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  “If we get out of this,” he muttered, “I’m having a talk with that lass. This is more than humiliating.” He turned to Snails. “Will you please keep in step? We’re closer than unborn twins, whether we like it or—”

  “Huuup!”

  All the breath left Ridley’s chest as a short, stocky figure struck him just below his waist.

  Ridley and Snails bounced off a grimy wall but managed to keep their feet.

  “Where in the demon’s unholy breath do you think you’re going?” the small man demanded. “I ought to slit your throat for that!”

  Ridley rubbed his belly and stared at the absurdly short, unseemly figure with a flaring red beard who blocked his way. He wore a ridiculous, ornate horned helmet made of skulls, broken teeth, and bits of precious metal.

  “Look, whoever you are—”

  “Ridley!” Snails shrieked.

  A masked, Crimson Brigade trooper appeared around the alley corner, came to a halt, stared at Ridley and Snails, then leaped at the smaller of the three.

  Before Ridley could blink, the little man swung a battle axe as long as himself and nearly cut the guard in half.

  “You,” the woman shouted, “look to your back!”

  Her warning nearly came too late. Damodar stepped over his dead warrior and loosed a crackling bolt of raw energy at the short man’s head.

  The small warrior ignored him, waving the spell aside.

  “Are you blind, you oversized oaf? I’m a dwarf. Your childish magic doesn’t work on me!”

  “So be it,” Damodar said. “Iron kills just as well.”

  The dwarf moved faster than Ridley would have dreamed such a being could. In a blur, he dropped to the ground and side-kicked Damodar just below the knees.

  Damodar yelled in fury and went down hard. The dwarf gathered up his axe and smashed the blunt end into the side of his foe’s head. Damodar looked surprised, bewildered that such a thing could happen to him. His helmet saved him, but he staggered back, stunned by the blow.

  “Where’d he come from?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ridley shouted, “but get this spell off so I can help!”

  For a moment, Marina seemed reluctant. Ridley wasn’t sure she wouldn’t simply leave him and Snails bound together forever, but as the woman rubbed her bracelet, he felt the tension let go. The rope simply vanished.

  Ridley moved away from Snails, and Snails backed off from him. Friends were one thing, but inseparable twins were something else.

  Just then, two more guards appeared, pausing for an instant to stare at their downed leader and dead comrade before they came at the dwarf.

  It was only the small part of a moment, but time enough.

  Ridley, rushing in, downed one of the soldiers with a thrust to the throat. Snails took the other on the end of his blade.

  “There’s no one coming,” said the dwarf, peering around a corner of the alley, “but this feisty fellow will come to his senses soon.”

  “I should run the devil through,” Ridley said. “Make a lot of people in Oldtown happy, and I’d guess a few up here as well.”

  “But you won’t,” the woman said. “He’s unarmed and out of his senses. That’s not a proper thing to do to any man. I’ll admit it’s a temptation. If I wasn’t a moral person, I’d kill him myself.”

  Ridley gave her a curious look. “That isn’t a man. That’s a walking hunk of slime, and I wish I didn’t have the fine set of morals that /have.”

  “I don’t have any,” the dwarf said. “I’m free of such silly human traits. You want me to take him off your hands? No problem, friend.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Ridley said. “Look, just leave him. Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of Sumdall and tired of smelly alleys as well.”

  He noted, then, that the alley wasn’t truly an alley anymore. In only a few steps forward, the narrow way began to arch overhead, and the cobbled street very clearly slanted downhill. If anything, the way ahead more closely resembled a sewer than anything else.

  “You folks want to stand around and talk,” the dwarf said, wiping the blade of his great axe against his trousers, “that’s your concern. Me, I figure more of them uglies’ll turn up lookin’ for the rest.”

  “Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated,” the woman said as the four of them entered the dank and dripping entrance to the sewer. “You appear to know your way around here.”

