Measure and the Truth

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Blayne Kerrigan moved quietly down the darkened street, counting the doorways on his right. Archer Billings had given him very specific instructions, warning him there was no sign, no outward indication, of the secret meeting hall. Finally he came to the thirteenth door, the one he had been told to find. He hesitated and for a fleeting moment felt like turning and running away.

A glance over his shoulder failed to spot anyone on the street, though the young noblemen had the distinct feeling that he was being followed and observed. He remembered the tragedy of his father, thought about the emperor whose power smothered everything in the city, and found the courage to press on.

The building was seedy and rundown, with boards nailed over the windows. No sound came from within. He tried the latch and found the door unlocked, just as the archer had told him it would be. Pushing the door open slowly, he expected the loud creak of rusty hinges and was surprised when the door glided easily, effortlessly inward. With a quick step, he was inside. The door shut behind him, and for a moment he was enveloped by darkness and silence.

But it was just for a moment; almost immediately he felt strong hands grasp both of his arms. He struggled instinctively, but felt the iron grip of his captors and knew that he was firmly held. He lashed out with a kick, only to bang his shin painfully against something; the blow produced a metallic clang.

Light seared his eyes. It was only the flame of an oil lantern, but the sudden brightness was painful. Still struggling and half blind, Blayne was trundled along like a squirming child, through another doorway and into a larger room.

It might have been the hall of a moderately prosperous inn: a large stone fireplace on the far wall held a huge pile of glowing coals, while several long tables, each flanked by a pair of arches, took up most of the space. The ceiling was lost in shadows, though he saw beams and arches connecting to a central pillar. To his left was a long bar. There was no other exit or entrance visible.

More interesting than the room itself were the occupants. There were a dozen men in there, all regarding him suspiciously. To a man they wore the handlebar mustaches of the Solamnic Knights, yet the men were not dressed in armor, nor did they display the heraldry of their order on their tunics. Instead, they looked more like thieves, wearing dark cloaks and old, well-worn boots. A few had hoods pulled over their heads, while several wore ratty gloves with fingers missing. Not one was smiling; on more than a few faces, he noted stares of suspicion or outright hostility.

The two men holding his arms were the largest fellows in the room, and they also glowered down at him. Apparently they didn’t like what they saw, for their iron fingers dug more deeply into the flesh of his arms as Blayne was roughly propelled toward a table in the center of the room.

A single man sat there, slightly older than the rest to judge by the creases around his eyes, the traces of gray in his mustache and his long hair. He stared at Blayne while deliberately pulling a long dagger from his belt. Never taking his eyes off the visitor, he started to trim his fingernails with what was obviously a very sharp blade.

Blayne ceased to struggle against the tight grip of the two men. Among the several warnings Archer Billings had given him was an indication that these men were perfectly willing to use violence against their enemies. With that in mind, the young lord didn’t trust himself to speak, but he tried to remember the legacy of his birth as he held his head high and levelly met the gaze of the man.

“Who are you?” the fellow with the knife demanded after what seemed like a very long silence during which he kept trimming his fingernails.

“I am Sir Blayne Kerrigan of Vingaard Keep,” he replied proudly.

“Ah, I have heard of you,” the man replied with a snort that could have indicated derision or amusement.

“Perhaps I could say the same thing, if I knew who it was I addressed,” Blayne retorted sharply. “Why do your men hold me so rudely? And who are you?”

The man did laugh then, loudly. “Perhaps my men hold you because you entered like a thief-silently, stealthily. Perhaps we should cut your throat, Sir Blayne, like we would any other thief?”

“But I am not a thief!”

“Why do you come here, then?”

“A man from the city guard sent me. I am looking to make contact with a group of brave people opposed to the tyrannical emperor, and he said I would find them here. They are-”

“Don’t tell me what ‘they’ are!” the man snapped back. “Who is this man who sent you to our door?”

Blayne drew a breath. “He told me that I could identify him to… the men I met, but only if I was satisfied that I had come to the right place and found them.”

“And, Sir Blayne, are you so satisfied that you can speak now, or do I need to exercise some further persuasion?”

The man continued to wield his knife, whittling away at his fingernails with as much ease as skill. The light from the oil lamp caught on the steely blade, reflecting brightly in Blayne’s eyes. He took a chance.

“The man was Archer Billings of the city guard. I was sent to him by a mutual friend who is not of the city. I came here because the emperor slew my father, treacherously, and then destroyed the towers of Vingaard with his bombard. He must be stopped!”

“Now there, lad,” said the man, clearly enjoying himself. “You surely have heard that it’s a crime to express such sentiments? Most especially it is a crime here in Palanthas, the very heart of the emperor’s realm? You could be subject to, oh, I don’t know, imprisonment or loss of property. Exile, maybe. Hanging! Why, the emperor might even scowl at you!”

