Paul S. Kemp Sembia 2 - Shadow's Witness

VIP免费
2024-12-22 0 0 388.96KB 157 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
CHAPTER ONE
THE SUMMONING
The month of Hammer, 1371DR, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
The dim light from the guttering torches in the stairwell stopped at the edge of the doorway as though
blocked by a wall of magical darkness. Conscious of Riven beside him and unwilling to show the assassin
the nervousness which had him sweating beneath his robes, Krollir stepped briskly through the doorway
and into the summoning chamber. Riven followed, wary and apprehensive.
When both had stepped through the archway, Krollir turned and closed the door behind them. Instantly,
darkness as thick and impenetrable as scribe's ink cloaked the room. The iron portal's immense latch fell
into place with an ominous, resounding click.
Familiar from long habit, Krollir felt around in the blackness for the wrist-thick iron deadbolt, quickly
found it, and slid it home. The shrieking grate of metal against metal set his teeth on edge. He quelled the
apprehensive quaver that fluttered in his gut. I will succeed, he assured himself. I am the chosen of Mask.
Invisible in the darkness beside him, Riven's breath came harsh and rapid. Blindness apparently made the
assassin nervous. He no doubt suspected an ambush.
Krollir smiled behind the black felt of his ceremonial mask. His lieutenant's nervousness amused him.
Riven's breathing reminded Krollir of the frightened pant of a wary cur.
Despite Riven's earlier protests, Krollir had forbidden the assassin from bringing a torch or candle, even
while descending the dimly lit stairs. Unsanctified light brought into the Shadowlord's summoning chamber
spoiled its holiness. Only certain spells and specially prepared forms of luminescence could safely light
this room. His thoughts turned to the candles he had specially prepared for this night. He had spent
months painstakingly Grafting them and carefully instilling them with power.
Though blind in the darkness, Krollir knew his lieutenant well enough that he could imagine perfectly
Drasek Riven's stance-a ready crouch with his back to the wall-his single eye darting about the darkness
and both callused hands resting familiarly on his enchanted saber hilts.
Spitefully, Krollir let him simmer nervously in the soup of pitch darkness for a few extra moments. Let
him wonder and fear, he thought. He had told Riven nothing; he required the assassin's presence but left
his purpose unexplained. He enjoyed keeping his lieutenant off balance and making him nervous. Like all
dogs born vicious, Riven occasionally had to be reminded of his master's authority.
The summoning chamber of Mask-Krollir's patron deity-fairly stank of power. Behind the stale must, the
magical residue of past conjurations lingered in the dry air and ran tingling along Krollir's nasal passages.
No doubt Riven sensed it too, in his own thick way.
Inhaling deeply, Krollir drank in the sheer energy of the room while letting Riven stew in the dark.
The sinister majesty of the summoning chamber served as a pointed reminder to the one-eyed assassin
that Krollir Venastin-the Righteous Man-was not only the guildmaster of the Night Knives but also a
powerful servant of Mask the Shadowlord. Krollir was a man not to be challenged, even by the most
dangerous of dogs. Riven's nervousness indicated that he still grasped that point. The cur yet remained at
heel.
Krollir allowed himself another satisfied smile that vanished when thoughts of his other lieutenant, Erevis
Cale, entered his mind. Three days ago, he had sent word via messenger to Riven and Cale that they
must attend him tonight. Riven had obeyed; Cale however, had sent the messenger back with word that
he could not attend, that Thamalon Uskevren had an important business meeting that Cale could not miss
without compromising his cover.
Krollir frowned thoughtfully. He fidgeted with a platinum coin in his robe pocket. Was Cale still loyal?
The answer to that question was becoming increasingly unclear. Cale had an obvious fondness for the
Uskevren, the noble family he was spying upon—an unfortunate but understandable fact-but did his
ultimate loyalty still reside with Krollir and the guild?
Unsure of the answer and uncomfortable with the uncertainty, Krollir decided to put a tail on Cale. A
guildsman to spy on the spy.