  The dwarf scowled. “I’ll overlook that, seein’ as how you’re likely under a strain.”

  The woman sighed and turned to the dwarf. “Please forgive me. I’m most grateful for your help. Don’t think I’m not.”

  “Yeah, well never let it be said I haven’t got manners myself. Glad to be of service, lady.” The dwarf swept the grand helmet from his head, revealing a bald and shining dome. “Elwood Gut-worthy, of the Oakenshield Clan. And you?”

  “Marina of Pretensa, daughter of the Ninth Level mage, Farnoff, and Nalrid of the House of Staverid, founder of the—”

  “Fine, whatever,” Ridley growled. “It’s been fun, miss, but Snails and I haven’t had supper yet, and I’m dipped and bedamned if I care to search for suitable inn down here.”

  Marina didn’t answer. For the moment, she was clearly lost in thought. It was nearly dark in the fetid passageway, but Ridley was almost sure he saw a tear course down her cheek. One hand absently touched the sleeve of her gown, and, in a dim splinter of light, Ridley saw the tightly rolled parchment in her grasp.

  “That thing means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” he said. “That old man back there, he was willing to die for it, and I think you are, too. You mind telling me what it is?”

  Marina seemed to return from wherever her mind had taken her for the moment.

  “Everything,” she said softly, looking at him in the dark. “I think it means everything there is.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  The room was cold, for no fire had burned in the night. A lamp had been lit, but for the Empress Savina, this weak intrusion only added to the sorrow, to the gray morning light.

  Nothing could erase the presence of death. Once that pale and chilling wraith, that harvester of souls, left his mark, it would linger there forever, and all who passed that way would say, “Someone left the roses in the room too long. They should have taken them away….”

  Poor, sweet Vildan. First they take my father, and now they have come for you. If this is the beginning, then I pray I’ll not live to see the end….

  “He was loved by all, my lady. He will be sorely missed.”

  Savina, as she knelt before the cold corpse of her friend, turned and faced the hooded mage who stood above.

  “How do you say he was loved by all, Azmath, when they did this to him? And how ‘sorely missed,’ when the one who killed him will not miss him at all?”

  Azmath stroked his beard and pretended to stifle a cough.

  “I’m sure you know, Empress, that I was speaking for all who did love him well. And of those there are many.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The Empress came to her feet. Azmath bent to help her, but she swept his hand away.

  Several more mages and soldiers of the Crimson Brigade stood by the door far from the Empress and the silent figure on the floor. Savina had covered Vildan with her own cloak, and now dark stains appeared on ermine and royal blue.

  “See that he is interred in the royal vaults, Azmath. Next to where my father lies.”

  “We share your grief, Majesty, but he was not of royal blood. Such a decision may send the wrong mess—”

  “Mage… !” Savina turned on him so swiftly that Azmath took a step back. “He was family. You will do as I command.”

  “Yes, Empress.”

  “And find that girl who was with him. Bring her here at once.”

  “The Crimson Brigade is searching the city as we speak, Lady.”

  “I’m certain they are.” Savina glanced at the hideous figures in sha
dow and quickly looked away. “Leave at once. All of you.”

  Azmath bowed and took his leave. His brother mages followed him from the room. The soldiers of the Crimson Brigade turned and closed the heavy wooden door.

  For a moment, Savina was alone once more, then someone stepped through a curtain at the far end of the room.

  “This one, this Marina, she is not a girl who would kill her master, Lady.”

  The gentle voice brought the beginning of a smile to Savina’s face. She walked across the room to take the visitor’s hand.

  “Indeed she is not, Norda, but she was with Vildan when this happened. I am certain. She seldom left his side.”

  “I see. That tells me she is likely in some danger herself.”

  “Or past it,” Savina added, gripping the woman’s strong hands.

