Venom’s Taste

CHAPTER 2

23 Kythorn, Darkmorning

As Arvin walked along the seawall toward the Mortal Coil, suspiciously eyeing everyone who passed under the streetlights, four sailors staggered toward him. He stepped to one side, intending to allow the group to pass, but as they drew nearer, one of them took a long, bleary look at Arvin then loudly guffawed. His two companions all turned to see what the joke was; an instant later they sniffed and pinched their noses. They began shouting drunken oaths at Arvin, telling him to haul his stink downwind.

Arvin felt his cheeks grow hot and red. Suddenly he was a boy again, enduring the taunts of the other children in the orphanage as they made fun of the punishment he’d been subjected to-the touch of a wand that had made his skin stink worse than a ghoul’s. The punishment was a favorite one of the priests and had been inspired by the martyrdom of one of Ilmater’s innumerable, interminably suffering saints. Arvin had tried to scrub the magical stink off, scraping his skin raw with a pumice stone and standing under the tap until he was shivering and wrinkled, but still it had persisted, filling his nose with a sharp reek, even lingering on his tongue until he wanted to gag. Even shaving his hair off hadn’t helped-the other kids had only incorporated his shaved head into their taunts, pointing at the stubble and calling him “rotten egg.”

A dribble of filthy water trickled down Arvin’s temple. He flicked his wet hair back and felt the dribble transfer to the back of his neck. At least, this time, the smell would wash off.

And he was no longer a cringing child.

Grabbing the largest sailor by the shirtfront with his bare hand, Arvin summoned his dagger into his glove and jammed the blade up the man’s nostril. As the point pierced flesh, a trickle of red dribbled out of the nostril onto the man’s upper lip. “Shall I cut your nose off, then?” Arvin said through gritted teeth. “Would that alleviate the smell? Or would you and your friends prefer to take your insults somewhere else?”

The man’s eyes widened. He started to shake his head then thought better of it. “Easy mate,” he gasped. “We’ll ship off.”

Arvin stepped back, removing his dagger. The sailors staggered away, the bloody-nosed one muttering curses under his breath.

Arvin stood for a moment in silence, watching other late-night revelers stagger along the seawall, wondering if any might be hiding pockmarks under a cloak of magic. The taunts of the sailors had made him realize one thing, at least. The only way he was going to locate any of the pockmarked people was by using his nose to pick out their sour, sick odor. Enfolded in sewer stink, he didn’t have a hope of doing that.

Sighing, he strode away to find a bathhouse.

A short time later, Arvin felt human again. The bathhouse-a circular stone chamber where patrons basked lazily in hot, swirling steam while slaves soaped and scrubbed them-had been worth the delay. Arvin-scrubbed pink and smelling of good, clean soap-and dressed in a fresh change of clothes felt ready to face any challenge.

Even a descent back into the sewers to find Naulg.

He returned to his only starting point: the Mortal Coil. It was still some time before dawn, and business at the Coil was slow, most of the sailors having staggered back to their ships to sleep off their revels. No more than a dozen patrons sat at tables. One of them Arvin recognized immediately: the yuan-ti woman with red hair who had been drinking there last night.

The woman, who had changed into a dress made from a shimmering green fabric a few shades lighter than her scales, looked up as Arvin entered the tavern. He didn’t think she’d recognize him from yesterday evening-he’d gotten his hair cut short at the bathhouse. Even had his hair still been shoulder length, odds were she wouldn’t remember seeing him. Arvin’s average build and pleasant, “anyman” face gave him a natural talent for disappearing into a crowd. It was a godsend in his line of work-though with it came the annoyance of people frequently mistaking him for someone else.

The woman was still staring at him. Arvin crossed the first two fingers of his right hand while holding it discreetly at his side. Guild?

The woman made no response. Instead, she turned away.

A thought occurred to Arvin. Last night, the woman had seemed to be searching the crowd for someone. Had she, too, lost a friend to a pockmarked abductor? Was that why she’d returned to the Coil? If so, she might be willing to join in the search for Naulg. At the very least, she might have noticed something that Arvin had missed.

Arvin crossed to her table and bowed deeply, waiting for her to bid him rise. When she did, he gave her his most winning smile and indicated the empty chair opposite her. “May I join you?” A familiar prickling sensation tickled the base of his scalp-a feeling that always boded well in this sort of situation. She would invite him to sit down. He was certain of it.

