The Howling Delve

Chapter Eight

Three years later, the house looked exactly as he remembered it.

Kall expected to meet the bulk of the resistance at the door, but there was only one guard, a skinny, tired-looking man who stood by the window, with a fist stuck in his mouth to stifle a yawn.

Kall slid around the side of the house, beneath the windows facing the front hedgerows. He came up behind the guard and clipped him on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword. The guard crumpled; Kall caught him under the armpits and dragged him into the shadows behind the bushes.

Returning to the door, he took out the set of lockpicks Laerin had given him and set to work. He hadn’t nearly the half-elf’s skill, but what he lacked in grace he made up for with persistence. The lock gave way with a click.

Inside the entry hall, lanterns were dimmed for sleep, but Kall knew his house well enough to feel his way. He listened for signs that someone had detected his presence, but he heard nothing.

One inept guard at the door and no stirring in the house—it was too easy for Kall’s comfort. His father would never have permitted such a breach of his private space. A sinking unease filled Kall’s chest.

He stepped forward, passing between two twisted columns. He heard the second click a heartbeat too late.

Kall ducked, on the off chance the trap was aimed at his head, but the danger came from below. Metal spikes burst from camouflaged gaps in the marble floor, ringing him in a field of razors. If he’d been standing directly on top of one of them, Kall was certain he’d have lost a foot. A spike caught him in the calf, shearing away his boot like so much meat off the bone.

Kall resisted the urge to jump back, lest he should trigger more of the deadly spikes. Regaining his balance, he began moving forward again, watching the floor for holes. He made it to the other side of the hall without encountering any further traps.

In the shadows beneath the main staircase, Kall paused to listen again. He’d never known his father kept such deadly traps in his own home. Dhairr had always feared assassins—Kall had grown up with nightmares from listening to his father’s tales about shadowy, hidden foes—but this? It made his father seem a prisoner in his own home. What other secrets had Dhairr kept from him?

He pushed the thoughts away. He had to find Balram. Someone was sure to have heard the trap go off. He was running out of time.

The back wall by the staircase had only one door. It opened onto the garden between the main house and the towers. He could conceal himself better in the garden than the hall.

Kall listened at the door, hearing a faint scraping sound coming from the other side. He tested the lock, but it was open. Slowly, he eased the door inward a crack.

In the center of the garden, illuminated by faint moonglow, Dhairr Morel crouched in the fountain’s dry basin, digging at a jagged crack with his sword. The blade was dull and notched from repeated scrapes across the stone. A shrill, metallic screech filled the air as he worked.

Kall simply watched his father, unable to believe the changes wrought in his visage. Flesh stretched taut beneath his eyes and along his jaw. His lips were colorless and bore ragged crevices and gaps where he’d bitten them too deeply. His hair was thin and coarse, like a wisp broom. It hung past his shoulders and dragged the fountain bowl when Dhairr bent his ear to the crack. His eyes fell on Kall and narrowed.

“Who are you?” he rasped. He flipped his blade up, menacing Kall with nothing more than a blunt edge. “Begone, assassin! You’ll not have my family.”

“Father,” Kall said, taking a step forward. “Don’t you recognize me? I am your family—Kall, your son.”

“Kall,” Dhairr repeated, testing the name on his tongue. Slow comprehension broke over his wasted face. “So you’ve returned. Kall the traitor—have you come back to finish what you started?”

“No, Father,” Kall said. “I’ve come back to free you.”

“Lies!”

Dhairr lunged, aiming at Kall’s midsection. For all the changes, his father was still fast, and Kall was so stunned by the outburst he almost allowed himself to be impaled upon Dhairr’s notched blade. He backed away and tripped, landing awkwardly on his side on the walkway.

Dhairr smiled cruelly. “Don’t be careless, Kall. You think I won’t do to you what I did to Haig? That I’ll show mercy because you’re my son? You have no idea who I am, boy.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying—” Kall dodged another swing. His father was still caught in the grip of Balram’s spell; he still believed Kall had betrayed him. Kall arched his back, snapping his legs downward in a sharp thrust to get his feet under him. The quick, acrobatic move made Dhairr back off a step, long enough for Kall to bring his sword up at a defensive slant.

