Shadow witness

CHAPTER EIGHT

Neither man said a word when they emerged onto the Avenue of Temples. Worshipers thronged the street. The smell of incense hung thick in the cold air. Simultaneously, the bells of several temples began to sound the noon hour.

Jak turned and looked at Gale, his eyebrows raised in question.

"East," Cale replied above the din, "Toward the docks. Good a place as any to spend the rest of the day."

Jak nodded agreement.

Picking their way through the crowd, they sloshed through Selgaunt's bustling streets and headed eastward for the Wharf District.

Gale smelled the fish market a full block before they reached the bay. By the time they had reached the next intersection, he could hear the dull, inchoate roar of the market in full swing. Now ' midday, the bayside fish stalls teemed with people and overflowed with the winter bounty of the bay-steelfin and cod, mostly. Customers haggled loudly for the day's catch. Fishmongers affected pained expressions and counter-offered. Coins clinked and moved from hand to greedy hand. Selgaunt went about its business.

Ships crowded the piers, the winter-cloaked crews busy about the decks and rigging. Sails snapped in the salty wind. Frost-covered ropes creaked in their pulleys. The shouts of sailors and the bellowed orders of captains filled the air. Though he had lived along the Inner Sea his whole life, Cale had been aboard ship only once, and that had been a harrowing adventure. Cale had fled Westgate aboard Wave Runner, a schooner captained by a one-armed, vulgar pirate named Gros Fallimor. Though he and Gros had become fast friends on that voyage, after debarking in Selgaunt he had never seen the old pirate again.

Thoughtful, Cale's gaze drifted out to sea. The still water of the bay mirrored the gray of the overcast sky. In the distance, working to keep the shipping lanes clear of floes, he could see powerful icebreakers plowing through the water like iron-plated dolphins.

"Let's get a room somewhere. I need a bath and some rest," said Cale. The filth of the guildhouse still lingered on his clothes, and he suddenly felt the effects of a day and a half without sleep. "We'll move on the guildhouse an hour or so before dawn."

Jak looked surprised at that, and nervous. "You want to move against Yrsillar at night? That soon?"

Cale nodded firmly as they skirted the market and walked along the pier. I'd go after him right now if I didn't think fatigue would make me sloppy. We can't delay any longer than necessary." He stopped and looked his friend in the face. "There's no predicting what that bastard will do next. He wants me, but I'm not all he wants. He's going to keep killing unless someone stops him. And if he can continue turning men into ghouls…"

"Hell have an army soon enough," Jak finished solemnly. "We go at night, then."

Cale began again to walk, his mind on revenge. "Don't be worried, Jak. Darkness is as much our element as it is his."

To that, Jak said nothing. After a few moments of silence, the little man seemed to reach a decision. He pulled Gale to a stop and looked into his face, embarrassed but determined.

"Cale, when I first saw the shadow demon in Sarn-trumpet, I froze. It scared me so bad I just froze." He paused and added softly. "I wanted you to know."

Cale stared at him a long moment. "So now I know. It doesn't change anything. There's no one I'd rather have with me."r

Jak smiled gratefully.v

"It scared me too," Cale confessed. "But it's a magical fear, supernatural. Since we know that now, ifll be easier next time."?.

Jak did not look totally convinced. Cale wasnt sure that he was entirely convinced himself

"Let's get a room," he said.

They took a room at the Winsome Wench, a low-cost flophouse used mostly by transient sailors and operated by a weather-beaten old woman named Matilda who looked as tough as boiled leather. She was a wench, but hardly winsome. Cale paid her an extra fivestar for the luxury of a bath and Iaua4ry service.

Afterward, he took, a glass of hot spiced cider in his room, climbed into the lower bunk of the tiny bed, and quickly fell asleep.

He awoke to find the room dimly lit by a single candle set in a tin candleholder. Jak sat cross-legged on die floor beside it, eyes closed, holy symbol in hand, meditating. Cale knew him to be praying to Brando-baris for spells; committing magical words to memory in preparation for the confrontation with Yrsillar.

Surprisingly, Hie small window in their room that overlooked the bay was dark. The sounds of commerce, cargo, and shipping had fallen silent. The wharf seemed eerily quiet.

He cleared his throat to get Jak's attention and asked in a whisper, "What time is it, little man?"

It took Jak a moment to come out of his prayer trance. When he did, he opened one eye and cocked an eyebrow at Cale. The soft glow of die candlelight made him look like a sinister, red-headed pixie. "A few hours past midnight," he softly replied. "Selune will be setting soon."

"Dark," Cale oathed in surprise, and sat up in the bed. He had slept away the whole day and most of the night. "Sorry about that, Jak," he said, while pulling on his freshly laundered shirt. The laundry girl must have brought in his clothes while he slept. "I didn't mean to sleep that long."

Jak pocketed has holy symbol, stood up, and used the candle to light the wick of the room's single oil lamp. Cale squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

"Not a problem. It gave me time to come to terms with Brandobaris. Just in case." He laughed casually, but Cale thought it sounded forced. "Besides, while you slept I had some of Matilda's fish stew and homemade ale. Quite good actually. Wouldn't have been my choice for a last meal, though." He tried to smile at his joke but managed only a pained grimace.

Cale could think of nothing to say to ease his friend's uneasiness. He too felt less than sure that he would see another sunrise. He tried to change the subject. "You should've gotten some sleep, Jak. Elaena said you needed rest."

The little man snorted as he belted on his short sword and daggers. "Are you kidding? Burn me, Cale, I feel like my skin is on fire. I couldn't fall asleep if a mage used a sleep spell on me." Seeing Gale's concerned frown, he hurriedly added, "But I'm still ready for this. I'm not… it's just the waiting."

Cale nodded. He understood. Had he not been absolutely exhausted, he doubted he would have been able to sleep either. He stood and stretched his long frame and belted on his weapons.

"Let's get a quick meal and get this over with. No more waiting."

"A meal? You hungry?"

Cale donned his enchanted leather armor and threw on his new blue cloak.

"Not especially. But I need to do something… normal beforehand. You understand?"

"I understand. Definitely." Jak smiled. "I'm hungry again, anyway."

They gathered up their gear, took the candle in hand, and walked down the hall to Matilda's room. After a round of firm knocking, the sleepy, grumbling old woman opened her door a crack.

