house guards froze in the midst of their duties and stared in amazement. He offered them no explanations for his attire and weapons-time enough to explain if he returned-and walked purposefully toward the forehall. Thamalon emerged from the library and watched him from the doorway, grim approval in his exhausted eyes. Cale gave his lord and friend a nod as he passed, then walked out of Storm-weather, probably for the final time.

He wrinkled his nose at the faded but detectable stink of the Oxblood Quarter. The slaughterhouses that used to fill the block had been moved out of the city decades ago and the buildings converted to the services associated with caravan trade, but still the smell remained. Even the swirling breeze and moderate snowstorm could not eliminate it.

Blue cloak whipping in the wind, Gale crouched low on the roof eave of Emellia's House, a low-class brothel that served mostly wagon drivers and caravan guards. The steep pitch of the roof and snow slick shingles forced him to grip a stone rainspout for balance. He felt the cold of the stone through the leather of his gloves and his breath formed clouds before his face. Through the shuttered windows beneath him, despite the whine of the wind, he could hear the low murmur of male voices and female laughter. Brothels never closed, even in the small hours before dawn, and neither did thieves' guilds.

A dagger toss across Ariness Street, dimly visible through the swirling snow and sputtering light of the windblown street lamps, stood the Night Knife guildhouse.

Masquerading as a Six Coins trading office and storehouse, the Knife guildhouse looked much like all the other storehouses that lined the street and served Selgaunt's thriving caravan trade. Cale knew otherwise, of course. The actual Six Coins trading coster no longer even existed in Faerun. It had dissolved years ago.

Because it had a basement level and easy access to Selgaunt's old sewer system, the Righteous Man had purchased the two-story brick building from the then money-strapped trading group over a decade ago. Since that time, the guildmaster had refurbished it with guild coin into a combination training facility, safehouse, and fortress.

To perpetuate the illusion of a going coster house, a few of the old Six Coin offices and storerooms had been left intact in the front of the building on the first floor, though most of the structure had been long ago converted to guild use. Night Knife guildsmen who were paid and trained to behave as normal merchants staffed the offices and furthered the ruse. The Righteous Man even used guild coin to fund a small amount of legitimate caravan trade, a practice that deflected suspicion by keeping a flow of wagons and drovers moving in and out of the building.

Because Cale knew what to look for, and the facade now seemed painfully transparent to him. Hardly standard in the typical coster house, the reinforced, iron bound, oak double doors that provided entry looked capable of withstanding an ore battering ram. Unusual too were the thumb-thick iron bars that backed all of the second story windows. The first story glass had been pulled out and bricked over years ago. Cale knew that a careful observer would have noticed the surprisingly small number of employees who arrived daily for work through the front doors, though Hie building itself was quite large. A careful observer would also have noticed the caravan guard uniforms worn by the hard-eyed rogues who typically guarded the entry were out of place.

I don't know how we managed to keep this location a secret, he thought. To Cale, now on the outside looking in, the building fairly screamed guildhouse!

No guards presently stood watch outside the front doors. No slingers on the roof, either. All the second story rooms were dark, an unusual state even at this late hour.

Strange, he thought with a frown, because of the snow, maybe?

He considered simply storming the front doors, bluffing his way through the guildsmen to the Righteous Man, and taking the old man down, but dismissed the idea as the ill-conceived product of anger. Unbridled aggression can sometimes be an enemy, Thamalon had told him. He smiled and thought: True enough, Thamalon, true enough.

He observed for a few minutes more to assure himself that he had not missed anything. He hadn't. There were no guards. The whole situation stank like an ambush. He blew out his breath in a cloud of mist and rubbed the day's growth of stubble that peppered his cheeks.

Abruptly, he made his decision-he would enter the sewers at Winding Way and come up through the guild-house basement. No doubt that entrance would be trapped as well, but going in that way would put him closer to the basement shrine, and thus closer to the Righteous Man. Survival had ceased to be his primary concern. Gale had already said goodbye to everything that he had to live for. Killing the Righteous Man was all that mattered anymore.

I'm coming for you, old man.

He lowered himself over the side of Emellia's and nimbly climbed down to street level.