The last line provoked coarse laughter from the rest of the men. Blayne could hear the mockery in the fellow’s words but sensed that it was not he who was being mocked, but rather the emperor himself.

Blayne felt his courage reborn. If he had somehow come to the wrong place, he would not be cowed into disclaiming his father, his quest. But he was certain that they were the right men and the room was the place that he sought.

“I care nothing for the emperor’s laws!” he declared passionately. “They are an abomination of the Oath and the Measure. He fears his own people, even as he claims to have their interests in his heart. He is a despot and must be brought down.”

“Well, my young lord,” said the man, “it may be that you have come to the right place and are speaking to the right fellow.” He stood up; somehow the long-bladed dagger vanished into the folds of his cloak as he held out a strong hand. Blayne took that hand and shook it, impressed by the firmness of the dry grip.

“I am Sir Ballard,” he said. “And your archer friend-I know of him as well-spoke the truth. We are the Legion of Steel in Palanthas. And the emperor is no friend of ours.”

Magic wrapped the gray wizard Hoarst and Sirene in a whirlwind sensation, transporting them together from the camp in the Vingaard Mountains to his stronghold across the plains in the Dargaard Range. They arrived in the huge laboratory, the vast chamber that had once been the great hall of the castle.

Many of the wizard’s other women, more than a dozen of them, had been living there in his absence, and he was pleased to note the fires were lit and the rooms had been kept warm and clean. The women gathered quickly when he shouted out his arrival, delighted to see their master.

“Bring me a cask of the dry white wine from Nordmaar,” he snapped to a pair of strong blondes who hailed from that country. “Lara, you start a fire under my largest caldron. I want it blazing hot. Use the hard coal. Dani, Kammra, Tenille, go to the cabinets and bring me ten jars of down feathers, a dozen silk fans, and a cask of whale oil.”

He stopped to consider: he had water in plenty but needed a few other ingredients that he would have to select himself. “The rest of you, prepare us some food. And see that Sirene gets a hot bath. I want all of you to gather in the lab at sunset tonight!”

“Yes, lord! As you command!” they chorused and scurried off to do his bidding, with two of the youngest girls taking charge of the albino. When all were busy, Hoarst left the hall and entered the connecting corridor leading to his chambers. But he did not climb the stairs.

Instead, he went to the plain door near the kitchen and touched it, sensing the power of his wizard lock. He was pleased but not surprised to note the door had not been disturbed in his absence.

With a murmured word, he released the locking spell and opened the door. A thin, steep stairway led down into the shadows, and he had to turn sideways to descend the narrow steps. A single word ignited a light spell on his belt buckle, illuminating his way as he plunged deep into the passages under his ancient keep.

At the bottom of the steps, a narrow corridor led to the right and left. He turned left-for the other direction was an illusion, and though it appeared to be a long, straight passageway, in actuality it led to a cleverly concealed trap over a large pool of acid. Anyone who went more than ten steps in that direction would fall through the floor and into the pool. They would not come out again.

Hoarst continued down the narrow passage, each footstep kicking up little swirls of dust that danced in the light of his spell. He passed a number of side passages to the right and left and took the third corridor on his right. That led him to another intersection of passages, and again he made the correct turn.

There was only one way to walk through those dark corridors, he knew: each false move led to a death certain, violent, and inescapable. One trap would crush an intruder with a slab of rock weighing many tons. Another opened into a chute that plummeted into a hundred-foot-deep pit; the bottom of the pit was layered with spears planted, sharp tips up, in the ground. A third, one of the most ingenious, would pour oil over any trespasser and then, a few seconds later, release a cascade of bits of phosphorus that would ignite a searing, completely lethal blaze.

After a hundred and fourteen steps, Hoarst turned to the left into a corridor that looked just as ordinary as any of the rest. He came to a mundane-looking door, confirmed with a gentle touch that his locking spell was still intact there, and with a single word released the door, pushing it open to enter the most secret, most cherished of his rooms.

The light spell still gleamed from his belt buckle, but that pale brightness was completely overwhelmed by the brilliant glow emanating from a dozen different places in his treasure chamber. Jewels and scepters, a crown, and a magnificent wand all shone with magical light. A chest, overflowing with coins, glowed crimson as though from the embers of a fire. Yellow and green light rose from statues and paintings, while a magical chandelier-perpetually illuminated-brightened the place more than a hundred candles.

Hoarst spent a few moments perusing his trinkets, fondling the limitless piles of coins, admiring his favorite painting-which displayed a partially disrobed woman beside a deep, clear pool-hoisting a prize scepter, and cradling the hilt of a splendid flying dagger.