"What is itr she croaked.

"We're leaving," Cale announced. "Now, and we won't be back."

She nodded, grumbled something obscene under her breath, and tried to shut the door. Cale stuck his boot in the opening to prevent it from closing. "We would like something to eat before we go, old woman. Ifs important."

At that, her eyes narrowed angrily. "It's too damned late," she protested. Toull have to-"

Cale shut her up by flashing a handful of fivestars. "One meal, Matilda. It's not a lot to ask. I said if'simportant."

She studied the corns, torn between sleepiness and greed. The gold in Gale's hand represented more than a tenday's rent. After only a moment, greed won out. She gave a brisk nod and grabbed the fivestars in a wrinkled hand. Ill get dressed and be down in a moment. You'll set your own table though, you hear? There's bowls and spoons in the cabinet."

"Fair enough," Cale said, and headed downstairs to the dining room with Jak.

They took bowls, cups, and semi-clean tableware from an ancient wooden cabinet and sat at the sturdy common table. Within a few minutes, Matilda, now dressed in faded nightclothes, descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen to start a fire. She was still grumbling.

"Stew, bread, and ale is all I got," she announced over her shoulder.

Cale shot a longsuffering smile at Jak. "Looks like you're getting fish stew as a last meal no matter what you do, little man."

"So it seems," Jak replied, and distractedly passed his finger back and forth through the candle's flame. "It's fate, Cale, and there's no point fighting fate."

Before long, Matilda emerged from the kitchen. In her gnarled hands, she held a serving board set with a pot of steaming stew, a loaf of day old black bread, and a pitcher of ale. After setting the whole on the table, she filled both their cups with ale and ladled their bowls full with the chunky fish stew.

"You have as much of this as you want," she told them. "Leave the mess and I'll get to it in the morning." She took a step back and eyed Cale determinedly. "But I'm going back to bed now, gold or no gold. This ain't no time for decent folks to be up and about."

"No, it's not. Thank you, Matilda, and goodnight."

Startled by his considerate reply, she muttered under her breath, walked away, and slowly walked back up the creaking stairs.

Jak and Cale sat in silence. They picked at the food, their minds on other things.

As he spooned in another mouthful of the stew-it was tasty, as Jak had said-Cale looked around the seamy dining room. Empty now, the morning would no doubt find the dirt-stained floor populated by seedy men with dirt-stained souls. Anyone, including fall-down drunks, thieves on the lam, assassins on a job, and whatever other dregs had managed to stumble into Matilda's boardinghouse with enough coin for a night's lodging. Back in Westgate, Cale had taken predawn breakfasts in rooms exactly like this more times than he could count.

This is who you are, he thought, and felt no sadness, only resignation. He had tried for years to deny it, to be nothing more than a butler and a kind man, but he was too tired to deny his nature any longer. His soul, too, was dirt-stained, and this was where he belonged.

"Dark," Jak oathed. He set down his spoon and stared at Cale with wide eyes.

Cale waved the candle smoke out of his face. "What?" His hand went to his sword hilt and he half rose from the chair. His eyes searched the dark room but he saw nothing. "What?"

Jak's hand went to the pocket where he kept his holy symbol. "Just now," he said, still shocked. "The smoke. It… formed a mask around your eyes."

"You're mistaken," Cale instinctively protested, but his flesh goosepimpled.

"I'm not," Jak insisted. "Blast. Something's happening here, Cale. With Yrsillar. With us. Something big. Dark and empty, but I can feel it." He pulled his holy symbol from his pocket and rolled it along his knuckles.

Cale decided: then to tell Jak everything. Maybe the little man could shed some light on what was happening.

MJak, listen. When I faced Yrsillar, he called me a Champion of Mask." He felt stupid saying it aloud, but there it was. "That mean anything to you?"

Jak shook his head, but his knowing eyes studied Cale intently.

"He also said that there is another, that there are two champions of Mask." He looked questioningly at the little man. "Could that be us?"

Jak immediately shook his head and held his holy symbol up between thumb and forefinger. "Not possible," he said. "You could be one, I suppose, but I couldn't. I'm a priest of Brandobaris. I can't also be the servant of another god, much less the servant of Mask. If there's another Champion, it's someone other than me."

Cale accepted that with a nod. He sat back in his chair and gulped his ale.

Jak leaned forward and looked at him earnestly. "That confirms it though, Cale. The gods are involved here. Or at least Mask. Cale… I think you're being called."

"You're crazy." Cale sipped from his ale and tried to keep his hand from shaking.

Jak laughed softly. "It's hard to get your hands around, I know." He sipped from his own ale. "You know how I became a priest of Brandobaris?"

Cale looked up and shook his head. They had never discussed Jak's entry into the Trickster's priesthood. Cale welcomed the opportunity to learn more about his friend:

"It was Year's End Eve in the Year of the Serpent," Jak said, lust after the Time of Troubles. I was twenty-six then." His voice grew distant as he journeyed far back in his memory. "I was doing a fourth-story job in Hillsfar-I was solo then, too," he added with a playful wink, and took a gulp from his ale.

"Cale, I got in and out of this noble's villa without a bitch, loaded with swag. I had enough king's pictures to last two years." He chuckled and shook his head. "But I was young and stupid. Really stupid. I took too much, and it was way too heavy. I got ten feet down the wall, lost my balance, and fell."

"Fell! You?" Halfling rogues notoriously lacked climbing skill, but over the years Jak had repeatedly proven himself an exception.

Jak nodded, smiling. "I should've left nothing more than a bloodstain and a pile of coins on the pavement." He gripped his holy symbol and leaned forward intently. "Instead, I drifted to the ground like a feather."

Cale knew what that meant-he had heard similar stories before. "Divine gift."

"Divine gifts" agreed Jak with a nod. "I turned over that whole take to the first priest of Brandobaris I could find. Took the rites right there. I was called. You see?"

Cale took a draw on his ale. "I see… but how'd you know it was Brandobaris that had called you? Why not some other god? Why not luck? Or the whim of a passing mage?"

"No, it was the Trickster, all right." Jak nodded thoughtfully and stroked his whiskered chin. "How can I explain? I think it's different for everybody, Gale, but I just Anew, you know? The same way you know your mother is your mother, even though you didn't see her give birth to you." He crossed his hands and eyed Gale shrewdly. "Has something like that already happened to you?"

