The Howling Delve

Chapter Eighteen

Dantane inclined his head respectfully to the druid. Her eyes registered surprise, but she concealed it quickly.

So Morel hadn’t told her he was here. Dantane wondered why. If Morel distrusted him so thoroughly, wouldn’t he wish to have the eyes of those he did trust tracking him constantly?

The wizard took a step toward the stairs, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as silent magical wards hummed. The spell was not powerful, but the relative lack of magic in the room made it seem stronger—akin to tolling a bell in a tomb. Had this been a gala in Waterdeep, the resonant hum would have been lost in the greater cacophony of minor cantrips and protective spells.

Dantane looked to the dais. A young woman had stepped forward with a lute. She sang in a deep, pleasing alto, an unremarkable song, but she livened up the show by pausing in the middle of a verse to tell bawdy jokes or humorous stories, always deftly picking up the tune exactly where she’d left off. The crowd gathered, laughing, at the edge of the dais to listen.

Dantane’s eyes fixed on the lute. The bard’s instrument, or something inside it, was the source of the magic—an illusion, possibly glamour to conceal some defect on the part of the singer. Dantane scanned the crowd for Morel, wondering if he should inform the young lord.

When Dantane spied him, Kall was still speaking to the drunken man. The wizard headed for the stairs, but halted when he saw Kall’s face blanch. Dantane traced the room, seeking a threat, but Morel simply stood, as frozen as one of the statues, staring at a spot beneath the balcony. He said something to the drunkard and stepped away.

Fascinated, Dantane watched him walk across the ballroom like a man caught sleepwalking out of a dream. Whatever Morel saw disturbed him greatly, Dantane thought. He couldn’t describe all the emotions that passed over Kall’s face, but the still, ravaged look, the vulnerability—that interested Dantane, so much so he forgot the lute player and her song.

“Seven—there it is!” The serving table quivered as Morgan slammed his handful of emerald-stone clusters in front of Laerin. “That you can’t beat.”

The half-elf flashed him a lazy smile. “Darling, must we compete? It’s unseemly.”

Morgan turned purple, clenching his fists as if he might cram the stones down Laerin’s throat. “Empty your pockets. Turn ’em out, or by the gods I’ll do it for you!”

Laerin fluttered his lashes. “Now you’re just being saucy.” Morgan took a step forward, reaching for a weapon.

“Oh, all right.” The half-elf sighed and emptied a pouch of stones next to Morgan’s pile.

“Only six!” Morgan spouted triumphantly, as Cesira looked on with an expression of helpless bemusement.

Laerin raised a hand to either side of Morgan’s head, and with a flourish produced two more stones from the man’s hairy ears. “Your pardon,” the half-elf said.

Morgan swatted his hands away, fuming. “Pretty-faced whore’s brat—”

Quiet! Cesira hissed. Hide yourselves. Kall is… As she looked, she realized Kall wasn’t headed their way. He’d stopped, frozen next to the drunken Bladesmile. At first Cesira thought he was listening to the bard, but then she saw him staring at something through the crowd.

I’ve never seen that look, she murmured. She traced Kall’s stunned gaze across the room to a corner, where a man stood leaning sedately against a marble column. He ignored the rest of the room, and appeared to be listening intently to the lute player. Broken from whatever spell had smote him, Kall began walking directly toward the man.

“I’ve seen it,” Laerin spoke up, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. “When I first met Kall, he had the same look.” Morgan nodded agreement. “Like he just lost his best friend.”

Cesira paled, gripping Laerin’s arm. Aazen, she whispered.

“Greetings, Lord Morel,” said Aazen, as Kall came to stand between him and the dais. He offered Kall one of his rare, genuine smiles. “It is good to see you again.”

Kall was at a loss. The man before him was older—and leaner, if possible—than the boy who’d been his best friend. His dark hair was short and shaved. He dressed in black leathers with a cloak of silky midnight blue thrown over one shoulder. The armor was stained, but the cloak pristine—a halfhearted attempt to blend with the throng. Despite the changes, he was still Aazen—a quiet, shadowed young man. Kall had imagined many fates befalling his best friend in the years since their last meeting, but seeing the man grown, greeting him here in his father’s house, had never been among them.

When Kall remained silent, Aazen said, “You don’t recognize me? I can’t blame you. It’s been a long while since we spoke.”

“Aazen,” Kall said, recovering himself. “You haven’t changed so much. You were always more adult than child.”

Aazen considered. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Are you well, Kall?”

“Well enough, but more than a little shocked to see you here.”

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“Ever since I returned,” said Kall.

“Most of Amn thought you dead,” Aazen said. “But I doubted it.”

Kall grunted. “Thanks. You had more confidence than I did, considering the condition I was in when we parted.”

“Yet here you stand, in your house reclaimed.”

“Such as it is. Aazen, you know I’m after Balram,” said Kall bluntly.