“You would fight me with a Morel emerald?” Dhairr slapped Kall’s sword, revealing the matching gems borne by both blades—one steeped in magic, the other caked with dirt. “You were never worthy of bearing that sword.” Dhairr sprang again, slashing in and up, trying to get under Kall’s guard.

“Father, tell me where Balram is. He’s the traitor.” Kall caught the notched blade and twisted to pry the weapon from Dhairr’s fingers. Obediently, Dhairr abandoned the sword and threw his fist instead, landing a blow hard above Kall’s ear.

Dazed, Kall shuffled back. His father flipped his sword back into his hands with the toe of his boot. “You’re going to lose if you don’t fight in earnest. Think carefully, Kall. You either mean it or you die.”

Kall shook his head to clear it. “I’m here to kill Balram, not you,” he insisted.

“Balram is gone,” Dhairr said. “He left me to face my assassins alone, but I’m more than able to weed the filth from my garden.”

“Father, please.” Kall blocked high and crosswise as Dhairr chopped downward mercilessly with both hands. The impact resonated along Kall’s blade to the hilt. Kall was reminded anew of how strong the man could be. Sick as he was, his father was right: Kall couldn’t afford to fight the battle halfheartedly.

“You can resist Balram’s control,” Kall said. He took a step back and to the side, circling Dhairr, waiting for him to take another lunge. He did not. He seemed to be listening. “Balram may be gone, but his evil is still eating away at your soul. Can’t you see?” It was a rhetorical question, for Kall immediately took the offensive, bringing his blade in high.

When Dhairr blocked, Kall grabbed his father by the back of the neck and dragged him in close, tangling their blades in a harmless lock. “I’ve come back to save you.” Kall held his father’s stubborn, glassy-eyed gaze with one of determination. Let him see. Let him know I’m telling the truth. Kall prayed he could get through.

He shoved his father back, metal raking metal as their swords came apart. Kall followed up with another slash in a broad arc. Dhairr blocked it easily but lost a step, giving Kall ground.

“You’re going to be all right.” Kall kept swinging and talking, never allowing Dhairr the chance to respond to or deny his words. Slowly, his father’s anger gave way to uncertainty. Kall used the advantage, driving his father where Kall wanted him to go. When the backs of his knees struck the fountain’s edge, Dhairr fell, his eyes widening in surprise and fear.

Kall ran forward, letting his sword drop to the walkway. He caught his father in his arms before Dhairr’s head struck the stone basin. Kall kicked the dull blade out of reach.

Dhairr struggled, but his son stubbornly held on, pinning his arms until the older man stopped fighting. When it was clear he was no physical match for Kall, Dhairr began hurling curses: foul, hateful monologues—that Kall was not his son, that his mother was a godless, murdering whore, that he had no son … he had no son.

“Kall… Kall,” he murmured finally, his voice hoarse. He focused on Kall’s face, but there was no recognition. His head snapped from side to side. “Where is my son?” he whispered. “Where is he?”

Kall sat helplessly. For all his father’s strength, the man seemed light as air in his arms. He looked small, and very, very old. Kall had no idea what to say to his father, how to answer the imploring look in his eyes. He could only hold him as he slid into unconsciousness.

“You can’t save him,” said a soft, feminine voice.

Kall whirled, reaching for his sword, but the woman cradled it in her hands. She was almost as tall as he, with a short bob of black hair capping a round face and green eyes.

“A fine blade,” she said, watching Kall appraisingly. “I’ve no doubt he was wrong. You are worthy of wielding it.”

“Who are you?” Kall asked, but he recognized the symbol she wore. He’d seen it once before, in this same garden.

“Meisha Saira,” the woman introduced herself. Of the Harpers, Kall added silently.

“You’re here because of Haig,” Kall said, lowering his father gently to the ground. He stood, measuring the woman’s intent. He didn’t like what he saw. The spread of her feet and the tension in her neck and shoulders gave her away. She was here for a fight.

