Book VI, Part 13
Hot rain pattered down in fat drops upon the barren landscape, the brush on the plain scorched by a particularly long, hot summer. The thick gray clouds that had just blown in across the Western Heartlands from the Sea of Storms, bringing their typical wet cargo, promised an end to that scorching drought, but for now, the gray above and the brown below formed a bleak picture of desolation.
That was an illusion, Goran knew, as he surveyed the countryside. This region was full of life, and while it wasn’t the Heartlands or the ancient kingdoms around the Sea of Fallen Stars or the Shining South, the west was no longer the chaotic, empty frontier that it once had been. Powerful city-states dotted the map between the ocean to the west and the great inland sea to the east, and the map was still changing, as human and the other civilized races continued to push back against the wilds.
He didn’t see the house until he was almost upon it, and that was by design, he knew. The blocky, stone structure was nestled into a dip in the plains, a bowl-shaped dell with steep sides choked with rocks and weeds.
He was early, and the dell was quiet, empty. That didn’t necessarily mean that he was the first to arrive, of course; most of those coming would have other means of travel than simple riding cross-country. Of course, they had much farther to go. He was acutely aware that this gathering was on his “turf,” and as a result he would be particularly vulnerable here.
It was a quixotic reversal of logic, but true nonetheless.
“Are you sure about this, general?” Handar asked him, as the small party reined in behind him. Only four men, clad in armor and bearing weapons with easy familiarity. They wore no crest or standard, but people familiar with the region might still recognize the subtle clues that identified them. Someone even more familiar with the darker secrets of the west might even see through that outer layer of identity, and recognize the true nature that lay deeper within.
Or perhaps not.
“Wait for me here,” Goran said as he dismounted, not bothering to answer his man’s earlier question. Inwardly Goran felt that the danger in this meeting was minimal, though among his kind there was always the threat of betrayal. Even when such things were illogical, even directly contrary to the betrayer’s own interests—that had been one of the very first lessons that Goran had learned, way back when when he had approached his own rebirth.
He handed the reins of his horse to one of his men, and then descended down into the dell alone. The rain had not been going on long enough for the ground to become sodden, but it was still difficult going down the slope. Goran was used to tough hikes, however, even in full armor, and made it down without mishap.
He crossed to the building, the rain making a hard patter on his armor, as if angry with him. The building looked even more spartan, almost abandoned, as he drew nearer, the stone edges of its form crumbling with age. But it was sound, as sound as the stone of the earth itself.
A narrow, dark doorway beckoned. He entered, sliding the heavy stone door aside. The noise would alert anyone already here, if in fact others had already arrived.
The entry chamber was dark, the only light coming from a pair of windows that were narrower even than arrowslits. The place was barren and nearly empty. To his left a crude wooden railing fenced off a small portion of the floor, while to his right an equally dilapidated table and a pair of chairs were pressed up against the wall.
There was one other exit, another door that led deeper into the structure. Without hesitation Goran crossed to it and opened the portal.
As he did, he felt his armor settle around him, suddenly heavier. It was a familiar feeling, a not-so-subtle reminder that the meeting room itself was warded against all forms of magic. A dead zone, as some of the mages called it. Only this was a deliberate construction, not an accidental creation of the Time of Troubles.
It meant that he would not be able to call upon his magical sword, but if it came to that, he had other options prepared.
The room was indeed occupied, and as he entered he saw that in fact he was among the last to arrive. They looked up as one as he entered.
Let them think that they have won a small tactical advantage, he thought, truly not caring either way.
It was only then that he removed his helmet, revealing features as neutral as those of the heavy steel mask. It took only an instant for his eyes to adjust to the light of the pair of hooded lanterns, their flickering flames relatively bright in contrast to the dark exterior room.
There were three men present, seated around the small stone table in the center of the room. The first, to his left, was a tall, lean figure, looking almost like someone had taken a common-looking fellow and stretched him some. He was clad in expensive robes of finely woven linen, colored gray with a purple band running around the borders of the fabric. He wore rings on each of his hands, and a golden amulet dangled from a chain around his neck. His dusky coloration marked him as not native to the Western Heartlands, but he could have been from any of a dozen southern lands, his features plain enough so that he could blend fairly easily anywhere. He was of indeterminate age, his face smooth and unwrinkled, his hair a shock of pure black that was thinning around the temples, but his eyes were those of an old man.