“Of course. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t, especially after that passionate speech you gave at our last meeting,” said Aazen sardonically. “Have you enjoyed any success in your search?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. My father and I parted company some time ago.”

“Oh?” Kall didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “When you left, you seemed bent on staying by his side, in spite of everything. ‘Don’t come after him,’ you said. ‘I’ll have to kill you, if you do.’ ”

“I was a child. I didn’t know what I wanted.” Aazen searched his eyes. “Can you grant me that, Kall? Can you believe I may have found other companions, as you have, or do you think I’ll say anything to protect him?”

“I don’t know,” Kall said. “But I never held any hope or desire to get at Balram through you. I only prayed he hadn’t killed you.”

“But think, if you’d found me dead, you would have had yet another reason to slay him.”

Kall didn’t comment. There was too much tension in the room already. “If you can stay long enough, I’d like to introduce you to my companions,” he said, changing the subject.

“I’ve heard many whispers about the beauty of the Lady Morel,” said Aazen. “You’ve done well for yourself, even without my constant looking after you.”

“Yes, Cesira is a beauty, and were she mine, I’m sure my manhood would be subjugated to her will within a tenday,” Kall said, laughing. “Luckily for me, her affections are not settled on me.”

“Aren’t they?” Aazen seemed surprised. “Then why—”

“She’s playing the part of my wife until affairs here settle down,” Kall explained. “Two other friends are looking out for my physical well-being. I’m sure we can find them if we look. They haven’t managed to conceal themselves all evening—I don’t see why they should start now.”

A terrific crash from the dais had both men turning, their hands straying to their sword hilts in a mirrored gesture. The lute player had apparently decided to finish her tune with a flourish, smashing her instrument against the floor. The startled crowd backed away as she crouched to gather the broken bits.

“Lovely,” Kall murmured. “The musicians have obviously taken more than their share of spirits for the evening. Excuse me, old friend.”

The crowd blocked his path, but Kall could see the woman clearly. She knelt in the center of the stage, cradling a mass of what appeared to be mud and protruding roots that she’d hidden inside the lute. Her gaze was feverishly bright as she stared at the mass.

A wave of trepidation swept over Kall. He was no wizard, but he knew the effects of mind magic all too well. He pushed through the crowd, shouting, “Everyone, stand back! Dantane!”

Shocked gasps rang out as the woman began shoveling the strange mass into her mouth. She swallowed and immediately began to choke, the mass lodging grotesquely in her throat.

Black veins speared out beneath her skin, spreading from her windpipe to her shoulders and up her face. Her tan skin bulged, turning purple-black as her head lolled to one side.

A woman in the crowd screamed and fainted. People tripped and fell over her in their rush to get away. Kall found a gap and jumped onto the dais, his sword raised.

“Laerin!” he shouted.

The half-elf appeared below him, lifting the senseless guest over his shoulder. Morgan stood across the room, herding the crowd to the exit. “We’ll get ’em out,” Morgan assured Kall. “Cesira’s coming.”

“Find Dantane!” Kall’s gaze remained fixed on the grim transformation unfolding on the dais.

The lute player’s flesh rippled and shimmered like a heat mirage, her form lengthening and filling out into that of a young man with shoulder-length brown hair and finely tailored clothing. Kall could not tell his identity, for the black blemish remained on his face and continued to spread, exploding up from the flesh of his arms, legs, and torso as boils and bleeding wounds. He seemed to be filling up everywhere, and the strange, oozing black substance had nowhere to go but through his skin and vital organs.

The thing that had been human lurched up to its legs and swiped with a too-long arm at Kall’s face. Kall raised his sword and felt the blade sink into the ooze. The creature howled and pulled back, leaving a trail of black gore that sizzled into the wooden platform.

“Tarshz mephran!” came a shout from the balcony, and a spray of electricity yanked the hairs on Kall’s arms. Bolts of energy ripped into the creature, spraying black blood in all directions.

Kall jumped back, cursing as drops hit his exposed arm and burned.

Dantane climbed onto the balcony rail and floated to the ballroom floor, his robes flaring at the sleeves as his hands shaped another spell. He aimed the Art directly over Kall’s head at the creature. Kall dived behind a harpsichord, pulling its heavy bench over onto its side as a shield when the spell erupted.

Bolts of ice burrowed from Dantane’s palms, then streaked across the room to impale the oozing mass. Gore sprayed the bench, burning black pockmarks into the wood.

Kall rolled to his feet behind the creature. He hacked at it, the emerald sword finding flesh that was human and monster and sometimes a bizarre hybrid. The blade penetrated, and what was left of the lute player’s voice rang out in screeches of pure agony.

A tentacled arm whipped out from where the woman’s stomach had been, catching Kall in the midsection. The blow threw Kall back; he smelled melted leather. He fumbled at his armor buckles, flinching when he felt hands come around him from behind. Fingers pressed flush against the acidic burning.