Gale sipped thoughtfully from his ale and recalled the mysterious darkness that only he had been able to see through. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe." He felt himself being pulled along through events he didn't fully understand, the marionette of a divine puppeteer. He didn't like it. He would be no one's puppet, not even a god's. Especially not a god's.

As though reading his mind, Jak said, "You're always your own man, Gale, even after you accept your calling, and you can reject it. Most don't though-the gods seem to call only those ready and able to accept. Kind of a convergence of mortal and divine interests."

It pleased Gale to learn that a call could be rejected. He wasn't sure Mask had tried to call him, but if so, he reserved the right to refuse.

I'm not changing for you, Mask, understand? He had tiled changing for Thamalon and Thazienne, and it had only made things worse. He was through with trying to be something other than what he was. A skilled killer.

He put Mask out of his mind and finished his stew. "You ready?" he asked Jak.

The little man's face fell slightly but he rallied quickly. "Ready." Hurriedly, Jak slammed back the last of his ale and enjoyed a final spoonful of stew.

"Then let's do this."

Verdrinal awoke with a start. His heart thumped so hard in his chest that he thought it would surely explode. The residuum of the sound that had awakened him from his nightmare played at the edge of his still sleepy consciousness and promised him an ugly death.

There's someone in the room! his mind screamed.

Slowly, he slid his hand under the sheets and patted the space to his right-nothing. Dark, he inwardly cursed. For the first night in the last five, he had not taken a lover. He was alone.

Terrified, but unwilling to die without trying to take some action, he jerked upright in bed and peered around the opulence of his bedchambers. He saw only darkness-the hearth had burned itself out. It must be several hours past midnight.

Heart racing, he waited for the sleep to clear from his eyesight. Within a few moments, he could make out varying shades of gray-his dressing table, armoire, work desk, divan, dressing screen, chairs^There! A shadowy figure stood near his wardrobe. His breath left him, his body went weak; his intent to fight to the last vanished under a tidal wave aifeaE

"Dark!" he screamed.

He threw off his sheets in a cloud of silk, rolled across the bed, and reached for the nightstand drawer where he kept a poisoned knife. He couldn't control his fingers-he fumbled clumsily with the drawer latch. He couldn't breathe-he wanted to scream for Hov but his constricted throat would make no sound. He would be dead in a heartbeat.

Damn this drawer! Damn this drawer! He stared over his shoulder in terror. The figure didn't move. He froze, cocked his head, and peered intently through the darkness. The figure didn't move because…

It's my damned night cloak, he realized. He had thrown it over his wardrobe before coming to bed.

"My cloak," he muttered. He would have laughed but he still hadn't recovered his breath. His sweat-soaked body shivered in the night's cold. He collapsed back into the bed and stared up at the ceiling until his heart ceased pounding.

'"There's no one here," he announced to the night. He had imagined the sound, had imported the terror of his nightmare into his bedroom..

He had dreamed of the dread, or what he imagined the dread to be. He had run and run through a featureless, unending maze, all the while dogged from behind by a clawed black vision of unspeakable evil. He had heard it sniffing for him, chuffing like a hound. Periodically, it had called out to him. "Little puke," it had hissed. "Little puke."

"Puke," he breathed, and chuckled in relief. He had scared himself witless!

No longer afraid, but still flushed from the rush of fear, he pined again for Arlanni, the sain, taut young woman who had been warming his bed for the past few days. She had left in a huff after a spat over the dinner roast.

Too bad Arlanni was so damned difficult. It made her all the more appealing, of course, he thought with a smile. Thinking of her long blonde hair and firm thighs, he grew warm with excitement. I should send a messenger for her this instant, he resolved.

He sat up again and reached for the small bronze bell that sat on his nightstand. Increasingly eager for Arlanni's body, he shook it urgently. Its soft chime reverberated through his large bedroom. Hov would be along in a moment.

The big man had taken to standing watch outside his door since the incident with Riven.

Such a diligent worker… a pity, Verdrinal thought, too much work makes a man a dullard. He again shook the bell. "Hov," he called, "Hov."

Before Verdrinal took another breath the darkness to his right suddenly came to life. A shadowy figure rushed him. A fist grabbed him by the hair and jerked him roughly down on the bed.

"Aiee-" The feel of cold steel at his throat silenced his scream.

A body slithered close, stinking breath felt hot on his cheek. "Hov can't help you," said a voice.

Drasek Riven's voice.

A shudder shook Verdrinal's body when he heard the coldness in the assassin's tone. This was not the emotionally volatile Riven that had argued with him yesterday in his study. This was Drasek Riven the professional killer, one of the best assassins the Zhen-tarim had ever trained, and he was on a job.

Verdrinal heard clear as a bell the promise of blood in Riven's sinister, emotionless voice. He knew-with certainty that the assassin had come to kill him. Instead of growing strong with adrenaline, Verdrinal's body froze with fear.

"Hov can't help anyone anymore," Riven continued. Still holding the dagger at Verdrinal's throat, he held up with his other hand a jagged piece of meat and dangled it over Verdrinal's eyes.

Hov's tongue.

Warm droplets of blood peppered Verdrinal's cheeks and mouth. He twisted his face to the side and clamped his mouth closed. His: eyes fell on his bedroom door-Hov's cooling body must be slumped on the floor just outside.

"You don't like that, eh?" Riven chuckled spitefully and laid Hov's tongue on Verdrinal's chest. "Well, he didn't like it much either. But he had it coming."

Riven's laugh made Verdrinal want to vomit. He thought about fighting back, but couldn't bring himself to move. Fear paralyzed him. He knew he was going to die, but he found himself unwilling to do anything that might speed the inevitable. He clutched desperately to every heartbeat that remained in his chest.

"Why?" he peeped at last.

"Why!" Riven leaned over him and looked him hi the face. "Because you're a liability, and I lost six men." All in one lightning fast motion, Riven stabbed Verdrinal through the cheek, withdrew the blade, and replaced the tip against Verdrinal's throat.

"Aargh!" In agony, Verdrinal kicked and flailed with his legs. Riven's blade forced him to keep his neck motionless.