The yuan-ti tilted her head as if listening to something-another good sign-but didn’t speak. For a moment, Arvin was worried she’d dismiss him out of hand-yuan-ti were prone to doing that, with humans. But then she nodded and gestured for him to sit. A faint smile twitched her lips, as if she’d just found something amusing. Then it disappeared.

Arvin sat. “You were here last night,” he began.

She waited, not blinking. Arvin had grown up in Hlondeth and was used to the stares of the yuan-ti. If she was trying to unnerve him, she was failing.

“Do you remember the man I was sitting with-the one in the yellow shirt?”

She nodded.

“The woman who was sitting on his lap, the doxy, have you seen her since then?”

“The pockmarked woman?” Her voice was soft and sibilant; like all yuan-ti, she hissed softly as she spoke.

Arvin raised his eyebrows. “You saw her sores?”

“I saw through the spell she’d cast to disguise herself,” the yuan-ti answered. “From the moment she entered the tavern, I recognized her for what she was.”

Arvin was appalled. “You knew she was diseased? Why didn’t you warn us-or call the militia?”

The woman shrugged, a slow, rolling motion of her shoulders. “There was nothing to fear. Plague had touched her then moved on, leaving only scars behind.”

“But her touch-”

“Was harmless,” the yuan-ti interrupted. “Her sores had scarred over. Had they been open and weeping, it would have been another matter entirely.”

“What about her spittle?” Arvin asked.

The yuan-ti stared at him. “You kissed her?”

“My friend did. Or rather…” He thought back to the phlegm that had been smeared on his brow. “The doxy kissed him on his forehead. Would that pass the plague to him?” He waited, breath held, for her reply. Had he fought off the poison he’d been forced to drink, only to be condemned to death by disease?

The yuan-ti gave a faint hiss that might have been laughter. “No. Tell your friend not to worry. The plague that left the pockmarks was long gone from her body. From all parts of her body.”

She said it with such certainty, Arvin believed her. Relief washed through him. Knowing that he’d been touched by people who themselves had been touched by plague had filled him with dread. He wasn’t old enough to have witnessed the last plague that swept through the Vilhon Reach; the “dragonscale plague” had been eradicated thirty years before he was born. Like most people, though, he feared to even speak of it. The disease, thought to be magical in origin, had caused the skin of those it touched to flake off in huge chunks, like scales, leaving bloody, weeping holes.

Shuddering, he ordered an ale from the serving girl who approached their table; then he turned back to the yuan-ti. “You seem to know quite a lot about disease.”

“In recent months I’ve made a study of it.”

Arvin’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” A suspicion was starting to form in his mind-that it was the “doxy” this woman had been looking for last night, or one of her pockmarked companions.

“Did you follow us after we left the tavern?” Arvin asked bluntly. He waited tensely for her answer; perhaps she could describe the place where the pockmarked people had entered the sewer system. If he knew that, he might be able to find the chamber where-

“There was no need. I had a… hunch that I’d see you again this morning and hear your story.” Her eyes bored into his. “Tell me what happened last night after you and your friend left the Mortal Coil.”

Arvin stared at her, appalled by her indifference. She’d sat and watched as Naulg was led away by a dangerous, diseased woman-and done nothing. At the very least she might have warned Arvin not to follow them. Instead she’d let events unfold, content to question the survivors afterward.

“Some ‘study of disease,’ ” Arvin muttered under his breath. Then, meeting the yuan-ti’s unblinking eyes, he asked, “Who are you?”

“Zelia.”

Arvin supposed that must be her name.

“Who do you work for?”

Zelia gave a hiss of laughter. “Myself.”

Arvin stared at her, frowning. When it was clear she wasn’t going to add anything more, he made a quick decision. He had little to lose by telling her his story-and everything to gain. Perhaps she might pick out some clue in his tale that would help him find Naulg. She seemed to know more-much more-than she was letting on, but then, yuan-ti tended to give that impression.