Though he highly valued Cale's intellect and ruthlessness-the bald giant had served the Night Knives well
for many years with his cutthroat schemes-he nevertheless realized that those same qualities made Gale a
potential loyalty problem-a potential rival for Mask's favor. Far more so than Riven. But would he dare
an open challenge? Certainly Cale feared little-
"How about a blasted light?" Riven's hoarse, disembodied voice interrupted Krollir's chain of thought.
"It's as black as a devil's heart in here. I can't see a godsdamned thing.''
The tension in the assassin's voice dispelled the disquieting thoughts of Cale and returned a smile to
Krollir's face. This cur, at least, remains obedient. Perhaps I should turn him loose on Cale he thought.
That would make for an interesting dogfight.
Riven's breath continued to come fast. Krollir fancied he could hear the assassin's teeth grinding. He
waited a moment longer before replying.
"Be at ease, lieutenant. You stand in the summoning chamber of Mask the Shadowlord, in the presence
of Mask's most prized servant." He smiled and mentally added, In the presence of he who soon will be
Mask's Champion.
Riven replied through gritted teeth, "Grand. But I still need to see."
Krollir chose to ignore the assassin's sarcasm and softly intoned the words to a spell. Upon completion, a
soft, diffuse glow filled the large chamber, enough light to create a patchwork of shadows but not enough
to fully dispel the darkness.
The rough-hewn limestone walls of the chamber glowed softly in the pale light of the spell. Krollir turned
to face Riven. As he had suspected, the assassin stood in a fighting crouch with both saber hilts clenched
in white-knuckled fists.
"In this chamber, this light alone is acceptable to the Shadowlord."
Riven nodded but made ao reply. His one good eye must have adjusted quickly to the darkness, for his
gaze darted warily about the chamber, still suspicious. Krollir observed his hunting dog with professional
detachment. He tried to follow Riven's thinking as the assassin's one-eyed gaze scanned the room.
The summoning chamber had but one means of entry and exit, something a professional like Riven
necessarily disliked-predictable entry; predictable retreat. Thick hinges as long as daggers and bolts as
thick as a man's thumb affixed the door to the limestone. The great slab of blackened, cast iron looked
able to resist a siege engine.
In the center of the chamber, strips of platinum inlaid into the smooth, polished floor formed a triangle.
Flesh-colored candles as thick as a man's forearm stood at each of its three corners. Riven would not
know that the thaumaturgic triangle served to cage the extra-planar creatures that Krollir summoned to
do his bidding.
He watched with a satisfied smirk-hidden by the felt cloth of his mask, of course-as Riven's gaze took in
the binding triangle and summoning candles. The assassin's one good eye widened slightly, his fear of
spellcraft evident in his expression.
I know you too well, lieutenant, Krollir smugly thought.
Riven understood little of spellcraft and its practice made him uneasy. As long as Krollir demonstrated
the power of his magical arts from time to time, the assassin would never present a loyalty problem.
Riven would never even aspire to become Mask's Champion.
A plain, mahogany lectern stood at the apex of the triangle. An open tome sat atop it, thick with
knowledge and yellowed with age-the Shadowtome-a holy book of Mask that allowed Krollir to reach
beyond this reality and summon…
"What are we doing here?" Apparently having recovered himself, Riven now sounded strangely calm,
though he remained near the door and kept his back to the wall.
"All in time, lieutenant," Krollir replied. He turned his back on Riven and walked ceremoniously across
the room. The velvet of his gray robes softly whispered as he strode around the triangle and took position
at the lectern. Gripping the cool, smooth wood on either side of the Shadowtome, he steadied himself for
the ordeal ahead. When he felt ready, he ordered over his shoulder, "Come forward and light the
candles, Riven. But do not disturb their position."
He had expected the assassin to protest-for surely Riven would fear to take a direct hand in a
summoning-but after only a moment's hesitation, Riven walked calmly to the binding triangle, took a
tinderbox from his belt pouch, and struck flint to steel. Krollir watched him intently; he prided himself on
his ability to read a man from the subtlest of actions.