The assassin grinned and cuffed Verdrinal across the face. Verdrinal, a nobleman of Selgaunt, began to cry. Riven cuffed him again, harder.

"Shut up. The fact that you didn't see this coming only makes my point-you're a liability."

Eyes watering, Verdrinal lay motionless. Blood ran down Ms face from the hole in his cheek and collected in a warm pool on his pillow.

"I've killed good men for less," Riven said. "Did you think I'd let this pass from you, an incompetent little puke?"

Verdrinal made no answer. Little puke. He hadn't been dreaming. Something dark had been hunting him, a shadowy thing that had called Him a little puke. Not the dread though, Drasek Riven.

The blade pressed harder into the flesh of his throat. He closed his eyes and waited for death. It didn't come.

Riven's free hand clamped painfully on Verdrinal's cheeks and jerked his head sidewise. Verdrinal looked into the assassin's eerily calm face, stared blankly into the hole where Riven's eye should be.

"I thought all night about what you said, about how the dread was doing our work for us, and how we would kill it afterward. But then I asked myself why Malix would leave the city without telling me and leave you in charge? Do you know what I realized?"

Verdrinal didn't make a move, didn't dare reply.

"I realized that he didn't tell me because I would recognize that explanation as dung! Malix doesn't know what to do, you idiot! That's why he went to Zhentil Keep. To get help. This demon is running rampant in the city and he doesn't have a godsdamned clue as to how to deal with it." Riven's voice lowered to a hiss. "So he left you in charge, because you're too stupid to see it."

Verdrinal would have protested but knew it would be futile. Riven's one black eye looked colder and emptier than the hole in his other socket. There could be no explaining to that eye. Verdrinal kept silent and tried to stop the tears from flowing down his face. He didn't want to die white crying.

Riven leaned in dose. "I lost six men because of Malix's idiocy and your incompetence. Malix will answer to me later. You'll answer to me now."

"The Zhentarim will force you out of "the organization," Verdrinal desperately whispered.

"Maybe," Riven conceded. "But I don't care."

A sharp stab of pain raced across Verdrinal's throat, followed fay a cascade of warmth that spilled down his chest and poured down his windpipe. He coughed and gurgled, but strangely, felt no pain. He reached for his throat and felt his life pouring through his fingers from the open gash in his neck.

I'm dying, he thought. Spots exploded in his head. He tried to squirm from the bed but his body would not move. He reached a weak hand up to grab at Riven but the assassin seemed too far away. His vision started to go black.

He heard himself gurgling away the last of his life. He felt the soaked sheets sticking to his body. Riven's voice carried across the void and filled his ears.

"I'm in charge now," he said.

Verdrinal tried to laugh, gurgled instead, then died.

The snow and wind had stopped. Breathless, Jak and Gale stood in the shadows of an alley beside Emel-lia's. The sounds of that most human of pastimes carried through the brothel's shutters.

"Not exactly shy, are they?" Jak observed with a soft chuckle.

Gale smiled despite himself. Now that they had begun to work, Jak seemed to have shaken his trepidation and regained his usual carefree sense of humor. Still, they needed to stay focused. Across Ari-ness Street was the guildhouse. The street itself was empty.

"I don't see any guards," Cale observed. "Didn't last time, either. You?"

"No. No one on the roof, either."

Cale continued to study the guildhouse, thinking. Assuming tilings had not gotten markedly worse, he knew what to expect in the basement. He also-knew from his combat with the shadow demon in Storm-weather that they would need enchanted weapons to destroy the demons. Jak had nothing but a luckstone. Cale had nothing at all. He rebuked himself for not keeping Thazienne's enchanted dagger.

"There's an armory on the first floor, toward the back of the building. The guild keeps a few magical weapons there, in case they are ever needed by a guild member for a job. They aren't very powerfttl. The Righteous Man kept anything of power for himself. But they'll be better than nothing."

Jak blew out a misty-frozen sigh and nodded. "Good idea. Well need magical weapons to face the demons." He turned and looked at Gale. "What's the play, though? How do we get in?"

Cale knew there to be only two entrances to'the guildhouse, the sewers and the front doors. Before, when he had come in by way of the sewer entrance, he had barely escaped with his life. While not superstitious, he would not go in the same way twice.

"We're walking through the- front doors," he said, and started across the street.

Halfway to the guildhouse's porch, he pulled his long sword from its scabbard. Beside him, Jak jerked free a short swordand dagger.

Come on, you bastards, he challenged the cold night air, but nothing happened. They gained the porch without incident and faced the sturdy double doors.

"The hairs on my arms are standing up," Jak softly observed. '"

"You're just cold," Cale said, though he knew the statement to be false. His hairs also stood on end. The ah* around the guildhouse tasted polluted. He felt an ominous prickling in his body that made him shudder. He tried to ignore the feeling and placed his hand on the door handle. If it was locked, even Jak would have difficulty picking it.

The handle turned. Cale and Jak blew out frozen breaths simultaneously. They shared a look.

"It opens in," Cale whispered. "To better expose as a target anyone trying to force their way in." Jak nodded. Cale began to push against the oak slab. It wouldn't budge. Something blocked it.

There's something on the other side," he said, and prepared to throw his body against it. "Ready?"

Jak sheathed his sword and dagger, drew three throwing knives, and positioned himself to the left of the door. "Ready."

With a grant, Gale slammed his shoulder into the door. Whatever blocked it slid dear and the door flew all the way open. Jak leaped into the opening behind Cale, daggers ready. Gale, long sword before him, slid sidewise to give Jak a wide berth to throw.

Enough light from the street spilled into the room to depict a scene of terrible destruction. Tables, chairs, beds, and piles of unidentifiable debris lay scattered about. A pile of four mildewed straw mattresses had blocked the door. A musty, rotten smell wafted from the door. The smell of smoke lingered in the air-the aftereffect from

"Stinks," Jak said. He sheathed his throwing knives and again drew his short sword and fighting dagger.

"Get used to it," Cale replied.

Jak stepped fully through the doorway and poked the mattresses with his short sword. "Why the mattresses? How*re they getting in and out?"

Gale shrugged off his backpack and pulled out a torch. "Sewers, probably. Hells, I don't know. There's no making sense of what's going on in here, Jak."