Omitting any mention of his transaction with Naulg, Arvin reiterated the events that had taken place a short time ago: his fight with the doxy and her accomplice, finding himself in the sewage chamber, being force-fed the poison, the terrible anguish it had produced, and escaping in the rowboat. He watched Zelia closely as he told his tale, but her expression didn’t change. She listened most attentively as he described the chamber where the force-feeding had taken place, stopping him more than once to ask for more detail, including full descriptions of the people who had abducted him. She made him describe each person’s appearance and exactly what had been said. Arvin concluded with a description of the statue. “The wood was rotted, but it was definitely a statue of a woman. The hands were raised, as if reaching-”

“Talona.”

“Is that a name?” Arvin asked. He’d never heard it before.

“Lady of Poison, Mistress of Disease, Mother of Death,” Zelia intoned.

Arvin shuddered. “Yes. That’s what they called her.”

“Goddess of sickness and disease,” Zelia continued, “a lesser-known goddess, not commonly worshiped in the Vilhon Reach. Her followers only recently surfaced in Hlondeth.”

“Last night was a sacrifice, then,” Arvin said.

“Yes. It is how they appease their goddess. They appeal to Talona to take another life, so she will continue to spare their own.”

“That’s why they fed us the poison.”

“Yes,” Zelia said. “Sometimes they use poison and sometimes plague. Usually, a mix of both.”

Arvin felt his face grow pale. “Plague,” he said in a hoarse voice. Had there been plague mixed with the poison they’d forced him to drink? He gripped the edge of the table and stared at his hands, wondering if his skin would suddenly erupt into terrible, weeping blisters.

Just at that moment, his ale arrived. The serving girl set it on the table then stood, waiting. Arvin stared at the mug. He suddenly didn’t feel thirsty anymore. Realizing that the serving girl was still waiting, he fumbled a coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto her tray. He’d probably just paid her too much, judging by the speed with which she palmed it, but he didn’t care. His thoughts were still filled with images of plague: his lungs filling with fluid, his body burning with coal-hot fever, his hair falling out of his scalp, his skin flaking away in chunks…

“Will Talona claim me still?” he croaked.

Zelia smiled. “You feel healthy, don’t you?” She waved a hand disparagingly. “If there was plague mixed in with the poison, it’s been held at bay by the strength of your own constitution. You slipped out of the goddess’s grasp. Talona has lost her hold on you.”

Arvin nodded, trying to reassure himself. He did feel healthy-and strong. Refreshed and alert, despite having had no sleep last night. If he had been exposed to plague, he was showing no signs of it-yet.

A question occurred to him. “Why are you so interested in this cult?” he asked.

“They’re killing people.”

“They’re killing humans,” Arvin pointed out. “Why should a yuan-ti care about that?”

All he got in reply was a cold, unblinking stare. For a moment, he worried he’d gone too far. Did he honestly care why Zelia was “making a study” of disease, or on whose behalf? Really, it was none of his business. He quickly got back to the matter at hand-trying to learn something that would help him find Naulg.

“Does this cult have a name?” he asked.

Zelia gave a slight, supple nod. “They call themselves the Pox.”

“Can you tell me anything else about them? How I can find them again, for example?”

Zelia smiled. “What would you do if you found them?”

“Rescue my friend.”

Zelia frowned. “Rushing in will only alert the Pox to the fact that someone is watching them,” she told him. “And it would serve no purpose. Your friend is already dead.”

When Arvin began to protest, she held up a hand. “As would you be, if you hadn’t proved stronger than the rest. But there is a way for you to avenge your friend’s death. Would you like to hear what it is?”

Arvin’s eyes narrowed. He could tell when he was being manipulated. How did this woman know for certain that Naulg was dead? Like Arvin, he might have fought off the draught of plague. He might still be alive-and a captive. Arvin nodded.

“I want to know more about the Pox-things that only a human can uncover,” she continued. “I’d be willing to pay for that information, providing the human was smart and knew how not to tip his hand.”

Arvin feigned only a passing interest by crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “How much?”

Zelia took a sip of her ale-not quite quickly enough to hide her smile. Her teeth were human-square and flat, rather than the slender, curved fangs some yuan-ti had. “Enough.”

It was Arvin’s turn to stare. “Why do you need a human?” he asked at last.

“The cultists won’t accept any other race into their ranks.”

Arvin wrinkled his nose in disgust as he realized what she was asking him to do. “You want me to join their cult? To worship that foul abomination of a goddess? Never!”