Surprisingly, the assassin's hands did not shake as he held a flaming cloth to each candle in turn. The
corners of Riven's thin-lipped mouth curled slightly upward. His goatee masked what could have been
either a fearful grimace or a secret smile.
Strange, Krollir thought, but not entirely out of character. He had learned long ago that Riven masked
fear with a show of calm bravado. Inside, the assassin's guts were no doubt roiling like a butter churn.
Careful to disturb neither the candles nor place his hand within the platinum borders of the binding
triangle, Riven soon had all three of the thick wax towers lit. Wisps of stinking black smoke snaked from
the dancing flames and rose toward the invisible vents in the ceiling. The room rapidly filled with the smell
of rancid meat.
"What in the Nine Hells did you use to make these candles?" Riven asked. "They stink like horse dung."
Krollir smiled softly-the materials used to craft the candles had been hard bought. He made no reply to
the question. He inhaled deeply, steeled himself. He had summoned lesser demons many times before,
but what he would attempt now…
Is suitable for Mask's Champion, he reassured himself. "Stand away, Riven," he commanded.
At his authoritative tone, the assassin shot him an irritated glare but nevertheless obediently backed away
from the binding triangle. He padded back to his position near the door, behind and beside the lectern.
"You still haven't explained what we're doing here."
Angered by the incessant questions, Krollir turned from the lectern to face the assassin. He spoke in a
soft voice pregnant with power and heavy with threats. "Do I owe you explanations, lieutenant?" He
emphasized the last word slightly, explicitly referencing Riven's status as a subordinate; a replaceable
subordinate.
The assassin's good eye narrowed, but he swallowed whatever angry retort he might have been
considering. His gaze went to the binding triangle and the unusual candles.
See in them my power, lieutenant, Krollir silently advised, and consider well your next words. If
necessary, he would kill Riven where he stood.
Riven's gaze returned to meet Krollir's. His mouth remained a defiant rictus in the hairy nest of his goatee,
but his words bespoke submission. "No. You don't owe me an explanation. I was curious, is all."
Krollir smiled behind his mask. Heel, cur. He decided to drive another verbal splinter under Riven's
fingernails. "It is regrettable that Cale is not here," he said, as though in passing. "I would have him share
my moment of triumph." the assassin visibly stiffened at the mention of his rival Erevis Cale-and at the
implicit recognition in Krollir's statement of Cale's superior status in the guild-but he ignored the bait.
Instead, he asked, "Triumph?"
Krollir ignored Riven's question. He enjoyed the assassin's discomfiture at the mention of Cale. He had
long encouraged the rivalry between the two men. He had chosen them as his lieutenants for that very
reason. The hate that they held for one another lessened the threat to him that either alone would present.
The two could never ally to overthrow him- one would always betray the other. When the time came-and
it was coming soon-Krollir would kill them both. For he alone would serve as the Champion of Mask.
The Champion destined to restore the faith of the Shadowlord to the status it enjoyed before the Time of
Troubles, before the coming of the pretender god Cyric the Dark Sun. All of Krollir's augurs and dreams
had indicated that Mask would choose a Champion soon from among the Night Knives in the city of
Selgaunt. Taking nothing for granted, Krollir had decided to assure his selection with the summoning
tonight.
"Alone you will have the privilege of bearing witness to these events, Riven," he grandly announced.
"With this one act, the Zhentarim will be destroyed and our guild-my guild-will be elevated to
preeminence in Selgaunt. Mask has mandated this course, and I obey."
He waited for an appropriate reply but Riven held his silence. Krollir went on.
"With the power of the Shadowtome, I will reach beyond this reality into the darkest layer of the Abyss
and summon forth a dread. I dare this in the name of Mask! I dare this for the guild I lead! Do you see,
Riven?"
He had expected Riven to protest or recoil upon learning Krollir's intent to summon a demonic dread-
had hoped for it, in fact-but the assassin stood his ground, expressionless.
"I see," he replied noncommittally. Though Riven spoke in a steady voice, he looked coiled as tight as a
dwarf's beard braid.