Before Gale could remove his tinderbox, Jak stopped him. "Here." The little man pulled forth the metallic rod that he had used to illuminate their way through Selgaunt's sewers a month ago. As he held it, a blue light sparked in its tip and grew to a soft glow.

"I'm surprised to see you still have that thing," Cale observed.

"I don't use it much."

"Does it do anything else?"

Jak frowned thoughtfully and studied the rod. "I don't think so." He crouched and aimed it purposefully across the street. "Kill!" It did nothing.

"Just the glow, it seems," Jak said with a smile.

"Lucky for the girls at Emellia's," Cale said grinning. "Give it, here then. "You can't carry it and fight two-handed."

Jak handed it over. His hand trembled slightly. Cale pretended not to notice.

He knew how Jak felt but they could not turn back now.

"Lef'sgo," he said, summoning his own courage. They walked into the guildhouse.

The smell of corpses permeated the stuffy air. Within a few moments, Cale's nose became inured to the smell. Moving warily through the ruined offices, Cale and Jak had to pick their way through the overturned chairs, desks, and scattered papers.

"Keep your eyes on the shadows," Cale said tensely. He tightened the grip of his sweaty palms on the sword hilt and rod.

"Right," Jak said with a nod, his eyes watchful of every corner, both blades held high and ready

They cautiously navigated room after room, but apart from the toppled, broken furniture, the offices seemed to have escaped the warping and foulness that had occurred in the basement. No corpses, no voids, no blood, no demons. Only the ubiquitous charnel reek that announced Hie presence of ghouls nearby.

Silent as specters, they prowled farther into the house. When the two reached the end of the offices, Cale held up a hand to signal Jak to stop.

"That door," he said, and nodded at the oak door before them, leads into the guildhouse proper. To reach the armory, we go down the hall to the right, then left down a flight of stairs, then right down another hall. Can't miss it."

Jak nodded as he memorized the directions. He mopped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you think they've abandoned the upper floor?*

"Maybe. No way to tell. We'll find out soon enough." Gale stared into Jak's eyes. "Ready?"

"Ready," Jak replied. "Let's hope the Trickster and Lady Luck are in a good mood."

Gale stepped forward, knelt at the door, and listened. Nothing in the hallway beyond. He stood and tried to turn the-handle. It was jammed.'t

"Dark," he oathed. He held the rod before the keyhole and peered in. Jak crept close and looked over his shoulder. "The locking mechanism's been deliberately mangled." He looked back at Jak. "Can you pick it?"

"Not if the tumblers are bent," Jak replied. "But I can still get it open." He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his holy cloak-clasp, and muttered the words to a spell. The air around his small hands began to grow charged. Gale backed a step away from the door.

When Jak finished the incantation and pointed his holy symbol at the lock, the magic of.the spell forced the twisted metal in the mechanism to disentangle itself. Tumblers fell into place, metal ground against metal and shrieked like a dying man. Gale winced at the sound. If anything stood nearby, it would have heard them.

In three heartbeats, the door popped ajar. Gale pulled Jak behind him and jerked the door open, his blade ready.

The narrow hallway stretched to the left and right, dark beyond the limits of the wand's blue light. As with the rest of the guildhouse, debris lay east haphazardly about on the floor, the ghouls and demons seemingly intent on destroying or befouling any semblance of normalcy.

Despite the chaos, Cade now felt surprisingly calm. Either he would succeed or he would die.

The little man, on the other hand, seemed balanced on a sword's edge, at one moment his cocky, adventurous self, at the next moment frightened beyond words. Gale could hear the nervousness in Jak's harsh breathing, though the halfling tried to mask it.

I shouldn't have brought him, Gale thought guiltily. Jak had not come to succeed or die. Nor had he come to avenge Thazienne. He had come because Gale was his friend and Gale had asked him to come.

I don't want him to die for that, he thought. He resolved to ensure Jak's safety no matter what.

"You feel that?" Jak asked nervously.

Gale nodded. He felt it. The air in the hallway seemed as heavy as an autumn fog, pregnant with the stink of something vile. A distant pulsing, felt rather than heard, thumped at intervals like the beat of a giant, foul heart.

"What is it?" Jak asked.

"I don't know," Gale softly replied. He tightened his grip on the long sword. -

Jak looked at him sharply, eyes wide, but said nothing. The little man's hand went to his holy symbol.

"This way," Gale said, and headed right,;

After walking only fifteen paces, they encountered the first signs of warping. The blue tight of Jak's wand illuminated a vacant spot in the hallway floor. The emptiness utterly swallowed the light. The pulsing seemed to originate from somewhere within the void. With each pulse, Gale's loose clothes and the hairs on his arms were pulled toward the distortion.

"Ware that, Jak. I don't know what it is, but we can expect more of them. Lots more. I think the shadow demon can move through them."

Jak walked past Gale, stood at the edge of the emptiness, and peered within.

"Careful," Gale warned again. He recalled the hypnotic effect one of these vacancies had on him in the guildhouse basement. He also recalled the malice-filled yellow eyes he had seen staring at him out of one.

"I think it's a gate," Jak ventured.

Cale stepped forward and peered within. The pull never got too strong, but it was nevertheless disconcerting. "A gate? To where? Yrsillar's plane?"

Jak could only shrug.

Snarls suddenly erupted from somewhere behind. Jak gasped and-whirled, blades ready. Cale leaped before him in a fighting crouch.

As suddenly as they had begun, the snarls died out and vanished.

Cale held the wand aloft and walked a few steps back the way they had come. Nothing. Inspired, he knelt and placed his ear to the floor. From below, the distant sound of snarls carried through the floorboards.

"Came through the floorboards," he said, and stood. "They must have been right below us."

Jak let his weapons sag and visibly relaxed. "Dark," he oathed. "Startled me."

"Me too."

"They coming up?" Jak asked.

"I don't know." He walked past Jak, faced the emptiness of the gate, and estimated its width-five feet, maybe six. "Can you jump over this?"

TSasy." Without another word, Jak sheathed his weapons, backed up a few steps, raced forward, and leaped over the gate. He cleared it easily and landed in a crouch. In a flash, he had his blades redrawn and stood at the ready, waiting for Cale.

Cale quickly jumped the gate as well. Dodging debris, they continued forward. Two more gates- empty holes in reality-blocked their path, one in the floor, easily jumped, and one in the wall, easily sidestepped. They reached the short flight of stairs that descended to the lower level of the guildhouse.