But business, not pleasure, had drawn him there, and he had precious little time to waste. He moved to a jar that was full of powdered flakes of gold. He needed both hands to hoist the heavy vessel until he slipped it into a bag of holding. Then he was able to suspend it from his belt as if it were a small purse. He found another small chest, one containing pure, crystalline diamonds, and added that to the bag. After a moment’s thought, he dropped the enchanted dagger into the bag as well.

Securing the wizard locks behind him, he went out through the dungeon tunnels and back up the long stairway, returning to his lab to find that the women had followed his instructions precisely. A great fire burned under his cauldron, and the wine and other ingredients had been brought over to the nearby table, where they were neatly arrayed.

He dined in the laboratory, mixing and working through the meal, then chanted spells and wrote arcane symbols deep into the night. The women tended the fire while he slept, and he continued to mix and cook for all the following day. Powdered gold, its weight equivalent to two thousand pieces of steel, was added. He put the diamonds-ten times the value of the steel-in his grinder, and reduced the precious stones to powder after an hour of hard labor.

For six more hours, the huge cauldron boiled, the magical potion taking effect until, finally, there was only one thing he needed to add.

“Sirene, come here,” he ordered.

The albino woman came to him immediately, willingly. She was clean and perfumed following her bath, and he was pleased. She well knew that albino blood was rare and much treasured as a spell component, and once again she proudly held out a finger, ready for the prick of his lancet.

“Do you need another drop of my blood, my lord?” she asked, relishing the power of her special status, inwardly sneering at the jealously of the other women.

“You understand me too well,” he said with a smile. “But this is a very special potion with very special requisites.”

The magical knife was in his hand, but she was looking only at his eyes.

“I am sorry to tell you this, my dear,” he explained. “But this time, I need all of it.”

Selinda returned to the little inn at the end of the dark alcove the next night. Though there was no sign outside the place, she learned from other patrons that it was called the Hale and Farewell, in honor of the parties sailors had before their ships left port for long voyages. She learned the proprietor was the man who had spoken to her outside the alley the first night she stopped, and that his name was Hale. People referred to him as Lame Hale, and he seemed to take that reference to his gimpy leg with fine good humor.

The third night she teleported from her room directly to the alley, very much surprising Lame Hale as he leaned against the dirty wall and scouted the street for prospective customers. But he seemed glad to see her again, and she enjoyed his compliments. She was soon inside and being welcomed by a host of familiar customers. She didn’t lack for an invitation to sit at a table with a group of travelers or share some gossip with some of the lady merchants who held court in the corner room.

The sailors told stories of exotic ports and terrifying storms, and she relished their tales of adventure. There were old soldiers too, and-for a drink or two-they could be coaxed into recounting campaigns against the Dark Knights, surreptitious missions under the realm of Khellendros, or battles against Ankhar the Truth on the central plains. Selinda stayed late each time she visited the place-usually the sun was coming up by the time she went home-and she always departed on foot, waiting until she was out of sight of the Hale and Farewell’s front door before teleporting home.

She told no one her name, and no one asked. She was treated well, as befitted her beauty and the generous tips that she left following each visit. The exotic music, oily and smooth and a trifle atonal, appealed to her in ways that the flutes, lyres, and drums of other local musicians did not. On her second visit, she had learned the unusual musicians and their instruments came from so far away that they were unknown on most of the continent of Ansalon.

It also pleased her to go to a place where no one knew her as the wife of the emperor, where her legacy as the Princess of the Plains, the woman who would help unite Solamnia, was mere myth. She had grown up in the city, a daughter of privilege, and-when she was honest with herself-she admitted that she was spoiled by her rich father. If he hadn’t exactly been doting, Bakkard du Chagne had never allowed her to want for any material things, and she came to adulthood expecting that as her due. Her marriage to the most powerful man in her world had done nothing to lessen her sense of entitlement, but it had walled her off from life.

There in the dark inn, those walls were broken. She laughed at the sensation of complete freedom and relaxed among the jovial strangers. She even joined in the gossip about the emperor, which was surprisingly common. Everyone had an opinion of her husband, and most opinions were unfavorable-though a few of the veteran soldiers spoke up for the new discipline and pride of the Solamnic nation. Others mocked Jaymes as being afraid of his own shadow and paranoid to the point of lunacy with his edicts and restrictions. If the new edicts had put any fear of reprisal into her new friends, they certainly hid the fact very well!

On her fourth or fifth visit, Lame Hale came over to sit at her table. She nodded a greeting to him.

“I am delighted to see that the mistress finds my humble establishment to her liking,” he said with an easy smile.

“It’s a lovely place,” Selinda declared. “Everyone is so nice, and you have such a splendid mix of people from all over.”