  Her hands, Savina thought, were as kind and gentle as the woman herself. She was slight of figure but held herself with the confidence and grace of a trained athlete, a person who ever strives for mental and physical perfection. She wore blue silver armor over soft brown leather and a rose-colored vest. A sword hung about her slim waist, and a silver helmet was drawn down about her face.

  “Azmath is not pleased with me,” Savina said. “He did not expect an Empress with a will.”

  Norda smiled. “Few men like a princess who does not play with toys. You will have to be strong, Savina. And cautious.”

  The Empress led Norda out of the room where Vildan lay and into a small study off the large expanse of the Draco logy Library. It was a comfortable place and almost excessively neat.

  Savina sat and motioned Norda to a chair as well.

  “Vildan spoke with you, I know.”

  “Yes, he did. I know what it is you seek.”

  From a fold in her robe, she drew a small scroll. Sketched on its surface was a well-conceived sketch of Marina. Norda read the look of concern in Savina’s eyes and took her hand again.

  “I know how to do this, Savina. I have been your family’s tracker since your father was a child. Our kind do not age the same as yours. I’m sure you know that. I will find the woman, and I will find what I hope and pray she carries, as well.”

  Savina felt a chill at the mere mention of the scroll that had caused the old man’s death.

  “The survival of the Empire, perhaps the world, lies in that single parchment, Norda. By all the gods, it cannot fall into Profion’s hands. If it should, if we should fail…”

  “But we will not. Do not imagine that we will.”

  A moment later, Savina looked up to answer, but Norda was gone, and the Empress was alone in Marinas empty room.

  CHAPTER

  13

  In the darkness of the Chapel of Bones, the foul stench of fear was stronger than the smell of rotting flesh, sharper than the copper taste of blood, more fetid and intense than the scent of death itself. Here were Azmath and the cunning Damodar, in company with a low and merciless band of villains from the Crimson Brigade, cruel and heartless fellows who would, for their masters favor, do any deed he might wish, be it mayhem, murder, vile desecration, or crimes so terrible none dared speak of them.

  Now, though, no man in this place was either confident or bold of demeanor, for even the most wicked among them quailed before the wrath of Profion.

  “I vow I will bring you the scroll, Lord,” Damodar said, his eyes to the ground. “It is only a question of time before you will hold it in your hands.”

  “Time, Damodar? What sort of time are we speaking of here?”

  “Scarcely any time, sire. Truly. You need have no worry, no concern at all.”

  “No? You dare to tell me to have no concern?”

  The strength of Profion’s rage clutched at Damodar’s chest and nearly stopped his heart. Even Azmath, who had great powers of his own, staggered and caught his breath. Among the crew of killers Damodar had brought along, all cried out and went to their knees. Many of them retched, and several of the weaker spat blood.

  “You let that girl take the scroll from you, and now the Empress has put an elven tracker on its trail? And I am not to be concerned?”

  “Lord—”

  “You sent this band of idiots to search for the most precious scrap of parchment in the universe? Tell me again, Damodar, is this not what you did? Did you come within reach of the prize only to let yourself be bested by a dwarf?”

  “It will not happen again, Lord.”

  “No, it will not! And you shall now understand why.”

  Profion’s eyes turned silver. His face drained of blood. He spread his hands wide and spoke words so ancient they had scarce been heard in ten times ten thousand years.

  Even Azmath clamped his hands against his ears.

  Damodar staggered under the full brunt of Profion’s will. He fought against the horror, conjured every shield, every spell his desperation brought to mind, then at once, he felt the cold presence of the thing that had found him. He felt its evil, felt its joy, felt it gnawing through his skull, felt its hunger and its need…

  Damodar went to his knees, screaming. His body jerked in spasms, ripped, tore, wrenched in mortal pain.

  Azmath turned away, sickened by the sight. Damodar’s head began to swell, ripple, and heave in awful convolutions, as if some savage creature were trapped in there, fighting to break free. His eyes bulged, and his features stretched in grotesque imitation of the highborn, arrogant being that had ruled there moments before.