The falling snow melted the moment it hit the cobblestones, so the street was covered in a slushy brown muck. Cale pulled his cloak tight against the wind and sloshed a block to Winding Way. The snowfall made visibility difficult, so he relied on his keen ears to alert him to an ambush. He heard nothing. No one was on the street.

When he reached Winding Way, Cale ducked into an alley and looked through the falling snow to make sure no one was behind him. Still no one. He sprinted to the dry common well that the guild had "mistakenly" dug, and that now provided access to the sewers.

Using his height to good effect, he climbed over the well wall and straddled the top. He braced his heels against one side, braced his upper back and shoulder blades against the other, and began slowly to descend. As he did, he kept his ears focused on the sewer bottom forty feet below. Snowflakes fluttered down the well and landed on his face. They melted instantly in the heat of his exertion. Despite the cold air, sweat beaded his forehead and his raspy, labored breathing echoed off the walls. The stink of waste and organic decay rose up the well to fill his nostrils. He inhaled deeply as he descended, trying to dull his senses to the smell.

He let himself drop the final few feet. Hitting the ground in a crouch, he instantly pulled his long sword from its scabbard. Faint in the distance, he heard the high-pitched squeaks of rats and the scurrying sounds of other vermin. Though too dark to see much, he knew the sewer tunnels branched off in three directions. He wanted east. He pulled forth his flint, steel, and tin-derbox, and lit a candle. In the damp air, its small flame sputtered dim and orange off the crumbling walls.

Long sword and candle in hand, he headed down the east tunnel. He tried to ignore the muck that sucked at his feet. Tales abounded in Selgaunt about the dire creatures that lurked in the city's sewers- creatures such as flesh dissolving slimes and intelligent algae men-but Cale had concern only for an ambush by guildsmen. This portion of the sewers had been sealed off from the main tunnels a few blocks away, and the guild regularly patrolled to keep it clear of anything, or anybody, unwanted.

He had walked less than fifty paces when he began to smell rotting flesh. Shielding the light of the candle with his hand, he crept forward and strained to listen.

He expected to hear the growl of approaching ghouls, but instead heard nothing. Warily, he advanced.

The stench grew increasingly stronger as he neared the turn in the tunnel that led toward the guildhouse. Still hearing nothing, he hugged the tunnel wall and stalked forward, blade at the ready. When he rounded the turn, he saw the source of the stink. Vomit raced up his throat but he gritted his teeth and swallowed it down.

Ahead of him, at the base of the ladder that ascended into the guildhouse, lay a pile of rotting corpses. Black rats, some of them as large as small dogs, feasted on the bodies. Most of them squeaked indignantly at his approach, left their feast, and scurried off.

"Dark," he softly oathed. He shooed away with his long sword two stubborn rats that had not fled with the rest and knelt to examine the corpses.

A ghastly pile of decomposing flesh, the bodies lay heaped atop one another like cordwood, so rotted and intertwined that Gale could hardly tell where one corpse ended and another began. Fifteen or twenty men maybe, he couldn't tell for sure. Dead a tenday at least, maybe two. The stench made his eyes water.

Torn and naked, the corpses had been tossed down from the trapdoor above like garbage. Partially eaten by ghouls-Cale recognized the ragged wounds of ghoul claw and fang-the rats had been at what remained. Puss and blood assaulted his eyes. He tried to scrutinize the mangled faces more closely but could not recognize any of them before he had to turn away or vomit. The grotesque image of a half-eaten arm sticking out of the base of the heap, the limb seemingly reaching for release, stuck in his mind and made him sweat in the chill.

He tried to steel himself, for he knew he would have to disengage the tangle of bodies to clear a path to the

'ladder. It was either that or try to climb over.

Shuddering, he immediately dismissed climbing as a bad idea. A big man, he would likely find himself sinking into the midst of the corpses rather than walking on top of them. The thought of wading chest deep in rot made him gag.,

Holding his breath and stifling retches, he set to work, H" pulled the bodies loose from the pile and hurriedly cast them to the side. Many came apart in his hands. Others leaked so much fluid as he picked them up that pus and blood soon soaked his cloak. He worked as fast as he could. Grab, throw, gag. Grab, throw, gag.

When he finally cleared enough of a path to the ladder, he grabbed desperately at the rusty iron rungs and began to climb. Halfway up he vomited down the front of his cloak. At the same time he realized that he had left his candle sputtering on the sewer floor. He didn't care. He could not go back down, at least not right now.