“Ah, yes. And don’t forget the music!” He gestured to a slender, pale-skinned musician who was working with some kind of flute that was as tall as a long spear. The man was producing notes that seemed to transcend scale, just then playing in a mournful minor key that made Selinda feel achingly sad.

Hale cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could introduce the lady to something new?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

Hale whistled loudly, and one of his serving maids hustled over to the table. Like all of the inn’s maids, the young woman wore a gown that dipped very low in the front and was braced with a knee-length skirt. She curtsied to her master.

“Bring the gracious lady a Red Lotus,” Hale said in his soft but curiously seductive voice. He turned back to Selinda. “It is another concoction that comes out of the east. I believe you will find it very pleasing.”

And indeed, Selinda did. The drink was tart, with a hint of some kind of berry that covered up stronger, unusual tastes. It felt soft yet prickly on her tongue, and when she sipped it, she found the sensation strikingly pleasurable. Before she knew it, her glass was empty, and Hale was motioning for another…

And another after that. It seemed the drink was focusing her thoughts, heightening her awareness, and she found herself laughing very loud at something-she couldn’t say what it was. The lights were suddenly very bright then seemed to fade almost to black. They flared up again with a sudden, wavering brilliance that she found absolutely hilarious. She wondered at the fact that no one else seemed to take notice of the distortion, but she didn’t wonder very much as the music started up again.

A fiddle player had joined the man with the exotic flute, and they picked up the tempo into a lively jig. Suddenly Selinda was up and dancing, and everyone was clapping in time to the music, cheering her on, and it was simply the most wonderful, exhilarating experience in all of her life. Laughing, she encouraged the musicians to play an extra song, and was terribly disappointed when, a long time later, they pleaded the need for rest.

She felt a little unsteady on her feet as she made her way back to the table, where the proprietor still sat, beaming happily at her. He was such a nice man!

“Perhaps the mistress would come with me now?” said Hale.

A glimmer of alarm tried to find its way through her fuzzy brain. But all she could think of were Hale’s eyes, so dark and mysterious and utterly, completely compelling. “Very well,” she said, realizing that she had to speak very slowly to make herself understood. “But where are we going?”

“This way,” he whispered, pointing to a dark hallway at the back of the inn.

“Why?” she tried to ask. It seemed like a very long way away, but she was terribly curious. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, surprised at how strong his hand was as he helped her up.

“Don’t worry, and don’t wonder,” he said softly. “I promise you that it will be a magnificent surprise.”

“The knights have an army in front of the city of Cleft Spires, and another army marches this way, across the plains,” reported Rib Chewer. “Many horses in the north. With knights. And long spears.”

Ankhar nodded. He was not surprised by any of the reports, and he knew better than to ask the rather stupid goblin for precise calculations. The City of Cleft Spires, he knew, was Solanthus, thusly called because of the twin blocks of stone that loomed high above the center of the place. He knew the city was cherished by the knights and that they would move to protect it from any threat.

But he had already made a different plan, and the scout’s reports only reinforced the course of action he had chosen. Solanthus lay over the horizon, only about twenty miles away, west and a little north of his position. The Garnet range loomed directly to the west, with the tops of the peaks concealed behind a mass of dark clouds that promised heavy rains, possibly even snows, in the high country. Ankhar smiled at the thought.

He gathered his captains, as well as his stepmother, for a conference. The ogres were restive and grumpy, having marched farther and faster in the past fortnight than at any previous time in their lives. Still, they looked at him respectfully, and Ankhar took heart from the fact that they were still prepared to follow him.

“Up there!” he said, pointing into the mountains. “Knights are all before us, on plain, in city, north of city. But they are not up there.”

“We find treasure and booty in the mountains?” asked Bullhorn skeptically. “Or just cold and snow and hard rocks for beds?”

“We will not stay in the mountains,” Ankhar said. “We just go through them, and come out the other side. The knights look for us over here-and we are over there!”

He gestured in triumph to the lofty ridge, hoping that his plan was sinking in.

“Over there!” cried Laka, cackling shrilly. “Across the mountains-there we find treasures, and slaves, and war.”

For a moment the ogres looked skeptical. Finally, General Bloodgutter roared out a challenge. “We march! Who is afraid of the mountains?”

Bullhorn raised his face toward the heights, and bellowed his own challenge. “Mountains will not stop me! Go over mountains! Make war!”

“Over mountains! Make war!” The chant was soon picked up by the rest of Ankhar’s captains. A few moments later, the great horde turned from the flat plains into a valley that, Ankhar knew, would take them all the way to the summit of the range, and still remain north of the vexing mountain dwarf realm of Kayolin.

On the other side of the crest, he knew of a wide river valley that would lead them down to the plains. No one lived in that valley; he knew because he had marched through there only a few years before. No one was there to stop his plan.