  Then, as if the worst were surely done, something dark and wet poked its snout from Damodar’s nose. Something pale as death slid from his ears. Damodar shrieked in terror as the mindless, ropy things snaked out of his head, hissed, coiled in anger, then struck at one another, struck at his mouth, struck at his eyes…

  “I am sending a companion along to remind you not to fail me again,” Profion said. “A gentle reminder not to make anymore mistakes, my friend. I suggest you take a lesson from your foes and follow the Empress’ tracker. She appears to be somewhat more proficient in her work than you. She will lead you to our missing friends and the scroll. And this time, Damodar, do not fail me.”

  Profion paused, watching as Damodar writhed in hellish pain. He found great pleasure in the sight, for he saw a fine irony in what this man had become. Damodar, who masked his evil with the handsome features of a fine aristocrat, now faced the world as the monster he truly was.

  “The beast is in us all,” Profion whispered, “and it takes little magic to bring the creature out.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  The Rusty Sword was the second oldest tavern in the Empire of Izmer. The first, the Gutted Bear, had been burned to the ground by its patrons some four hundred years before.

  Graphiot, a former soldier and a man more cunning and cruel than the worst of the brutes who dared to guzzle ale in his place, had not made the same mistake as the hapless owner of the long forgotten Gutted Bear. Graphiot’s tavern was built in a circle of many tiers, much like a stadium. Crowded in this loud and odorous inn was a drunken horde of elves, halflings, dwarves, humans and orcs, each in the tier set aside for their particular race.

  In theory, though murder and assault were commonplace, a creature could only slip a blade into the belly of his very own kind. Not a perfect plan, but no tavern-keeper wanted a repeat of the Gutted Bear again.

  Coming here had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “Stave off hunger,” Ridley had said, “get some ale to drink…”

  Wearing the dark, hooded roles of the mage class, they could hide in plain sight in the dark, huddle at the edge of the crowd. Who would look for them in a place like the Rusty Sword?

  Marina had pointed out that Elwood was a little too short to mix with humankind, but no one, sober, sodden or in between, really wanted to share a table with mages. You never could tell what they’d do. First class mages or rank amateurs, they could all cast spells.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Marina said. “Honestly, I never
even imagined there were dumps like this.”

  “Hey, take it easy,” Snails said. “We come here all the time.”

  “My, what a surprise.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Ridley said. “It’s a lot safer than walking around on the street.”

  “The eatin’s better too,” Elwood said around a mouthful of food. He paused to tear another roast bird in half and stuff it his mouth, bones and all.

  Marina made a face. “That’s the most disgusting sight I’ve ever seen. My mother always warned me: Don’t smile at an orc; don’t watch a dwarf eat.”

  “Smart mother,” Elwood said, waving a drumstick larger than his head. “That’s true as it can be about orcs. You don’t want to have nothin’ to do with their kind.” He paused, swallowed, and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “So, as I understand it, if we find this, uh, rod thing, the Empress pins a medal on us an’ gives a lot of gold.”

  “This is not about gold,” Marina said coolly. “This is about saving the Empire.”

  “Big deal,” Ridley said. “We do all the sweating, and what does the Empire do for us while all of the royals and the mages get rich?”

  “And the thieves. Don’t forget the dedicated, hard-working thieves.”

  “At least we’ve got respect,” Ridley told her. “Honor among thieves, I guess you heard of that. Not like a bunch of back-stabbing mages that don’t give a blink for anyone but themselves.”

  Marina turned on him and glared. “That’s just the sort of half-baked, illiterate drivel that proves commoners really are… common.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ridley drew a thick roll of parchment from his belt and slapped it on the table. “So who you thinks nailing this up all over the place?”

  Marina’s face turned crimson red. She grabbed the paper and jerked it out of sight. It seemed like a nightmare, a terrible dream that had happened to someone else. She didn’t have to read it, she knew it by heart: