Part 4 (2/2)
”He killed himself,” a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. ”When I came to relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that was big, about Forester's size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent.”
The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story. ”He said this man came down the back stair-way and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym.” The redheaded guard paused for a second, then started rocking again. ”When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own throat, right where the mark was! That's just how it happened. I swear!”
The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than the rest.
”I saw it!” a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. ”I saw it all!”
Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.
”Cover him,” Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon's-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close behind.
”What did you see?” Mourngrym said.
”Not so fast!” the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. ”What's in it for me?”
Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner's hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted iron bars. Mourngrym's sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man's wrist.
”You get to keep your hand,” Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner's other hand before he could gouge Mourngrym's face. ”Speak quickly, or I'll take you apart, starting with this hand!”
The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous night.
”Cyric,” Kelemvor said, hanging his head. ”It must have been Cyric!”
There was a hoa.r.s.e shout from the top of the stairs. ”More bodies up here! Forester is dead!”
”Come with me,” Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he expected trouble at any second. The guard's pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym's coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the bottom of the red curtain. Forester's body had been left in the s.p.a.ce directly behind Mourngrym's throne.
”Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain,” the bald guard mumbled softly.
The dalelord shook with anger. ”Search the tower.” Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. ”I want to know who else is... missing.”
Within the hour, Cyric's movements had been mapped out, and the missing boat was discovered. Mourngrym was suspicious of the guardsman at the bridge. The bodies of Segert and Marcreg had been discovered near his post. The guard was led away to the dungeon for interrogation.
”Does this look like the work of your friend?” Mourngrym said as he crouched over Segert's body. He exposed the wound on the corpse's neck for emphasis.
”He was not a friend,” Kelemvor said as he surveyed the corpse's wounds. ”And, yes, it looks like Cyric's work.”
There were shouts from the kitchen, and Kelemvor accompanied the dalelord back into the tower, to the kitchen. They found the cook pointing at the stairs that led to the storage room. The body of the young guard-in-training had been placed on a hook and dangled beside a number of butchered slabs of meat. Smears of chocolate and cherry still covered the lad's ashen face.
”Come with me,” Mourngrym said, but Kelemvor remained standing at the door, staring at the young man's corpse. The dalelord gently put his hand on the fighter's shoulder and turned him away from the body. ”We need to talk,” Mourngrym said softly as he led Kelemvor to his private audience chamber.
The two men climbed a set of stairs. At the first landing, the dalelord unlocked a large oaken door and ushered Kelemvor into the room. Mourngrym's audience chamber was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of dark wooden furniture scattered about the room and brightly colored tapestries on the walls. A single, small opening admitted the weak morning sunlight from outside the tower.
The dalelord collapsed into a chair and started to wring his hands. ”I need someone to find them, Kelemvor. Someone who is loyal to the causes of the Dales - freedom, justice, honor - and someone who knows how to find the butchers who did this to my men.” Mourngrym stopped speaking, but he continued to wring his hands.
Kelemvor was too distraught to answer. Midnight , Cyric, and Adon had played him for a fool all along. That was the only thing that could explain their leaving the dale without him. Perhaps they were murderers after all.
”Your service in the cause of the Dales was exemplary,” Mourngrym said after a moment. ”You are a good man, Kel. I believe you have been deceived.” The dalelord stopped wringing his hands and stood up.
”Aye,” Kelemvor said as he ran his hands through his hair. The fighter sat down in a large, high-backed chair across from the dalelord. ”That may be so.”
”You spent time with them,” Mourngrym said as he moved to the fighter's side. ”You know how they think. You may have some idea where they've gone.”
”I may,” Kelemvor mumbled.
Mourngrym paused for a moment, then put his hand on Kelemvor's shoulder. ”I want you to track down the criminals and return them to Shadowdale. I will give you a dozen men, including a guide who knows the forest.”
”The forest? But they left by boat,” Kelemvor said, confusion showing on his face.
”They have a considerable head start. The only way to overcome their lead is by land,” Mourngrym said with a sigh. ”Will you do it?”
Kelemvor roughly brushed the dalelord's hand from his shoulder and stood up. But before the fighter could speak, the door to the chamber suddenly burst open and Lhaeo stumbled into the room. ”Lord Mourngrym, your forgiveness!” the scribe said and fell to his knees before the ruler of the dale. ”I did not know! I believed in their innocence! But they have spilled innocent blood and soaked my hands in it!”
”Slow down,” Mourngrym said as he reached down and grabbed Lhaeo's shoulders. ”Tell us everything.”
Elminster's faithful scribe sighed and looked up into Mourngrym's eyes. ”As I said at the trial, I thought Elminster was alive. I-I went to the tower, thinking to help the magic-user and the cleric escape before they were executed... But Cyric had already done that.” Lhaeo bowed his head again and covered his face with his hands. ”I let them get away - No. I helped them get away. I gave Midnight her spellbook... and some other things.”
Mourngrym frowned and turned to Kelemvor. The fighter stood silently over the scribe, his face devoid of all emotion.
”I should have realized that the guard inside the tower was dead,” Lhaeo snapped, suddenly angry. ”Someone should have seen us and sounded the alarm. I never thought that they...” The scribe shuddered and looked up at Kelemvor. ”I can never forgive myself for what has occurred!”
Mourngrym tried to remain calm, but anger marched across his features like a rampaging army. ”The killings occurred before you arrived, Lhaeo. You must not blame yourself.”
Lhaeo swallowed and bowed his head again. ”You must place me under arrest.”
Mourngrym stepped back from the scribe. ”Consider yourself under house arrest,” Mourngrym said flatly. ”Do not leave Elminster's Tower unless it is to procure food and drink for yourself. That is my final word.”
The scribe lifted himself from the floor, bowed before his liege, and turned to leave. ”One other thing,” Mourngrym snapped before Lhaeo could leave. ”Do you know where the criminals were headed when they left?”
The scribe turned. Kelemvor could see that his face was white, and anger clouded his eyes. ”Yes,” Lhaeo said through partially clenched teeth. ”They are going to Tantras.”
Mourngrym nodded, but Kelemvor held up his hand. ”Wait, Lhaeo. You just said that you thought Elminster was alive. Don't you believe that anymore? Do you think that Midnight and Adon... murdered him?”
Shoulders drawn tight, the scribe stood up straight. His voice was barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. ”After what they did in the tower, I believe they are cold-blooded killers. Worse still, they have fooled good men-like Elminster. Like you, Kelemvor. They must be brought to justice!”
III.
THE NEREID.
In the privacy of his own thoughts, Cyric had murdered Adon well over a hundred times. During the trip down the Ashaba, the thief often imagined himself bas.h.i.+ng the cleric with an oar and watching as the pathetic, weak-willed man allowed the river's current to swallow him up without a fight. But the sudden, unwelcome intrusion of reality would always shatter Cyric's daydreams. Adon would begin to weep, and Midnight would try to comfort him by stroking his hair and whispering into his ear. At those times, Cyric quivered with anger and thought of even bloodier ways to dispose of Adon.
Still, travel down the river was generally quiet and uneventful. Since they rarely spoke, these lulls gave the heroes far too much time to think. At the moment, highsun was approaching and Cyric's stomach growled as he contemplated a fine banquet. The food they had taken from Shadowdale was filling but far from appetizing, and so the thief didn't relish the thought of eating, even though he was hungry.
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