The second man, seated across from him, was clad in a full hauberk of mail links that covered his entire torso. He was perhaps forty-five, still muscular, the faint hints of a few scars visible on his face. His eyes were deep, penetrating, and they instantly reminded Goran of Malifex, shining with that certain kind of ambition—or madness—that was common to all of the clergy of Cyric.
The final member of the group was perched on the edge of his seat, leaning hard against the table, and for a moment Goran got the mental picture of a vulture, waiting for some carrion scraps to feast upon. He was younger than either of the other two men, but his face was sallow, and he had a hunted look upon him. His tunic had long sleeves and a high collar, but could not fully conceal the edges of several tattoos that marked his flesh in swirling loops.
There were two empty chairs. Goran took one, and glanced toward the other.
“Sememmon will not be joining us,” drawled the man in the white and purple robe, his tone lazy as if he could barely be bothered to speak the words.
Goran raised an eyebrow, but the speaker did not elaborate. Inwardly, though he did not betray the thought, he was greatly relieved at the news. Although Sememmon’s power would have been a great boon to their cause, and his knowledge as important, Goran knew that the mage’s power was greater than the rest of them combined, several times over. Had he been present, Goran suspected that he would have been hard-pressed to even guide the agenda here.
Not that the three men here would be easy to direct, he knew, but he felt comfortable in understanding the strengths—and weaknesses—of each.
“I heard about your ascension, Goran—my congratulations,” said the armored man. His eyes were like cut glass, though, and there was an unspoken challenge there, Do not think to go above yourself, Spur Lord!
“I thank you, Amon Vero,” Goran replied, his own subtext equally clear, that what happened to Malifex could happen again. It was not the best way to open a meeting, but Goran knew it was necessary, just another one of the games that these people played.
The robed man laughed, as if he’d read Goran’s thoughts. “Perhaps we can skip the preliminaries, and get down to business,” he said.
“Indeed, Jeilu, I do not wish to waste your time. We have collaborated in the past, on small matters, but as I have noted in my last communication, it is time to risk greater steps.”
“You are ambitious, I’ll grant you that,” Amon Vero interjected. “Malifex didn’t have a lot of friends, and most of us feel that he had... what happened to him coming. You’ve created a nice little niche for yourself, but do not forget that the Twin Towers of the Eternal Eclipse are the voice of Cyric’s power in the west. You would do well to remember that fact, and what has happened to those who have defied Blackwill Akhmelere in the past.”
“And I will need assurances as well,” the tattooed man added. “You’ll forgive me, but the lackeys of Cyric,” he gestured to Goran and Amon Vero, “and the Cult of the Dragon,” he added with a wave toward Jeilu, “are hardly the most reliable allies.”
“Ha,” the priest of Cyric laughed. “Coming from you, that is high comedy indeed. You, Guthan, are here because you have no friends, in fact, you are an outcast...”
“I have power!” Guthan hissed, and one skeletal hand clawed at the air to punctuate his statement. “If you would like a demonstration, I can provide it for you, deceiver-priest!”
“Gentlemen,” Goran said, cutting through the growing tension as though the word were a blade. Reluctantly they drew back from the brewing confrontation, and turned to face him. This was his one chance, he knew.
“We each bring out disparate backgrounds and interests to this meeting,” he said. “Even though Amon Vero and I share the same allegiance, the two of us stand as apart on many issues as Jeilu and Guthan, for example.” Vero looked like he was going to interject, but Goran silenced him with a look. Even if the room were not an antimagic zone, his status as a Spur Lord gave him a certain edge vis-à-vis the clerics of his patron god, and he took full advantage of that fact right now.
“As Guthan so eloquently noted, we are all what we are, and blind trust between us would be a foolish thing indeed. And yet there is more in common between us than would be evident at first glance. We all seek power, and respect it, and we all equally despite weakness. And yet each of us has faced frustration, and failure, and defeat!”
