Twilight Falling

CHAPTER 14

Unlike Selgaunt, which had grown up at random around an earlier Chondathan settlement, Starmantle was a planned town. Straight, brick-paved streets and alleys radiated out at right angles from the large bazaar in the center of the city. Booths, tents of all colors, and tables laden with merchandise filled the bazaar. The smell of cooking fish, southern spices, mistleaf, and horse dung filled the air.

Founded centuries before as a commercial rival to Westgate and the Night Masks, Starmantle held its gates open to all races in the name of mercantilism. While it had never managed to match its rival city in size, it nevertheless attracted a diverse population. All manner of men and monsters filled the city's seething inns, eateries, festhalls, and markets. By day, lizardman tribesmen, half-ogre mercenaries, and bugbear woodsmen from the Gulthmere walked the streets beside human corsairs, merchants, and whores. By night, orcs, drow, and worse haunted the alleys and side streets. Cale marveled at the various creatures. In Selgaunt, half-ogres and bugbears would have been thought raiders and attacked on sight by the Scepters.

Starmantle had only a few streets as wide as Selgaunt's trade boulevards, but each of those was packed full by a seemingly endless train of merchants, porters, carts, wagons, crates, and barrels. A steady stream of merchandise moved day and night along the main trade arteries, flowing between the harbor, the city gates, and the bazaar. Despite the difference in size, in Starmantle as much as in Selgaunt, King Trade ruled the realm.

Still, Cale couldn't get over the feeling that the city was overcrowded with people and overstuffed with goods, as swollen and ready to burst as a waterlogged chest. Starmantle seemed to Cale nothing more than a miniature Westgate-a violent, dirty boil growing on the arse of the Dragonmere, with little to offer other than brisk trade. The fact that several towering temples dominated the skyline and looked down on the filth seemed more a joke than an aspiration.

They had arrived in the city a day and a half before, and Cale had yet to see any sign of an organized city watch. Instead, the inhabitants of Starmantle seemed to police themselves. Street violence was commonplace, but not wide-scale. Bystanders remained exactly that, and street brawls never escalated into riots. Cale had seen six knife fights since arriving-four of them had left one of the participants dead.

In that environment, Cale knew that the best way to avoid trouble was to appear capable of handling any that might come. Accordingly, Cale, Riven, and Jak wore their weapons and scowls openly.

Still, despite the lawlessness and violence, trade continued in earnest. Merchants managed to buy, sell, barter, and prosper. Cale figured anything could be bought or sold in Starmantle, from flesh to mistleaf. For his part, Cale wanted to purchase but one thing-the services of a guide who knew the Gulthmere and could take them to the Lightless Lake within-then get the Nine Hells out of that place.

To that end, he and Riven had made discreet inquiries after Magadon. No success. It seemed Riven's former comrade was out of town on other work.

Running short of time, they had put out through a handful of bawds notice of their desire to hire another guide-any guide-who knew the northern reaches of the Gulthmere. A full day had passed without a response, but finally they had at last gotten a name through one of Riven's inquiries-Gaskin Dreeve. Riven had arranged a meet and was away at it. Cale and Jak expected his return shortly.

They sat in a corner table of the Stone Hearth Inn with untouched ales on the table before them. Only a few other patrons shared the common room and all of them were human, a rarity for most establishments in Starmantle.

"I don't like Riven doing this alone," Jak said in a low voice.

He took a pull on his pipe and rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully. Cale swirled his ale but didn't drink.

"We're past that, little man," Cale replied. "He's in this now, as deep as us."

Jak didn't look convinced.

"One of us could have went with him," the halfling pressed.

"True," Cale acknowledged, "but that would risk tipping our presence to Vraggen or his agents."

Cale had deliberately chosen to keep the three of them, or even two of them, from appearing together in public other than in the inn. Until they retained a guide and were ready to leave town, he wanted them holed up. They ventured forth from the Stone Hearth only individually and in disguise. Riven was the best among them at disguise so it fell to him to handle the initial negotiations with Dreeve.

Time was short, Cale knew. They had a day and a half, and all he and Jak could do was wait on Riven's return and hope for the best. Tackling the Gulthmere without a guide didn't appeal to Cale. He was no woodsman, and neither was Riven or Jak.

After a time, the assassin entered the Hearth, clad in a nondescript gray peasant's cloak with the hood pulled up and drawn. When he saw Cale and Jak, he made his way over to the table. Disguised as an elderly man, he stood stooped and walked only with the aid of an oaken stave. Wordlessly, he pulled back a chair and slid in. When he threw back his hood, Cale saw that he had colored his goatee gray as well.