“I owe you thanks. You’ve saved me the trouble of subduing his murderer.” She looked down at his father with a mixture of disgust and pity. “Not that he appears to warrant great effort, in his current state.”

“You can’t have him,” Kall said steadily.

The woman lifted a brow. “Oh? Was his confession the ravings of a madman, then?”

“The man responsible for Haig’s death is Balram Kortrun,” said Kall. “My father acted under Balram’s influence, and as you can see, he is no longer a threat to anyone.”

“He soon won’t be,” Meisha agreed. She cast his sword to the far end of the garden and raised her empty hands.

Kall got to her first. He grabbed her arm and twisted it, slamming her against his chest with her hand bent at a painful angle against her lower back. “You’re not listening,” he said in her ear. When she struggled, he wrenched her palm back until she gasped. “If you want justice for Haig, let my father live, and I will get it for you.”

“He’s no longer your father,” Meisha argued. “He doesn’t recognize his own son.”

“I know,” Kall said, swallowing his grief. “What is left of him suffers more than enough.”

“Then why not end it? Give him a quick, merciful death.”

“No.” Kall shook his head. “I won’t kill him if there’s a chance he might come back.”

Meisha fell silent. She relaxed her stance, but Kall kept her hand pinned. “You won’t kill him,” she said softly. “But are you willing to die to protect what he has become?”

She brought her heel up, clipping his knee. Pain shot up Kall’s leg. He released her involuntarily.

Backing away, she flicked a wrist, fingers splayed, and traced a circular pattern with her other thumb in midair. She spoke as she cast. “Will it be your life for his?”

Her eyes blazed red, and Kall thought for an instant they were afire, burning the orbs out of their sockets. The circle she traced filled with flame, swirling in on itself to become a ball of brilliant orange with a blue vortex.

Kall had seen wizards cast spells in battle, and he’d even seen magical fire burn men alive. He’d once accompanied Cesira to the site of a massive spell duel between rival wizards. They’d watched from a protected distance, but after a time Kall’s eyes could no longer separate one spell from another amid the devastation.

He’d never seen a fireball form in a wizard’s hands at such close range—shaped from nothing, a great ember falling from a god’s furnace—never had he seen one directed at himself.

The flames filled his vision as the deadly orb flew toward him. He felt the heat sear his face. Instinctively, he threw up his hands and covered his father’s body with his own.

He heard the explosion, but the pain didn’t follow. Kall lifted his head and saw the twin, scorching trails marking the path the fireballs had made across the garden. They formed a perfect arc around his and his father’s bodies.

“You split them,” Kall said, standing. His legs felt shaky. “Why?”

“Curiosity.” She dismissed it with a shrug. “Or a test of your convictions. Call it whatever you like, I—”

She tried to dodge, but Kall had her again. He pinned her arms down to her sides. “I appreciate the reprieve. This is just in case you have another of those fire spells ready,” he said.

She smiled thinly. “What makes you think I need another?” Kall felt his skin grow warm. Sweat broke out on his neck, and alarm rose in his chest. He looked down at the Harper. Her skin, pressed against his, was painfully hot.

“Let me go, Morel, or I will burn you,” she said, her voice echoing with deadly power. “All I want is your father.”

Gazing into her eyes, Kall saw she told the truth. Slowly, he slid his other arm around her waist, steeling himself against the intense pain. “If you’re willing to kill me for him, get it over with,” he rasped.

For a breath, the heat wavered. Kall waited, but then, as suddenly as it had started, the burning sensation ebbed. The Harper stiffened, her eyes going wide.

Kall looked up and realized immediately what had cooled the fire. He nodded a stiff greeting to Morgan. The rogue had a stiletto point pressed against the back of Meisha’s neck. “I seem to remember telling you I’d handle this on my own,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Doing a fine job of it too,” Morgan snorted. “ ’Sides, it was his idea.”

Kall released Meisha and stepped back. He looked over Morgan’s shoulder, expecting to see Laerin. His mouth fell open when Garavin entered the garden, flanked by Cesira and the half-elf. “You all followed me?”