Zelia’s expression tightened. Too late, Arvin realized what he’d just said. “Abomination” was the word that humans elsewhere in the Vilhon Reach used to describe the yuan-ti who had the most snakelike characteristics. It was an insult that no human of Hlondeth ever dared use. It commonly provoked a sharp, swift-and fatal-bite in return, or a slow constriction.

Arvin swallowed nervously and half-closed his gloved hand, ready to call the dagger to it, but Zelia let the insult pass.

“To pretend to join their cult,” she said.

Arvin shook his head. “The answer is still no.”

“Is it because of your faith you refuse?” she asked.

For one unsettling moment Arvin wondered if she was referring to Ilmater, if she knew about his time in the orphanage and the endless attempts by the clerics to instill in the children under their care a sense of “eternal thankfulness for the mercy of our lord the Crying God.” Then he realized that Zelia was simply asking a general question. “I don’t worship any particular deity,” he told her. “I toss the occasional coin in Tymora’s cup for good fortune, but that’s all.”

“Then why do you refuse?”

Arvin sighed. “I’m a simple merchant. I import ropes and nets. For this job, you need an actor-or a rogue.”

Zelia’s eyes narrowed. “It’s you I want. You survived the disease the Pox infected you with. In their eyes, that makes you blessed.”

“I see.” He decided to see how badly she wanted these cultists. “I lost one thousand gold pieces last night. Would you be willing to pay that much for me to spy on them?”

Zelia gave a dismissive wave of her hand, as if the figure he’d just named were pocket change. “Certainly.”

“Five thousand?”

“Yes.”

“Ten?”

Zelia gave him a tight smile. “If you produce the desired results, yes-and if you follow orders.”

With difficulty, Arvin kept his expression neutral. As he collected his thoughts, he sipped his ale and considered her offer. Ten thousand gold pieces was a lot of coin-enough to get him out of Hlondeth and free him from the Guild’s clutches forever. But he wondered for whom Zelia was working. Someone with deep pockets, obviously-perhaps someone with access to the royal coffers. Unless she was lying about the coin, and didn’t intend to pay anything, which was more likely when you came right down to it. A classic bait and jump-offer the victim anything he asks for then give him more than he bargained for.

“Well?” Zelia asked. “Will you do it?”

Arvin shuddered, remembering the terrible pockmarks on the cultists’ skin. Was that how his mother had looked as she lay dying? He decided he couldn’t bear the foul touch of their fingers again, even if they carried no taint. Even for ten thousand gold pieces.

“No,” he answered. “Not for all the coin in the Extaminos treasury. Find someone else.” He set his ale down and started to rise from the table.

Surprisingly, Zelia didn’t protest. Instead, she took a long swallow of the ale in front of her, gulping down the egg inside it. When she was finished, she licked her lips with a tongue that was longer than the average human’s, with a slight fork at the end of it…

A blue tongue.

Arvin felt his eyes widen. He sank back into his seat. “You were the snake in the rowboat.”

“Yes.”

“You neutralized the poison?”

Zelia nodded.

“Why?”

“I wanted you alive.”

“Knowing-thanks to your ‘hunch’-that I’d return to the Coil, and I’d tell you my story,” Arvin said.

“Yes.”

Anger rose inside Arvin, flushing his face. “You used me.”

Zelia stared at him. “I saved your life.”

“The answer’s still no. I won’t join the cult.”

“Yes you will,” Zelia said slowly. “Seven days from now, you will.”

She said it with such certainty that it gave Arvin pause. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“After I neutralized the poison, I planted a ‘seed’ in your mind,” Zelia said. “A seed that takes seven days to germinate. At the end of those seven days, your mind will no longer be your own. Your body will be mine-to do with as I will.” She leaned across the table and lightly stroked his temple with her fingertips then sat back, smiling.

Arvin stared at her, horrified. She was bluffing, he told himself. But it didn’t feel like a bluff. Her smile was too confident, too self-satisfied-that of a gambler who knows he holds the winning hand. And now that she’d drawn his attention to it, Arvin could feel a faint throbbing in his temple, like the beginning of a headache. Was it the “seed” spell she had cast on him, putting down roots?

“What if I agree to join the cult?” he asked. “If I do that, will you negate the spell?”