"Down here," Cale said.

Jak nodded. "I don't smell it anymore," he observed softly. "The rot, I mean."

Cale nodded. He didn't smell it either. The smell of decay had become so commonplace to him that he no longer noticed it.

That's why I don't feel afraid, he realized. Fear, too, had become so commonplace for him over the last two days that he noticed it only rarely.

A soft growling from down the twisting stairs interrupted his reverie. He looked questioningly at Jak. The little man nodded grimly. He had heard it too. Cale covered the cool tip of the wand with his palm so that only a little light trickled out between his fingers. In hand cant, he signaled to Jak, I lead. Be cautious.

Jak nodded and they silently descended the twisting stone stairs. When they reached the landing at the bottom, they discovered the source of the growls.,

A ghoul dressed in green tatters sat at the base of the wall and stared dazedly into the emptiness of a gate. A slowly swirling mix of gray and black, the gate pulsed periodically, and with each beat of the unholy heart the spider web tracery of purple veins beneath the ghoul's translucent gray skin beat in time. The dazed horror rocked back and forth, rhythmically growling softly into the emptiness. Its yellow eyes looked as vacant as the hole into which it stared. The ghoul, oblivious to the pain and purple blood that coursed down its arms, mindlessly dug its claws into its own rotted flesh.

Jak gave a slight gasp and Cale signaled him to stop and stand still. Cautiously, blade before him, he walked toward the ghoul.

Enthralled by whatever it saw in the gate, the creature showed no sign of noticing him. It simply kept rocking and gouging itself. Cale moved directly behind it. It continued to mutter and stare, oblivious to all but the void.

Up close now, Cale could make out muttered words interspersed with its bestial growls. "He is among us, among us."

Cale swallowed his disgust. Though twisted and warped, he recognized the skinny body and short brown hair of Willen Trostyn, a boy the Righteous Man had recruited no more than a month ago. Willen couldn't have been more than twenty, and now Cale had to kill him.

Without further thought, he raised his long sword high to strike. He stopped in mid-stroke and looked at Jak. Eyes filled with horror and disgust, the little man met his gaze and gave him a short nod of approval. Willen showed no sign of noticing anything. He rocked, dug his claws deeper into his arms, and muttered mindlessly.

"Among us. Among us-"

With an overhand chop, Gale laid open Willen's head. Purple gore sprayed the wall and soaked, the floor. Willen died instantly, collapsing into a stinking heapat the base of the gate.

Seemingly of its own accord, the gore flowed toward the void. Like the mouth of some unimaginable beast, the emptiness drew Willen's blood within and devoured it. Swirls of purple intermixed with the black and gray of the gate and spun toward nothingness. Cale turned away to find Jak. The little man's face had turned white.

"Dark," mouthed the halfling soundlessly, as he stared at the wall. He looked as though he might lose Matilda's fish stew at any moment.

Cale stepped forward and gripped him by the shoulders. "Don't look into the gates, Jak. Don't look."

The little man peeled his eyes away and stared at

Cale with eyes full of horror. It's hungry, Erevis. The gate. It's hungry."

"I know," Cale replied. "It's empty. Emptiness is always hungry." He gave the little man a slight shake. "Jak! The demons are the same way. You see? They're always hungry and they'll never stop. That*s why we have to stop them. You see? Jak!"

The little man gave a nod, seemed to come back to himself some. "I see," he said, and clutched for his holy symbol.

He's close to losing it, Cale realized. He placed a gentle hand on Jak's shoulder. "Go back, my friend. Right now. Go back and get out. Get Brelgin and-"

Jak shook his head and pushed Gale's hand away. "I'm not going back, Erevis. I just…" He waved his blades to indicate the guildhouse. "Trickster's toes, it just takes a moment to digest all of this." His eyes fell on Willen's corpse, then returned to Cale. "I'm not going back. I'm here until this is over."

Cale accepted that. '"Then let's get to the armory," Growling suddenly erupted behind them and died away. The scratching of clawed feet on the hardwood planks of the floor was loud to Gate's ears.

"They must have come up from the basement," Jak calmly observed.

Pleased to see Jak in possession of his faculties, Cale nodded agreement. Trsillar must know we're here. Let's move."

With Cale leading, they sped down the debris-strewn hallway until they reached the armory. The open door hung crookedly, having been torn loose from its upper hinge.

"Here," Cale said, and ducked in. Jak followed.

Weapons lay east about the floor, many broken or chipped, but some intact. Comically, a few broken swords had been replaced on their wall mounts after being destroyed. All the wooden tables and weapon racks had been turned over and the legs broken off Loose sling bullets covered the floor. Of the six suits of leather armor and three suits of studded leather that hung by their straps from the wall, all had been torn into uselessness by ghoul claw. A stack of broken crossbows lay piled in the near corner. Against the right hand wall, the: large wooden chests and barrels that had once held the crossbow ammunition had been broken open and the quarrels scattered. Shanks of silk rope, crowbars, and lock picking tools had been tossed about randomly.

Gale's heart sank when he saw the thorough destruction. They had to have enchanted weapons! He scanned the wreckage for the pair of long, thin, iron strongboxes that once had held the guild's small store of magical weapons-Growls again sounded from the hallway behind them. It rose to a crescendo and then devolved into wet gibbering. Gale shared an alarmed glance with Jak. From the sound, many ghouls had come up from the basement,

"Probably feeding on the body of the one we killed," Gale softly observed. "Let's get this door closed. Quietly."

Ashen faced, Jak gave a nod. "Right."

With Gale reaching over him to hold the heavy oak door in position near its broken upper hinge, Jak carefully pushed it closed.

"We're looking for two iron strongboxes," Gale whispered to Jak, and started to kick through the debris. "Hurry. They'll finish with that body soon."

Jak began searching the debris.

Gale quickly found the boxes against the far wall, – beneath an overturned weapon rack, a wooden.-, and a pile of broken broadswords. He gave a short, soft whistle to get Jak's attention. _Iere." The h'ttle man hurried over. Gale could no longer hear the sounds of the feeding ghouls.

He saw right away that ghouls had been at the strongboxes. The surfaces had been scratched with claws and beaten with something heavy. The lock and hinges had been pried at but they hadn't been opened. He felt a flash of hope.