A spell or a dye? Cale wondered. The assassin was almost a shapeshifter himself.

"Well?" Jak asked.

Riven frowned, shrugged, and said, "Hard to say. We've got nothing else, and this Dreeve says he knows the Gulthmere. He also seemed to know of the lake when I mentioned it…"

He trailed off when the plump, dark-haired bar wench started to head over to their table. Riven waved her away. Cale took the opportunity to ensure that none of the other patrons appeared interested in their conversation. None did.

He turned back to Riven and asked, "But?"

"But he's a gnoll," the assassin replied. "And a mist-head. Our bawd failed to inform us of that little bit of information. I trust him about as much as I can tolerate his stink."

"A gnoll?" Jak hissed. "Are you mad? Tricksters hairy toes!"

Riven glared at the halfling and said, "You have a better idea, Fleet? He said he knows the forest."

Cale ignored them both and considered. Like Jak, he didn't like the thought of working with a gnoll. The powerful canine humanoids were notoriously ill-tempered and savage. Still, they had nothing else at the moment. He eyed Riven.

"This gnoll is legitimate?"

"I verified that independently," Riven said. "He's done guide work in the wilds around Starmantle since the Year of the Sword. I didn't mention any temple. Just that we wanted to get to a lake in the northern Gulthmere. He seemed to know the place I meant. I figure he gets us to the lake safely, then you and Fleet locate either the temple or Vraggen with spells."

Or with dreams, Cale thought, but didn't say.

Instead, he said simply, "Good."

"Wait a-" Jak began.

Cale cut him off with a look and said, "It's all we've got, little man. In two nights, Vraggen's going to have what he wants, unless we stop him."

To that, Jak said nothing, only took another pull on his pipe.

Cale looked to Riven and said, "I want to meet him before we commit."

"Now?"

Cale nodded. He wanted to take the gnoll's measure himself, and use a few divinations to ensure that he was no shapeshifter in disguise. It would have been easy enough for Vraggen or the half-drow to have paid off many of the bawds in the city. This could be a set-up just as easily as it could be legitimate.

Riven pushed back his chair and rose.

"Let's go," he said. "He's probably still in the Underworld."

"The Underworld?"

"You'll see," Riven replied. "Keep your steel loose in the scabbard. And don't worry about your appearance. Just draw up your cloak. No one's looking for a tall man with an elderly cripple."

Riven flashed his stained teeth, and Cale rose and looked down on Jak. Sephris's ghost had told them that the sphere denoted a time the very next night, at the point of deepest darkness. Cale took that last to mean midnight.

"Stay here, little man," he said. "Get our gear together. Guide or no guide, we're leaving tonight. We're out of time."

What was the Underworld once had been … something else, and the something else had burned to the ground, along with several adjacent buildings. The stones of the burned building's foundation still demarcated its former borders. Blackened wood and loose rocks lay in piles around the large, otherwise vacant lot. A clear path through the charred debris led to a large hole in the earth-probably once a basement, or a large cellar. Smoke and the occasional snatch of conversation leaked out of the hole.

"That's it," Riven said, indicating the hole. "Down there. Caters to gnolls, orcs, and the like."

Cale gave a nod. He figured the current owners had bought the charred property cheap, expanded the cellar of the previous establishment, and held it out as a tavern. Shrewd, really. Something a Sembian might have thought of.

"Let's go," he said, and they did.

Twenty-five or so stone flagged stairs descended to a single large room dug out of the earth. Thick timbers lined the walls and stood at intervals throughout the room to prevent collapse. Some holes had been bored in the ceiling through to the outside to provide ventilation, but smoke still clouded the air and stairwell. The place had an animal stink, like a kennel.

A huge bugbear wearing a shirt of studded leather and a pair of spiked gauntlets sat on a stool to Cale's right. His hairy-knuckled hands rested on the leather wrapped hilt of a short, thick club. The bugbear's pugnacious jaw and the teeth that filled it looked fit to tear raw meat. The creature leaned forward and its bloodshot eyes fixed on Cale.

"Everyone drinks, manling," it grunted in Common. "Everyone pays. And no one fights."

Cale held its gaze for a moment before nodding.

"I hear you," he responded in the harsh goblin tongue, which he knew bugbears to understand.

The creature's eyes registered surprise. It leaned back, gave what Cale thought might have been a grin, and waved them in with the club.