Zelia hissed softly. “You’ve changed your mind?” Her lips parted to add something more, but just then, from somewhere behind Arvin, there came a shout of dismay and the sound of chairs being scuffed hurriedly back-and the clink of chain mail.

Turning on his chair-slowly, so as not to attract attention to himself-Arvin saw a dozen men in armor descending the ramp: Hlondeth’s human militia. Each wore a helmet that was flared to resemble the hood of a cobra, with a slit-eyed visor that hid the face from the nose up. The bronze rings of their chain mail shimmered like scales as they marched into the tavern. They were armed with strangely shaped crossbows. Arvin observed how these worked a moment later, when a boy in his teens leaped from his chair and tried to run to a door that led to the tavern’s stockroom. At a gesture from their sergeant-a large man with a jutting chin and the emblem of two twined serpents embossed on the breastplate he wore-one of the militia pulled the trigger of his crossbow. A pair of lead weights linked by a fine wire exploded from the weapon, whirling around one another as they flew through the air. The wire caught the youth around his ankles, sending him crashing into a table.

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of a mug rolling across the table and falling with a soft thud into the sawdust below. Then, as the man who had shot the crossbow strode across the room to apprehend the runaway, the sergeant spoke.

“By order of Lady Extaminos, I am commanded to find crew for a galley,” he announced. “Those who have previously served in the militia are exempt. Roll up your sleeves and account for yourselves.”

A handful of men in the tavern dutifully began to roll up their sleeves, exposing the chevrons magically branded into their left forearms by battle clerics-chevrons that recorded the four years of service required of every human male in Hlondeth. Arvin, meanwhile, glanced around the tavern, his heart pounding. A galley? Their crews had even less expectation of coming home again than the men who were sent to the Cloven Mountains to fight goblins. Arvin wasn’t so foolish as to get up and run; he’d get no farther than the bare-armed youth who was being hustled toward the exit. The one avenue of escape-the wide, sloping ramp that led up to the seawall above-was blocked by militia, who were only letting men with chevrons leave the tavern.

More worrisome still was the man who stood beside the sergeant. He wore neither helmet nor armor, and carried no weapon other than the dagger sheathed at his hip. He had strange eyes with a curious fold to the eyelid-Arvin’s mother had described the peoples of the East as having eyes like that. Judging by his gray hair and the deep creases at either side of his mouth, he was too old to be a regular militiaman. He stood with one hand thrust into a pocket-closed around a concealed magical device, perhaps-as he scrutinized the faces of the men in the tavern, one by one.

This was no press gang. The militiamen were searching for someone.

Arvin swallowed nervously and felt the bead he wore shift against his throat. “Nine lives,” he whispered. Reaching down, he began to unfasten his shirt cuff. As he pretended to fumble with the laces, he turned to Zelia.

“I won’t be able to spy for you if I’m aboard a galley,” he whispered. “If you have any pull with the militia, use it now.”

Zelia’s lips twitched into a slit of a smile. “You accept my offer?”

Arvin nodded vigorously as a member of the militia approached their table.

“Too late.” With a supple, flowing motion, she rose from her chair. Cocking her head in Arvin’s direction, she spoke to the man approaching their table. “Here’s one for you.” Then she strode away.

As the man’s visored eyes locked on him, Arvin felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. His hand froze on his shirt cuff. Even if the press gang was a sham, the fact remained that he’d never served his time with the militia. In order to keep up the pretense of the press gang, they’d have to arrest him. They’d toss him in jail, where, in seven days’ time, Zelia’s spell would take effect.

Arvin couldn’t allow that to happen. The only way he could find out whatever Zelia wanted to know about the Pox, and save himself, was to remain a free man.

The militiaman raised his crossbow. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Arvin forced his lips into a smile. “There’s been a mistake,” he began, rising to his feet. “I served my four years, and they branded me, but a year ago I contracted an illness that”-his mind raced as he tried to think up a story the man would actually believe-“that left me terribly pockmarked.” He dropped his voice to a confiding whisper. “I think it was plague.”

Arvin widened his eyes in mock alarm, but it didn’t have the expected result. The militiaman stood firm and unflinching. He’d obviously heard similar excuses before.

Arvin pressed on hurriedly. “Only recently did I earn enough coin for a tithe. The cleric who healed me did a wonderful job-he actually restored my skin to an unblemished condition. But in the process, he erased my chevrons. See?”