“Not at first,” Laerin said. He handed Kall back his blade as Garavin patted Meisha down for weapons.

Cesira knelt next to his father’s unconscious body. We followed your sword, she said.

Laerin tossed an emerald to Kall, pretending to look abashed.

Kall sheathed his weapon, amazed but still angry at the deception. “You shouldn’t have taken it… again.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Laerin agreed. “But it was our only link to you. Morgan was distraught at the thought you might get into trouble without him.”

“How fares yer father?” Garavin asked, speaking for the first time. He nodded at Meisha. “And what have we here?”

“Garavin Fallstone, meet Meisha Saira,” Kall said. “She just tried to kill me.”

“Probably won’t be the last time,” Morgan predicted.

The Harper remained silent, her eyes darting among the new arrivals. Kall went down on one knee next to the druid, who was examining his father. “Can you break the enchantment?” he asked, addressing both Cesira and the dwarf.

Cesira shook her head. There’s magic about him, but whatever the source, it’s long spent. The marks it left on him can’t be erased with more magic.

Garavin nodded agreement. “Take him back with us. We’ll make him comfortable, and ye can stay with him, Kall.”

Kall wiped the fever sweat from his father’s brow. “No. I can’t be there when he wakes up. Seeing me put him in this state. He believed I was trying to kill him.”

You can’t mean to leave him here, said Cesira. You’ve been waiting three years to save him.

“Balram’s gone,” said Kall. “My father is no longer in danger from him. He’ll be as safe here as anywhere else.”

“And yerself? What will ye do?” asked Garavin.

Lost in thought, Kall stared down at his father’s face. He remembered the violence in Dhairr’s eyes during their sword fight. “I’ll go back with you,” he decided. “Gods willing, when my father wakes up, he won’t remember any of this. He’ll go on as before, when I wasn’t here.”

“How?” asked Laerin. He took in the damaged fountain, and the garden showing further signs of neglect. “The house mirrors your father’s condition. “How long will Morel be able to survive lying vulnerable among the merchants of Amn?”

“Longer than he will if I remain,” Kall said. “I’ll come back after, to salvage what I can.”

“After?” Morgan asked, but surprisingly, it was Meisha who answered.

“After he dies,” she said quietly, wincing when Morgan tightened his grip on the stiletto.

Kall nodded. “When that happens, all that is Morel will pass to me. I can rebuild from its ashes.” He regarded Meisha warily. “But only if I know my father will not go prematurely to the grave. Will your death be my only guarantee of that, Meisha Saira?”

“If the lass tracked down your father, she might be able to aid ye in tracking Balram,” said Garavin. “Might be a shame to be killing her.”

But can she he trusted? Cesira asked.

“I can speak for myself,” said Meisha sharply. She stared at Garavin, at the symbol around his neck. Kall couldn’t imagine how, with a blade at the back of her neck and enemies boxing her in, she could focus on the object so completely.

“If I help you, you’ll see that Balram pays for his crime?” Meisha asked, her eyes finally moving from the pendant to Kall’s face.

“Whether you help or not, Balram will die by my hand,” said Kall. “I promise you.”

“Then Dhairr Morel is safe from me,” said Meisha. “You have my word.”

“We’ll be watching to see you hold to it,” said Morgan. He took his blade from the back of her neck.

Dhairr stirred, murmuring in his sleep. Kall backed away. “It’s time to go,” he said, but he lingered in the garden with his father until the others had gone. He put his father’s dull blade next to him by the fountain, so he would find it when he woke.

“Forgive me,” he whispered as Dhairr twitched in the throes of some agitated dream. “I failed you, but I won’t fail our family. I’ll come back. I’ll restore everything Balram took away and send him to the Nine Hells for what he did to you.”

“My son,” his father murmured. Kall froze, but Dhairr’s eyes remained shut. His struggles slowed, and he slept on, peacefully.

Kall turned away, and saw Cesira silhouetted in the doorway to the garden. She said nothing when he moved to join her, and neither looked back as they walked from the house.