When he reached the trapdoor, he shouldered it open with a grunt and climbed into the storeroom.

Darkness, but surprisingly, no guards. Light trickled in from beneath the only door out and provided a dim luminescence. Crates and bags lay broken and torn open. Spilled grain and splintered wood littered the ground. Only tattered scraps remained of the filthy rug that once had covered the trapdoor.

Relieved, and in no danger of imminent attack, Cale took a moment to strip his befouled cloak and use a torn burlap grain sack to wipe clean his blood-soaked arms and chest. After transferring his coin and tinderbox into his pants pockets, he tossed the cloak, the sack, and his leather gloves into the sewer below and closed the trapdoor. Still reeling from the sights and smells of the sewer, he put his hands on his knees and allowed himself a moment to recover. He inhaled deeply and enjoyed a breath of cleaner air. The charnel smell of nearby ghouls lingered in the air, true, but that seemed clean compared with the foulness of the sewers.

After a few moments, he stood upright and mentally prepared himself. He did not know what he should expect. The guild seemed to have undergone some kind of purge in his absence. He felt certain that the corpses in the sewers below were former Night Knives. Dabbling with the demonic must have finally driven the Righteous Man insane. The guildmaster was purging the guild of unbelievers and transforming Mask's faithful into undead. The realization caused Gale to despise religion all the more. A man lost himself when he took the rites. The Righteous Man had lost himself. The attack on Stormweather had not been an attempt to get at Cale through his family. It had been merely a ham-handed attempt to get at Cale, an unbeliever. Thazienne's injury and all the dead were incidental.

Doesn't matter, he told himself, he did what he did and he goes down anyway.

Ready, he knelt before the door and listened. Nothing. He had the benefit of surprise then. Slowly, he pulled the door openA body slammed into it and knocked him backward. He caught a glimpse of gray flesh and dirty fangs. Ghoul!

He leaped back with a shout and brandished his blade, expecting a flurry of claws, fangs, and stink. Instead, the ghoul inexplicably halted in the doorway. It growled softly, almost a purr, then stepped backward into the hall, out of Gale's sight.

Stupefied, Cale stood there, blade ready. He waited for a tense moment, but nothing happened. What in the Hells?

The ghoul-Cale now recognizsed it from its long black hair as Tyllin Var, a former pickpocket specialist and Mask believer-reappeared in the doorway. It snarled impatiently and waved a clawed hand, beckoning Cale forward.

Gale's heart thudded in his chest but he quieted his fear with anger. Seems I'm expected after all, he thought. Gripping his blade in a sweating fist, he advanced cautiously out of the room.

As with the storeroom, the guildhouse was in a filthy, chaotic shambles. The long main hall stretched before hint, dotted with open doors and littered with debris like the aftermath of a street riot. Broken weapons, half-eaten bodies, shredded clothing, rotten food, overturned chairs and tables, all lay strewn haphazardly about. Behind Tyllin, who flashed Cale his fangs in an evil grin, stood a ghastly formation- pair upon pair of ghouls lined the hall at even intervals, a grisly formation of twisted gray bodies that marked a processional path directly to the shrine. The double doors to the Righteous Man's sanctuary and worship hall stood open, hut from where Cale stood, he could not pierce the dimness of its interior.

Tyllin stood aside, regarded Cale with slitted eyes, gave a snarl, and waved him forward. Presented with no other option, he stalked cautiously past Tyllin and made his way down the hall. Cale realized how futile his resistance to an attack would be at this point.

Eyeing him hungrily, each pair of ghouls growled softly as he walked between them. Some pawed the air and snarled, unable to conceal their insatiable desire for his flesh. He kept his long sword ready and watched them all like a hawk, but none of them made an aggressive move.

As he passed each pair, they fell in behind him and herded him toward the shrine. Only a third of the way down the hall, he already had a small crowd of ghouls behind and still more before him. He could feel their hungry eyes boring into his back. Surprisingly, he felt unafraid. He felt the liberation of a condemned man being led to the gallows. He knew now that he would not get out of here alive, and the realization freed him from fear. Neither of us is coming out of that shrine, old man, he vowed.

Though many of the ghouls still wore clothing or had tattoos that Gale recognized as belonging to a one-time comrade, their feral yellow eyes no longer contained anything recognizably human. Magic and religious fanaticism had mutatA yellow-eyed shadow flitted in the corner of his vision. He whirled on it, blade high. Nothing was there.

Nothing but the gaming parlor where guildsmen once had bet their take from jobs on the chance deal of cards and the random fall of knucklebones. Human vices that Cale could understand.

Still scanning the darkness of the parlor for the shadow demon, his eyes fell to the floor and he gave a start. He stopped walking and looked more closely to be sure his vision had not deceived him. The crowd of ghouls behind herded closer. The floor just inside the doorway of the parlor appeared to be slowly boiling, like simmering soup. He felt title hairs on his arms rise and bend toward the weird floor, as though pulled. Had the shadow demon vanished into that? Before he could consider further, a chorus of impatient growls sounded from the ghouls.

"Maaassk," they mouthed as one, and the press of their vile, stinking bodies forced him forward.

Mask indeed, he thought as he walked. This is where your fanaticism has brought you, old man. He kept his eyes away from the half-eaten corpses

More doorways yawned to either side as he walked the rest of the long hall. The rooms beyond the doorways had once been familiar to him-here a meeting room, there a dining hall, there a training room-but like the gaming parlor, all of them now stood warped in some way. The familiar furnishings he had known lay toppled, broken, befouled, or missing altogether. Horrors had replaced them. A wall in the dining hall dripped what looked to be blood. Drops of crimson seeped through the plaster near the ceiling and ran down the wall in rivulets. Two ghouls crouched at the base, purring, and licked up the blood like children eating sweetened ice. The steady rasp of their tongues had worn grooves in the wall. Cale forced down the vomit that tried to climb up his throat. He sidestepped a patch of floor before him that oozed a thick, black liquid and walked on.

"Mask," the ghouls behind him murmured.

Instead of the familiar oak table and chairs standing in the center of the main meeting room, a sickly gray colored whirlpool now churned, as though the floor had become a thick liquid. Again, he felt a strange pull from the maelstrom. Streaks of ochre and viridian swirled a slow path into gray oblivion. Cale found the motion hypnotic. With an effort of will, he forced himself to look away before the urge to leap in overpowered him. As he turned away, he thought he glimpsed a pair of baleful yellow eyes peering at him from within the whirlpool.

He drew nearer to the shrine. The crowd of ghouls behind him grew as each pair fell in line.

He passed what had once been the training room for pickpocketing and climbing and saw that portions of the wall and floor seemed absent. Not hewn out or dug up, but absent, as though reality had been slashed open hen Rath. Again he thought he saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at him from the emptiness in the wall, but when he blinked, the eyes disappeared. Disconcerted, he turned away and focused his gaze forward on the open double doors of the shrine.

This is utter madness, he thought, and struggled to keep a tight grip on his sanity, The wrongness of the guildhouse made him dizzy and nauseated. A man could lose himself quickly. The living do not belong here, he thought. He now knew for certain that the Righteous Man had gone mad-summoning demons, turning guildsmen into ghouls, transforming the guildhouse into a seething den of vileness. There could be no other explanation. He no longer cared for the why of the Righteous Man's behavior-how could he hope to understand the reasons of the man who had done this-he only cared about stopping him.

That resolution brought him an odd, detached calm. He reached for his throat and felt the reassuring cool' ness of the necklace of missiles, rolled the last explosive globe between his fingers. He would kill the Righteous Man with his steel, then start a blaze with his globe that would incinerate the entire guildhouse and everything in it.

Resolved, he picked up his pace and strode unafraid for the shrine. The crowd of ghouls behind him loped to keep up.

He walked through the ornate doorway, turned to glare at the ghouls, then slammed the doors shut in their faces. He held the doors fast for a moment, expecting the ghouls to push them open and pile in behind him, but they made no effort to follow. They waited just outside. Gale could hear their low growling through the doors. They were only the escort, it seemed. He turned to survey the shrine.

"Erevis Gale come at last," said the Righteous Man, the contempt evident in his voice. The guildmaster stood near the front of the large shrine room, atop a raised dais, behind the block of basalt that served as an altar. Black candles burned in tall bronze candelabra but shed only dim light. Shadows filled every corner. Gale quickly glanced through them for the yellow eyes of the shadow demon but saw nothing.