There was no bar in the room, just some swollen, tapped hogsheads set on a table in one corner. The unkempt human "barkeep" slept in a chair beside the table, his hands folded over his ample belly and filthy burlap apron. Tallow candles burned wanly on the five or six thick-legged tables set around the room. Ten or fifteen half-orcs and gnolls populated the tables, each holding drinks in mismatched tankards. Some threw dice; others conversed with comrades in their guttural tongues. Conversation lulled for a moment as hard, bestial faces coldly eyed Cale and Riven, but quickly restarted with renewed vigor.

Mindful of the bugbear's words, they headed for the barkeep and the drink table. A few of the half-orcs glared challenges at Cale but he ignored them.

As they walked, Riven leaned on Cale as though for support and whispered, "How did you speak to that bugbear, Cale? How many languages do you know anyway?"

"Nine," Cale answered. "But not the gnolls'." He looked around the room at the many gnolls. "Are one of these Dreeve?"

Riven looked out from under his hood.

"There," he said. "Alone at the table to our left. Big bastard with the long mane, mail shirt, and piercings."

Cale saw him. Dreeve sat alone in the corner, eyeing them with feral black eyes while sipping-lapping, really-from a ceramic tankard. Even sitting, he looked big: a full two heads taller than Cale, probably. Dark, yellow-brown fur covered light green skin. Muscles and veins bulked under his mail shirt and green travelling cloak. Three iron rings hung from each ear and the fur around his canine muzzle was stained black, the telltale sign of a habitual mistleaf root chewer.

Cale took an immediate dislike to him, but reminded himself that they had little choice.

"Drinks first," he said to Riven.

When they reached the table with the tapped hogsheads atop it, the barkeep, without ever looking up or opening his eyes, said, "Three coppers a tankard. Serve yourself."

Cale laid a silver raven on the table-he had only Sembian coins-took two dirty tankards from the haphazard stack near the taps, and filled each with the watered-down swill.

Without another word, they turned and walked for Dreeve's table. As they did, Cale surreptitiously whispered the words to a divination spell that detected dweomers. Neither the gnoll nor any of his items showed as magical. Cale felt relieved. Unless the gnoll was warded, he was no shapeshifter.

Dreeve eyed them as they approached. When they got close, he chuffed the air, as though sniffing for spoor. His lips peeled back from yellowed fangs.

To Riven he said, "You return, old human." He put enough emphasis on the last word to suggest it was an insult. He looked at Cale and licked his lips. "And you bring another of your pack, eh? Dreeve's offer is good, not so?" he asked Cale. His voice was strangely high-pitched, but deep growls punctuated every third or fourth word. "Did you bring the coin? Three hundred gold?"

Cale ignored the question.

"You told this granther-" he nodded at Riven-"that you know the Gulthmere?"

Cale deliberately made himself sound skeptical.

The gnoll snarled at him, "You suggest that I lie, human? I know the forest." He growled, low and dangerous. "You leader of your pack?"

His fetid breath made Cale want to gag, but Cale merely stared at him. The gnoll leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak.

"You seek the Moonmere," the gnoll said, "the Lightless Lake. This I know from him."

Dreeve waved a huge hand at Riven. Cale held his tongue.

"No light in that water," the gnoll continued. "The sky cannot be seen. My pack not go to that place. I only show you where to go. You go alone."

"You ask for much and offer little," Cale said, and made a show of considering. After a moment, he leaned forward. "Done. Three hundred gold, but only if we leave tonight and move fast. We need to be there before midnight tomorrow."

"I can get you there then," the gnoll said, "if you're ready to run. My pack does not ride."

Cale nodded and said, "We'll keep up, Dreeve."

The gnoll smiled as though he didn't believe it.

"Payment," he said, and held out his hand.

Cale shook his head.

"You're paid when we're there," he said. "Not before."

Dreeve snarled, clenched his hand into a fist, and slammed it on the table.

"Half now," the gnoll demanded.

"None now," Cale said and dared the gnoll with his eyes to challenge him. He did not.

Dreeve glared at Cale and said, "How many in your pack? All old, like him?"

"Three. Myself and two others," said Cale. "Not him."

Dreeve growled, and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

"Nine in mine, human. All warriors."

Cale stared at him, as cold as Deepwinter, and said, "Numbers are not strength, Dreeve."

The gnoll either laughed or snarled, Cale couldn't tell. But either way, the deal was done. Cale took Riven by the arm, as though to assist him, and rose.

"We'll meet you and your pack after sunset on the road outside of the western gate," Cale said, "an hour outside of the city."

"We will be there, human. Night's darkness is good time for my pack."

Cale smiled without mirth and said, "Mine too."

Riven chuckled as they walked out.