Tossing in feverish dreams, Meisha curled unconsciously closer to her campfire. She needed the warmth. She was back in the cold, back in the Delve. Was it calling the fire that had triggered the dream? No, Kall’s friend, the dwarf, had done it.

The dream always started the same way—as memory. She could recall every detail with perfect clarity.

The child Meisha huddled in a sullen ball on the floor of the cavern. She stared into the firepit, feeling only a vague sense of unease she could not explain. She’d felt it ever since Varan had brought her to the Delve. It had been three days, but she already felt she’d spent a lifetime out of the sun.

“Are you so determined to be angry with me?”

Varan’s voice echoed from the tunnel, but Meisha did not turn to face her teacher. Flames beat down on her shaved skull; heat from the fire made the mud covering her chest crack and crumble. The heat reminded her of highsun in Keczulla, during the markets. The mud had protected her skin from the burning sun, but she didn’t need it now—in the dark. She missed Amn, missed the smell and color of the crowds. The Delve seemed unnaturally quiet. Varan preferred it that way.

“Do you imagine, in all Faerûn, you are the only child ever to have been deprived of something—a home, loved ones, a dream?”

Varan sat across the pit from her, his robes pillowed beneath him on the cold cavern floor. Their hem still dripped wet from the water whip spell she’d used on him. “Though you’ve been blessed with none of those things, Meisha, you have a great gift slumbering within you. I am offering you a home—food and shelter, education, and power. What child would deny such a dream?”

Meisha met his eyes across the pit. Flames surged up between them, the fire reaching the ceiling. Varan never flinched, though the girl swore his beard was singed.

When the fire shrank away, the wizard sighed. “Very well, I concede the battle. Jonal will study water. Fire shall be your element. I cannot deny that flames match your nature. Fire’s inherent power will help you survive, until you embrace it for the right reasons.”

“What reason is there for hurling flame, except to kill things?” The little girl sneered.

“When you’ve completed your studies, you will have the answer to that question,” said Varan.

“And when I’ve finished, you’ll let me go?” Meisha asked, watching him closely.

“Of course. You are not a prisoner here. The apprentices walk around as they please. You may do the same, but there are rules,” he cautioned her. “You’re not a Wraith anymore. You will wash the mud from your body and let your hair grow in, though perhaps you’ll wear it short”—he rubbed his bearded chin as he regarded her—“to keep it from being singed. Yes, I think that will do. The Delve is my home as well as my fortress, and the caverns are secure, within the confines I’ve mapped. For your own safety, I ask you not to venture past my wards into the outer caves.”

“What’s out there?”

“Things you’re not ready to see, little firebird,” he said.

Meisha bristled at the childish nickname. “I can take care of myself.” She looked away and caught movement from the mouth of one of the tunnels.

A small figure stood watching them—a dwarf in dented plate armor holding a large battle-axe. The handle of the weapon was broken, rendering it useless, but the dwarf clutched the remaining piece as if his life depended upon it.

“Varan—” but as soon as Meisha spoke, the dwarf vanished.

Varan smiled. “Did you see something?”

Meisha kept her eyes on the tunnel, but the apparition did not reappear. “Who is he?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“You’ve seen him before?”

“He watches me,” said Meisha. She suppressed a shudder. “I didn’t know he was… that he wasn’t…”

“Alive?” Varan supplied. “I believe he is one of the Howlings.”

“Howlings?”

“This place was called the Howling Delve, long ago. The Howlings were dwarves—adventurers who made these caves a secret home. They rode on the backs of giant wolves and amassed quite a fortune beneath the earth, or so the dwarven olorns—magic stories—tell.”

“What happened to them?” Meisha asked.

“Obviously, they died,” said Varan, with a careless shrug, “as adventurers often do.”

“Then why are they still here?” The sense of unease tucked around Meisha like an ill-fitting cloak. How could Varan live among ghosts?

“They are only echoes of the past, child,” said Varan. “Lingering memories and nothing to fear. My magic can create similar effects.”

“How?” Meisha asked curiously.

“Would you like to see? To learn?”

Meisha heard the challenge in the question. She nodded slowly.