“Get back!” roared Kall when he recognized Cesira’s chanting voice. Damn her, the last thing he wanted was for her to be acid-seared while protecting him.

Steam rose in a cloud, hissing and stinging Kall’s eyes, but the burning sensation eased. The druid touched the base of his neck, and Kall felt a faint, humming tingle spread across his skin. It lingered in his ears like the last thrum of a fading song. Silently, Cesira drew away to stand beside him.

You’ll have protection from the acid, she told him, for a time. She cocked her head, listening to Dantane’s chants, watching the measured release of power. Go now!

Trusting her, Kall charged in under another rain of bolts, but they seemed targeted only to the creature and sailed harmlessly around him. Tentacles burst at random from the creature’s hips and groin—Kall hacked them off, forming a buffer for Dantane and Cesira.

“Kall!” Dantane’s voice was thick with magic. “The root in its throat—carve it out. Destroy it!”

Kall risked a glance at the throng retreating from the ballroom. A few stragglers had stayed behind—Lord Rays among them—to watch the horrific spectacle.

Kall yelled to Cesira. “Don’t let them see!” The last thing he wanted was for the merchants to witness him butchering the girl, even if she no longer resembled anything human. He waded into the mass of tentacles as the druid backed down the dais’s steps, chanting a familiar spell and arching her arms above her head.

The air immediately grew thick and moist. Dense fog billowed from the portal of Cesira’s arms, curling around the dais in a concealing bubble that hid Kall, Dantane, and the creature from view.

Behind the vapor wall, Kall wedged his sword in the harpsichord bench and grabbed blindly at the creature with his gloved hands, trusting Cesira’s protective spell to hold long enough for him to finish his grim task. He punched into the thing’s mouth and felt teeth and tongue give way with a wet crunch.

Kall fought down a rush of bile. Whatever shape it took now, the thing still had a woman’s head, and Kall had just rendered it a ruin. Steeling himself, he bore down, ignoring the choking and mewling sounds coming from the monster. When his hand met an obstruction, Kall didn’t allow himself to think. He yanked the mass of mud and root straight up.

The creature’s head disintegrated around his arm. Kall lurched backward, hurling the root ball across the dais. It landed, writhing, at Dantane’s boots.

“Kill it,” Kall growled.

Dantane wavered. His eyes followed the movements of the dozens of tendrils branching off the mass, each quivering with something arcane.

“Dantane!” Kall shouted.

The wizard flinched, stirred from his trance. He pointed to the mass and muttered something. Flames erupted from the root ball, consuming it in a flash of blue light and searing heat. Dantane raised his sleeve against the glare and stink. “Done,” he said.

Kall strode to the bench, yanked his sword free, and kept moving until the point threatened to slice Dantane’s nose in half. “If not for Cesira, I’d be smoking on the floor next to that thing. Mind telling me why you tried to get me killed?”

Breathing heavily, Dantane matched the furious lord’s stare. “I was fighting to prevent the creature from tearing your guests apart. If you’ve a problem with my methods—”

Kall interrupted, “You’ve as well as told the whole of Keczulla I’m hiding a wizard under my skirts!”

Dantane hesitated. Something that might have been chagrin came and went across his sweat-soaked face. “I’m not accustomed to fighting under these circumstances,” he stammered. “As to the rest”—his white lips thinned—“had I intended you harm, Lord Morel, rest assured, your head would now be in as many pieces as that unfortunate creature.”

Kall’s grip on his sword tightened, but Dantane didn’t back down. “Perhaps you would like me to discern the woman’s—or man’s—identity?” The wizard’s voice sounded smug. “It might prove useful, even vital, to have such information at hand when the Gem Guard come calling about this incident.”

From somewhere outside the fog, Morgan’s voice rumbled, “Two red inks say he skewers him.”

“No bet, I can’t see his face,” was Laerin’s reply.

Kall lingered over the raised steel a moment longer. Abruptly, he sheathed his sword, his eyes still spearing Dantane with hostility. He kicked at the harpsichord bench and jumped off the dais.

The stragglers had gone. Aazen had gone. Kall hadn’t seen him leave with the crowd. “Close off the estate,” he ordered the servants who’d dared remain within earshot. “Let no one back in except the guard, whenever they turn up.” He had no doubt they would. Dantane was right, damn the man again. He had to find out who the lute player was and why she—or he—had turned up at the party with deadly magic.

Could it have been one of the families, attempting to strike at him? It seemed ludicrous, considering their aversion to magic and the rumors flying all evening about his generous-bordering-on-desperate attempts to make restitution among the merchants.

Attempts that might come to nothing after tonight, Kall thought. Fury spiked through him. Amn’s retribution for magic use, especially magic that murdered, was second only to the collection of debts among the merchant families. He was about to be buried deep in trouble of both sorts.