Wooden pews lined the room from the back wall up to the altar. Ghouls filled those in the rear. Rocking gently and growling low, they held their hands clasped as though in prayer, a macabre mockery of piety. They watched him sidelong out of slitted eyes. They licked their fangs hungrily but kept their seats.

Already holding his long sword at the ready, he filled his other hand with a dagger. At that, the ghouls began to growl and rock faster but still remained seated. He walked straight down the center aisle, through and past the ghouls, halfway to the altar. He kept his eyes locked on the masked face of the Righteous Man.

That's right, I've-come," he said. "What in the name of the gods have you done here?"

The Righteous Man stepped out from behind the altar and spoke in a soft, menacing tone "You've come to do Mask's bidding, perhaps?"

"Maaasssk," the ghouls in the pews echoed. "Masssk." They rocked and rocked.

The guildmaster's voice sounded different, Gale noted, but he attributed it to the guildmaster's obvious insanity. Only then did the Righteous Man's question strike him-Mask's bidding? What does that mean?

He shook his head and forced himself to stay focused.

"I've come to do my bidding, not a god's. I'm here for you, old man. It ends tonight, all of it. You hear me?"

Stall rocking in their pews, the ghouls gave a soft, prolonged hiss. Gale attuned his hearing behind him but kept his eyes locked on the Righteous Man. Casually, he pulled the explosive globe from his necklace and cupped it in his dagger hand. If bad went to worse, he'd blow the whole place immediately.

Favoring his leg, the Righteous Man stepped down from the dais. He stood only a dagger toss away. Gale could feel the intensity of his stare even through the black felt of the mask. He looked normal beneath his velvet robes-tall, thin, slightly stooped-but some-tiling about his mannerisms struck Gale as odd. He moved stiffly, herky-jerky, like a marionette. Palpably radiating contempt, he seemed to have more… presence. His ominous silence made Gale uncomfortable.

asked you a question, old man!" He gripped the dagger and globe in his now sweaty hand.

At his harsh tone, a cacophony of hisses sounded from the ghouls. Gale heard their leathery skin rasping against the wood of the pews as they rocked faster and faster. "Mask," they whispered, "Mask."

"I heard you, Erevis Gale," said the Righteous Man, and again Gale noticed the odd inflection and cadence. The guildmaster limped forward a step. Involuntarily, Gale found himself backing up. The hissing of the ghouls grew louder. The rasping of their skin on the pews sounded like a carpenter's plane on wood..

"You enter my guild and utter bold words. Bold words indeed for but a pre-incarnate Champion of Mask." He fairly spat the name of the Shadowlord, and when he did the ghouls hissed their echo.

"Maaasssk."

Pre-what? Gale took another step back as the Righteous Man approached. Seized with an inexplicable fear, Cale struggled to keep it out of his voice.

"You're the servant of Mask, priest, not me. And he can't save you from me. It's over." He held forth, his blades to demonstrate a defiance he didn't feel.

When the Righteous Man replied, his voice sounded oddly distant, and Gale realized that he was speaking to someone who existed only within the realm of his madness.

"No, he isn't going to save you now, is he Krollir?" the Righteous Man whispered to himself, and began to laugh. The sound was so thick with evil that it sent shudders along Gale's spine. After a moment, the guildmaster returned his attention from wherever it had gone and refocused on Gale. "Nor will he save you. I sent servants to seek you out, Erevis Gale, to draw you forth and bring you here, you and the other. He knew that one of you would become the chosen of Mask, if not him. He feared and hated you accordingly." The guildmaster took another step toward Gale.

With difficulty, Gale held his ground. -/"I do not share his concern. You cannot stop me. You or the other, paltry servants of a paltry god." The Righteous Man raised his hands to the ceiling. "I will feed!"

Gale stood stupefied. Who is he? he wondered. Me and the other? The Righteous Man had admitted to the attack on Stormweather. But to draw Gale out? What was going Oil here?

Even as he wondered, the answer began to crystallize-the shadow demon, the ghouls, the corpses, the warping of reality. No man could have done this, not even a priest with the power of the Righteous Man. No human could live in this pit.