As one the three of them started to protest, anger burning in their eyes, but he kept right on going, riding over their objections through the force of his personality.
“You, Jeilu, seek ancient secrets, and the power that comes through the teachings of Sammaster. I have seen a dracolich, and admit that it was a sight that I will not soon forget. And yet, how many of your creations have fallen in the past year in the North and the West? Six? Seven? It would seem that lately, the operations of your sect have been irresistible to powerful adventurers, and those certain organizations and individuals of Good that back their activities.”
The priest of the Cult of the Dragon shot him a dark look, but did not respond.
“And my dear colleague Amon Vero, comrade in faith. The twin towers of which you spoke are impressive, and no doubt you could rattle off a list of names from their rosters that are equally impressive. But let us be honest with ourselves—the reason for the success of that outpost is that it is so far from any place of importance, it manages to escape notice itself. I would be surprised if the writ of the tower extends more than a day’s ride from its walls, and I know for a fact that Blackwill, for all his power, does everything he can to keep its presence hidden from the world around. Cyric’s followers hide in the darkness, scheming and plotting, mostly against each other, but accomplishing little in tangible gains.”
Now it was Vero’s turn to smolder.
“And my dear Guthan. I do not question your power, nor do I wish to test it. But you too have had setbacks, have you not? Rejected by your former master, the god Mask; I do not know the exact circumstances of your break, but I do know what it is like to be hunted, and to have a price on your head. It is not pleasant. And while I know little of the demons that you now serve, I cannot imagine that you have a pleasant fate awaiting you upon your entry to the next life.”
“As if any of us has,” the wiry man smirked, but Goran saw that his words had stung.
“And what of you, Goran?” Vero challenged. “What is your addition to this litany of disasters?”
“Why, my own hierarchy suffered a devastating culling of its leadership just recently,” Goran said with a faintly mocking edge. “And I belong to an organization that is barely that, graven together through vague ambitions and frustrated power. We hold a sharp knife that we can only sometimes keep from plunging into our own backs.”
“Let us compare our organizations—for they are similar—with our main rivals. You know of whom I speak, but if I need to spell it out, it is the Black Hand of Bane and the Zhentarim. Where we are chaotic and self-destructive, they are organized and efficient. Where our ambitions lead us to strike out blindly in every direction, they apply force along clearly defined lines, and to clearly evident results. While we hide in the shadows, their forces move in the daylight, respected and feared throughout Faerûn.”
“You would have us create a second Black Network?” Vero said, his own tone dripping mockery. “You are a fool, Goran.”
The others looked equally doubtful, and Jeilu even shifted his chair, as if he was preparing to leave. But Goran was unmoved.
“What is it that the Zhents have that we lack? A stable base of power. An organized foundation upon which all their myriad plans can be constructed. A balance to counter the other Powers of Faerûn that would destroy us, if they could.”
“In short, a state.”
“A state? You mean, a government, towns, a standing army? By the gods, you are ambitious, Goran. Mad, yes, but ambitious indeed.” Vero stood. “I would call this trip a waste of time, but the others in the Towers will get a good laugh, when I tell this story. You pluck at clouds, man. King Goran. That is rich indeed.”
Goran simply regarded them with a calm expression. “I know you are just posturing, all of you, so I will not respond to your comments. If you do not wish to participate, you are of course free to leave. But I am not alone in this, nor are these words the rantings of a wild dreamer. My ambitions, you see, are wedded to the will of another...
And he stood, and as he rose he seemed to swell, to dominate the room by his very presence. He spoke, and as he spoke, the room grew dark, and a fiery nimbus appeared around his head, and within that blaze a black skull shone deep within.
“FOR I AM THE CHOSEN OF CYRIC, AND I SPEAK WITH HIS VOICE!”
The three observers reeled, stunned, their finely practiced masks of self-control shattered.
Goran held them with his stare, focusing on each in turn. Now, they are mine, he thought.
Even as that thought occurred to him, however, he felt a laughter echo within his mind, and a mocking voice that filled him, reflecting his thoughts, filling him with a tremor of fear.
Now, they are mine...