Rolling up his sleeve, Arvin showed the man his bare arm. As the militiaman looked at it, Arvin felt the base of his scalp begin to prickle. Quickly, he caught the militiaman’s eye and gave him a friendly grin. “Listen, friend, it’s true that I haven’t served,” Arvin said. “But you could let me go this time-right? Since this isn’t really a press gang and I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

Slowly, the militiaman’s expression changed, until his smile mirrored Arvin’s own. “Don’t worry,” he whispered back. “I won’t tell them about you.”

“Thanks,” Arvin said, rolling down his sleeve. “I knew I could count on you, friend.” He turned then and began walking toward the ramp, as if the militiaman had granted him leave to go. Zelia was just exiting; the militiamen blocking the ramp parted to let her pass, leaving a gap in their ranks. Arvin lengthened his stride, but then the gray-haired man turned his full attention in Arvin’s direction. Arvin saw the man’s strangely shaped eyes narrow slightly as he glanced down at Arvin’s gloved hand then up at his face again. His expression hardened.

He’s recognized me as Guild, Arvin thought, fighting down panic. Or he’s mistaken me for whoever the militia are looking for. Either way, I’m in trouble. If only I could distract him for just an instant…

The prickling sensation he’d felt at the base of his scalp a moment ago, when he’d charmed the militiaman, returned-this time deep in Arvin’s throat. Within heartbeats it became so strong that Arvin began to hum involuntarily. A low droning filled the air-a sound like that of a bow being drawn against the low bass string of a musical instrument. The militiamen and their sergeant all glanced around as if trying to find its source, but its effect on the gray-haired fellow was even more dramatic. He suddenly lost interest in Arvin and stared at the far wall, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he were completely engrossed in it.

Now! Arvin thought. Seizing his chance, he bolted. He sprinted through the gap in the ranks, and, as one militiaman lunged out to grab him, made the most of the man’s mistake by grabbing the fellow’s hand and using the man’s own momentum to tumble him into the fellow behind him. He heard the snap-whiz of a crossbow being fired-and a sharp exhalation just behind him, followed by curses, as the wire-linked weights wrapped around the man he’d just tumbled. Zelia, farther up the ramp, turned to see what the commotion was. As Arvin sprinted past her, he saw her eyes widen. Then Arvin was around a bend in the ramp and running up it as fast as his pumping legs would carry him.

He emerged onto a seawall limned red by the rising sun-the start of another hot, muggy day. He ducked left into a narrow street, and as soon as he was a few paces down it, leaped headlong at a wall. Fingers splayed, he activated the magic of the leather cord knotted around his wrist. His fingers and boot toes found cracks in the stonework that ordinarily would have offered no purchase, allowing him to scramble up the building like a cat climbing a tree.

Below and to his left, two militiamen emerged onto the seawall. Arvin froze, not wanting to betray his position with movement. One of the men stopped, crossbow at the ready, to stare down the narrow street Arvin had entered, but Arvin was already level with the building’s third story-well above where anyone would reasonably expect him to be. The militiaman looked away.

“Nine lives,” Arvin panted, grinning.

Then the gray-haired man stepped into sight beside the militiaman. He held an unusual object in his hand-three finger-sized crystals, bound together with silver wire and pulsing with a faint purple glow. Arvin had never seen anything like it before. The militiamen heeded the call of one of their fellows, ran farther up the seawall, and ran off, but the gray-haired man stood, still staring at the crystals. Then, slowly, he looked up.

Right into Arvin’s eyes.

“There he is!” he shouted, pointing.

Arvin cursed and resumed his climb up the wall. The top of the building was just above him-one quick scramble and he was on the roof, a spot where the crossbows wouldn’t be able to take him down. He ran lightly along the slate tiles, in a direction they wouldn’t expect-back toward the seawall. From below, he could hear the gray-haired man shouting directions.

With a sinking heart, Arvin realized the man had guessed the direction in which he was headed. Arvin abruptly changed direction-and heard the man below shout that the quarry was going this way, not that way. Cursing, Arvin changed direction again, sending a tile skittering down the rooftop, but that telltale sign was the least of his worries.

The gray-haired man below had magic that could track Arvin, whichever direction he ran. Arvin’s only hope was to somehow get out of its range.