Varan reached into a small sack tied around his neck. “You’ll see these again when we begin your testing,” he said, pulling forth a small, square crystal. “They help me to gauge your progress.” He touched one clear surface, spoke a word, and suddenly there were two more figures in the room. The man and child were perfect doubles of Varan and Meisha.

Meisha stared as her mirror image raised a hand and brought it down in a chopping motion. A jet of water rose from the ground and slapped the image of Varan, soaking his robes. The real Varan chuckled and spoke another command. The images shrank and returned to the crystal.

Meisha looked at her teacher. “How long can you keep the memories?”

“As long as I wish,” Varan said. “Though perhaps I might erase that one, if you d care to begin anew?”

Meisha stayed silent, so Varan continued, “I don’t expect you to trust me yet, but you can trust this: I am a selfish old man, too curious about magic for my own good. I like to experiment, and I know the value in rearing a fire elementalist, a true savant. You may have a home here as long as you wish, no matter how many hurts you attempt to inflict upon me. I will not send you away. When your training is done, you may go back into the sunlight, if that is what you want.” He removed another object from his sack, a small ring, which he handed to her. “When you leave, should you ever wish to return, all you need do is speak the command word on the band. The ring will bring you to the Delve.” He leaned closer,

so close to the pit she wondered how he stood the heat. “What say you, firebird?” He stretched his bare hand over the flames and met her gaze in another challenge.

Without hesitation, Meisha reached across and touched his wrinkled palm. Pain scalded her arm, but if he wouldn’t back down, neither would she.

Varans eyes shone with approval. “There will always be flame in you, child, for the whole of your life. But it will not always hurt so. Trust me.”

Meisha nodded, bearing the pain. She looked over Varans shoulder and saw the ghost again, watching her from the tunnel mouth. A large pendant hung around his neck with the figure of a mountain inscribed upon its surface. A hole sat in the center where once a charm or gem might have nestled.

What do you want from me? Meisha wondered. If the dwarf was beyond pain, why did he look so afraid?

As if in answer, the memories faded. The child Meisha had gone, and the sleeping Meisha found herself in a place she’d never been in her waking life. Only in her dreams had she been trapped in the stone chamber.

Meisha felt the surge of the campfire in time with her accelerating heartbeat. She knew what was coming, but she didn’t want to face it.

This time, the fire was no friend. It held a living presence, awesome and terrifying and buried deep in a stone prison.

The presence, if it possessed a name, never spoke it to her. As far as Meisha was concerned, the creature was the Delve, and the Delve him. No further identity was needed.

She never saw a face, but she could feel the fire emanating from the creature’s body—a beast of fire and claws, claws that tested the walls of his prison and the ring of guards on silent vigil.

The dwarves—his keepers. Meisha sensed the beast desired to hunt, but the dwarves kept him sealed inside the cavernous prison. So instead, he hunted them all down, one by one in the vastness. Their screams echoed off the stone as each one fell to the fire-clawed menace. They were still here, trapped alongside him for eternity. He could slay them again, over and over, but Meisha sensed him growing weary of killing ghosts.

With renewed fear, Meisha thought, he wants to hear living screams.

But the fire beast was patient. His time would come. He could feel it. Until then …

“No!” the sleeping Meisha cried out. She watched helplessly through the eyes of the fire beast. He stalked forward and immediately met one of the dwarves. The small figure raised his broken axe in defiance. His pendant flashed briefly, brilliant silver, but the beast flexed his claws and ripped the broken weapon out of the dwarf’s hands.

Screaming, Meisha sat up in her bedroll. The campfire flared in one giant stalk that reached almost to the tops of the trees.

Meisha swept an arm out, panting. The flames died, becoming so much smoking wood.

I’d been doing so well; I hadn’t had the dream in months, Meisha thought bitterly.

Just when she thought she might be free of the Delve and her master, the memories came surging back like the fire—memories mixing with strange visions. How could she recognize truth from fever dreams?

There was one way, but Meisha would never take it. Her master might be able to explain the dream. She’d never had it before coming to the Delve. The Delve and her master were inextricably linked.

She would never face either of them again.