"1 don't have a key," he said to Jak, "Can you get them open?"

Jak eyed the locks professionally and nodded. "I don't have another spell for it, but I should be able to do it the hard way." He reached into one of his pouches and pulled forth a small leather case. After loosing its strap, he unfolded it to reveal a bewildering array of lock picking tools-from a bent copper wire to a hardened steel pry for tumblers. He pondered for a moment, selected a tool Gale did not recognize, and set to work.

"Tough lock," Jak observed after working on it for a moment. He exchanged the first tool for his tumbler pry. "But 111 get it."

Tense, Gale said nothing. He could hear the growls of the ghouls from somewhere down the hall.

"Hurry, Jak."

"Mmhmm."

The growls grew louder. Through the thick door, Gale could hear the thump and scrape of clawed feet on wood, closer now.

"Jak…"

"I know." Jak's fingers worked rapidly. Gale heard click after click in the lock but the damned thing didn't open!

The maddened snarls of the rampaging ghouls drew nearer until they sounded right outside the armory door. There had to be ten or more! Their footfalls sounded like a stampede of market cattle. Heart thumping, Gale stood over Jak and turned to face the door, blade ready.

"Hurry up, godsdammit," he whispered over his shoulder. He would rather face ten ghouls with an enchanted blade than without.

"Almost… got… it…" replied the little man. "There!"

He lifted the fid of the strongbox just as a ghoul body thumped into the door. Jak gave a start and dropped the tumbler pry. The sound of the tool clanking on the wood floor made Gale wince. Surely they had heard that. He expected a flood of ghouls to rush the room in seconds.

"Cale-r-" whispered Jak.

Gale waved his hand sharply. "Hssst."

The little man popped his mouth closed, drew his blades, and stood beside Cale, waiting.

Seconds passed and the door stayed closed. Gradually, the sound of the growls began to grow fainter. The ghouls were moving past them! Cale could not believe their luck!

They waited in nervous silence as the sounds of the rampaging pack grew fainter and fainter, until finally the growls disappeared altogether. They exhaled as one.

"Dark," Jak whispered.

"Dark indeed," Gale said, and shot him a hard smile. "We got lucky there."

Jak returned the smile with a grin and tapped the luckstone that hung from a chain at his belt. "The Lady does favor the foolish, Cale." He turned and knelt before the open chest. "Here, look at all this."

Lined with black velvet, the first iron strongbox held two long swords, a gilt mahogany case, and a small, plain maple box. Each long sword had a large onyx set into the pommel, a hilt wrapped with silver wire, and a flawless, shining blade,

Cale reached for the blades but Jak stayed his hand.

"Let me check for magical traps," he said. "Ill also confirm that they're enchanted."

"Good idea," Cale replied, then added some good-natured ribbing. "Must be nice to have spells at your disposal on a job."

Jak winked at him as he pulled forth his holy symbol. "Very nice. The Trickster takes care of his own." He looked up at Cale sidelong. "Mask does too, I suspect."

While Cale thought on that, Jak softly intoned the words to a spell. Afterward, he carefully scrutinized the chest.

"No traps," he said with assurance. Still holding the bejeweled cloak-clasp, he mouthed the words to a second spell. "The swords are magical, plus whatever is in the box and case."

Without further ado, he lifted out the case and popped it open. Within its red, felt-lined interior sat four silvery sling bullets, each inscribed over their entire surface with tiny, intricate runes. He set that aside and pried open the maple box. Three glass vials sat within, cushioned by packing rags. The translucent liquid within the vials shimmered azure in the blue light of the wand.

"Potions," Jak announced, followed quickly by, "No good to us now though, unless you know what they do."

Cale shook his head in the negative. "Bring them anyway," he said, and knelt to pick up one of the enchanted long swords. He tested its heft. Though somewhat wider than his normal blade, the enchanted long sword felt lighter and perfectly balanced. He smiled appreciatively, though he knew it mustn't be too powerful a weapon or the Righteous Man would not have stored it in the common armory. Even a weak enchantment was better than none. Thazienne's dagger had wounded the shadow demon and he did not think it had been particularly powerful. He discarded his own ordinary blade and sheathed the enchanted one.

Jak pocketed the potions and placed the magical sling bullets in his ammunition pouch. He slid over to the other strongbox, pulled out his tools, and set to work on it.

While he waited, Cale paced apprehensively. His eyes fell on the open strongbox.

"Jak…"

"Hmm?" The little man didn't turn around. "Nearly got it."

A tingle ran up Gale's spine. He knelt before the first strongbox, throat constricted.

Within, nearly invisible against the black velvet, lay a black felt mask, the symbol of Mask the Shadow-lord. Cale stared at it, motionless, afraid to touch. Was this a sign? He felt himself standing on the edge of a cliff. Touching the mask would be to step off and fall, or fly. He wasn't sure if he was ready to fly.

We must have overlooked it, he thought, but didn't really believe it.

Beside him, Jak popped open the lock on the other strongbox. "Got it," he said, and lifted the lid.

Cale grabbed the mask and stuffed it into his cloak pocket. He told himself he did it for the sake of Jak's safety, but knew it to be untrue, For the first time in his life, he was hoping for help from a god. The events of the last two days had changed him. Yreillar had to be stopped. Tonight, Cale would take help from wherever he could get it.

"No traps," Jak said. He whistled and pulled out a wide-bladed, mundane looking short sword. "Looks plain, brut the aura shows it as enchanted. Ill use it." He lifted out another maple box like the one they had found in the first strongbox. "Nothing special." Liquid dripped from the seam between the lid and the bottom. The potion vials must have been broken when the room was tossed. They're no good." He pulled out a small leather bag, loosed the drawstring, and dumped the contents onto his palm, two rings, one a plain elec-trum band, one a silver band inset with three small black opals.

"No way to know what these do, either," said Jak. "You take this one." He tossed Cale the bejeweled silver ring. "I'll keep this one." He slipped the electrum ring into a belt pouch. "Well figure them out later."

Cale pocketed the ring. When he did, his hand brushed the felt of the mask and a charge raced through his body. He had difficulty deciding whether he had imagined it or not. For an instant, he felt a part of something larger than himself. He felt a newfound confidence. Maybe they would get out of this alive.