He suddenly realized that the real Righteous Man was dead and the thing that now looked upon him was not human, couldn't be human. The realization multiplied his growing fear. His resolve to avenge the attack on Stormweather melted. He wanted nothing else but to get out of here, and get out of here now.

The… thing apparently sensed Gale's fear, for it inhaled deeply, sniffed the air as though searching for spoor. "Ah, you know now, don't you?" It inhaled again. "You do-I smell your fear."

The ghouls fell silent. Gale heard only his own breathing and the voice in his head screaming for him to run,' The thing took a step closer and the ghouls rose as one. Gale tried to fight off a wave of supernatural fear that rooted him to the floor.

"What are you?" he managed to mouth, but wasn't sure if he said it or merely thought it.

"Not what," the thing responded. "Who. I am Yrsil-lar, master of Belistor, keeper of the Void, Lord of the Nothing. Now the avatar of Mask as well. Would you see his face and mine?"

His face and mine. A demon had possessed the Righteous Man. Gale's knees went weak. His tongue felt too dry to form an answer.

The thing reached up and peeled off the black felt mask. Gale recoiled in anticipation of a nightmare, but the face was merely the drawn, wrinkled visage of an old man. Except for the eyes. The sockets looked empty. Not merely without eyeballs, but empty, a pair of holes that opened onto nothingness. Their gaze hit Gale like an ogre's club. Gasping for breath, he staggered backward, suddenly free from the paralyzing fear that the demon projected.

Yrsillar began to laugh, and behind the thin body of the old man Gale sensed a towering, awful shadow- the demon Yrsillar, lord of the nothing.

"His soul for me and his flesh for you," Yrsillar said to the ghouls. "Mask commands you." He began to laugh, loud and long.

"Massk," the ghouls snarled through drooling fangs, and leaped over the pews to reach him. At that exact instant, the doors to the shrine burst open and the ghouls from the hallway streamed in.

Without thinking, Gale threw the explosive globe at their feet. The room exploded in a ball of fire and scorching heat. Ghouls shrieked. Flesh and wood blew apart and sprayed the room. Too close to fully avoid the blast himself, the explosion blew Gale backward into the pews and painfully charred his exposed skin. Throughout, Yrsillar's laughter boomed loudly in his ears.

Though wounded, Gale regained his feet in an instant. He refused to go down easily. The blast had caused his vision to go gray and blurry, as though he peered through light fog. Corpses, fire, and rampaging ghouls tore about the room. Screams, growls, moans, and Yrsillar's haunting laughter resounded off the walls. The ghouls ran about and clawed wildly at the air, growling and snarling confusedly, as though blind. Some walked right into the blazing fires and leaped back with a scream. Gale did not understand it, but then he did not understand most of what had happened already tonight.

A ghoul prowled forward in a crouch and stood beside him, probing the area before it with its claws, but unable to see him. Without a thought, he used his dagger to gut it. The chaos in the room drowned out its dying screams.

Drawn by Yrsillar's voice, Gale turned to see the demon now standing atop the altar.

"His flesh for you, my servants! His flesh for you!" The demon's empty eyes passed over and beyond Gale. Realization dawned on him. Yrsillar could not see! Neither could the ghouls! Gale had to staunch the fit of hysterical laughter that threatened to burst from his tips.

Seeing Yrsillar vulnerable, his desire for revenge fought a war with his better sense. Better sense quickly won out. He took advantage of the blindness of his enemies, picked a clear path, and ran from the shrine.

When he crossed the doorway, the grayness in his vision instantly cleared. The hallway was vacant. All the ghouls were searching for him within the shrine. He spared a glance back and saw that the shrine stood cloaked in blackness as thick as pitch. The torchlight from the hallway simply ceased at the shrine doors, swallowed by darkness.

I saw through that!

He didn't have time to consider it further. The ghouls could burst from the darkness at any moment. Without looking to the warped rooms on either side, he grabbed a torch from a waB sconce and sprinted down the hall for the storeroom. It, too, stood empty. He jerked open the trapdoor in the floor and slid down the ladder into the stink of the sewers.

He avoided looking at the pile of corpses at the base of the ladder and raced back through the tunnel. When he reached the well opening on Winding Way, he pulled himself up into the shaft and climbed back toward the surface.