Jak stood and took a few practice stabs with his new short sword, seemed satisfied, and looked at Cale. "Let's get moving."

Pleased to hear the confidence in Jak's voice, Cale nodded and moved for the door. He knelt and placed his ear against the door. The ghouls were gone.

Knowing that the loosely secured door would fall if he simply released the latch, he sheathed his blade, gripped the handle with both hands, and used his strength to steady the door while he opened itThe instant he turned the handle, something flew into the door and blew it open, nearly knocking it entirely loose from the wall. Cale staggered backward, stunned. Savage snarls and bestial growls filled his ears. Ghouls! The smell of rot filled his nostrils as ghoul after ghoul poured into the room.

"Gale-" Jak screamed. The growls of the ghouls drowned out the rest of what the little man said.

Gale fumbled to get his sword clear of its scabbard. Gray bodies milled around him, snarled and tore at his flesh. He couldn't distinguish individual creatures. The whole pack seemed a single mass of gray flesh, black fangs, filthy claws, and wretched sewer stink. Beside him, invisible through the press of rotted skin, he could hear Jak shouting defiance.

Claws and teeth thumped off Gale's enchanted armor. Tatters of his blue cloak came loose and floated to the floor. Snarls filled his ears, surrounding him on all sides. He grabbed one ghoul by the throat while jerking his blade free with his left hand. Another jumped on his back and nearly bowled him over.,

"Arrgh," he grunted. He ran his blade through the sternum of the ghoul he held by the throat. It screamed and died but others instantly rushed to replace it. The damned things were everywhere! He threw the rabid creature from his hack and swiped wildly about with his blade. They pressed him so closely that he couldn't help but strike a ghoul with every blow. Again and again the enchanted iron chunked into ghoul flesh. Squeals of pain joined the savage growls.

A multitude of raking claws bloodied his arms and face. He ignored the pain and chopped. Purple blood sprayed the floor to join the red of his own.

A claw tore across his chest, penetrated his armor, and bit into flesh. Terrifyingly, his body began to grow sluggish, the venom of ghouls' gashes doing its work. He continued to swing his long sword while he tried to fight off the poison. His body grew heavy, slowed. He wanted to call out for Jak but his tongue weighed a hundredweight. Claws tore into him. He couldn't move. Ghouls pressed closer, bit into his flesh and fed on him. He felt their fetid breath hot on his skin, felt their foul saliva mix with his blood as they tore loose morsels of his exposed flesh. The excruciating pain set off a spark shower in his brain but he could not move or scream, could not even blink, could only watch helplessly as ghouls fed on him and he died.

Not tike this, he desperately prayed. Mask, not like this! If the Shadowlord heard his plea, he made no response. Gale thought he was dead.

Jak suddenly leaped into his field of vision, bloody blades held high. The little man snarled challenges and lashed out with both blades at the ghouls biting at Gale. They pounced after him, but the tittle man ducked, whirled, and ran one through the chest with his dagger and short sword. It squealed and fell over dead. Jak had his blades free in an instant.

Three ghouls surrounded the tittle man. They lashed out with daws and teeth. Jak whirled, dodged, fought tike a rabid badger. Gale could do nothing but watch. Jak bled freely from many wounds-the tittle man wore no armor'-and Gale knew that if he succumbed to the paralyzing poison they would both die.

The three remaining ghouls charged the tittle man at once.

Like a red-headed whirlwind, Jak ducked, spun, and rolled. Claws flashed and tore into his exposed hack, but he rolled away and retaliated with an upward dagger thrust through the groin of one ghoul. It screamed in agony and fell writhing to the floor. The tittle man jumped to his feet, jerked free another dagger, and rushed the last two. Rushed them!

Gale had never seen Jak so… savage. Teeth gritted in a snarl, the haMing tore open the gut of one ghoul, then finished it with a stab through the race. The last gray horror tore into his exposed flack. Bed blood sprayed and Jak buckled. The ghoul leaped for him, jaw? wide. Jak had nothing else to do but fall bade, hold his short sword vertically like a pennon pole, and let the creature impale itself. The thick blade of his short sword burst through the back of the ghoul in a spray of purple. It squealed once, convulsed, and moved more.

He'd done it!

Covered in purple and red blood, the little man squirmed out from under the dead ghoul. Gasping, sweating, he tried to stand but wobbled and sagged to his knees. Gale could see his small body trembling. Whether from exhaustion, rage, or fear, he could not tell. After taking a moment to recover, Jak rose and pulled out his holy symbol.

"Hang on, Gale," he said. He took a deep breath, gathered himself, and intoned the words to a healing spell. Instantly, the wounds on his back, arms, chest, and face closed to pink lines, then vanished altogether. He sheathed his blades, recovered his dagger from the body of a ghoul, and picked his way through the carnage to Gale. -

"Dark and empty," he softly oathed, upon studying Gale's wounds. "You're as cut up as one of my mom's stew carrots." He giggled at that, and Gale thought he heard hi the laughter the beginnings of hysteria. The little man recovered himself quickly, however, and returned to business. '

"Fast the wounds," he said, and repeated the magical syllables of a healing spell while touching Gale's hand. The pain vanished instantly. Gale's torn skin knit itself back to wholeness. The horrible wounds closed. Jak had cast a powerful spell.

"Now the paralysis." Jak mouthed a more complex prayer while waving his holy symbol before Gale's frozen body.

Like the wounds, the paralysis suddenly vanished. Free to move, Gale sagged, lowered his blade, and found his right hand buried in his cloak pocket, clutching the felt mask.

Odd, he thought. When the ghouls had surprised him, he had drawn his blade and unconsciously reached for the mask. Very odd.

"Feel better?" Jak asked.

"I do," Gale said, and pulled his hand from his pocket. He examined his flesh. No trace remained from what had been a multitude of wounds. Thank you, my friend."

Embarrassed, Jak waved away his gratitude and smiled awkwardly.

Gale surveyed the carnage. The corpses of eleven ghouls lay amidst the broken weapons on the blood soaked floor.

"You need a few minutes?" he asked Jak. "We can wait." The little man had to be taxed after all that.

Jak turned to face him, fire in his green eyes. "No, I'm ready now."

"Let's move then."

Jak nodded. "Where?"

The basement," Gale said.