He is more nervous now than ever, Krollir thought with satisfaction.
He turned from Riven to stand over the lectern and peruse the pages of the Shadowtome. He had
acquired the magical artifact from an ignorant curio dealer in Arabel. The oblivious fool had not been able
to decipher the script and so had not known what he possessed. Krollir had sent Riven to purchase the
tome, eliminate the dealer, and escort the prize back to Selgaunt. In all of the city, perhaps in all of
Faerun, only he and Riven knew of the Shadowtome's existence, and the assassin was too unschooled in
the magical arts to appreciate its significance.
Within its pages of ancient, coded text, the Shadowtome contained the description and proper name of a
mighty dread, the name and nature of its abyssal abode, and the means to summon and properly bind it.
The dread named hi the tome dwelled in Belistor, a layer of the Abyss, a void of nothingness empty of
normal life, but not empty of all life. Dreads resided there, greater and lesser, as did certain powerful
undead. Because the denizens of Belistor existed in such dose proximity to the negative energy of the
plane, they possessed a certain power that Krollir desired to harness-their touch siphoned the souls of
any mortals they contacted, killing them irrevocably. Spells that raised or resurrected the dead could not
bring back those slain by dreads.
Krollir planned to command one of the greatest of the dreads to slay the leaders of the Zhentarim-the
widespread organization of Cyric-loving priests, warriors, and wizards. The Zhents were Krollir's and the
Night Knives' most dangerous rivals. But not after tonight. With their leaders slain, the Night Knives
could destroy the weakened Zhents and rule Selgaunt's underworld.
Mask's first triumph over Cyric is at hand, Krollir thought, and my status as the Shadowlord's Champion
is assured.
He spared a glance over his shoulder to check on Riven. The assassin stood near the door. He met
Krollir's gaze.
Flushed with his soon-to-be success, Krollir smiled indulgently behind his mask. He realized now that
Riven and Cale had never been true rivals for Mask's favor-by the gods, neither of them had ever even
set foot in Mask's shrine. Rather, they had served as whetstones. Whetstones used by Mask to hone
Krollir and better prepare him for his ordained role as Champion. Feeling razor sharp, he decided to
discard them as unnecessary after tonight.
"Witness, Riven," he hissed, alive with the knowledge that Mask had chosen him. Riven smirked but
made no response. Krollir turned back to the Shadowtome and began the summoning. Though the words
of power had been scribed in a now time-corrupted form of Thorass, he nevertheless pronounced them
forcefully. He had rehearsed the phrases in his mind many times before and had dreamed them for a
tenday.
"Ichilai follin vaeve…" His voice resounded in the chamber, magnified fourfold by the limestone. His
hands rapidly traced invisible symbols in the air above the tome. Behind him, Riven's breathing again
grew rapid. It sounded in Krollir's ears as loud as a bellows.
"…Narven Yrsillar ej…" The power in the room began to grow, and as it did the candles flickered.
When the wicks began to die, a feeling of stark terror washed over Krollir, but the flames quickly rallied
and stayed lit. He managed to keep his cadence steady despite the moment of terror. His hands gripped
the lectern so tightly they dug depressions into the wood.
"… Velnen dretilylar Yrsillar…" Increasingly confident, his voice grew in volume as he recited. His fingers
began to leave sparkling trails of silver in the air where he traced arcane symbol after arcane symbol. The
glow from his earlier spell began to dim. Shadows coalesced in the corners and thickened. Inarticulate
hissing sounded from everywhere and nowhere.
"… Belistor om follin ej…"All the hairs on his body rose and stood on end. The air pressed against him
so hard he felt as though he was caught in a vise. Sweat poured from his clammy skin. The hissing grew
louder. The shadows grew deeper, darker. He raised his hands above his head and shouted the final
phrase in a voice gone hoarse.
"… Yrsillar ej wexeral Belistor!"
Lake thousands of dwarven steam engines venting at once, the hissing reached an unbearable crescendo.
The sound of an unliving multitude filled his ears, pawed at his soul. Reality ripped open with the sound of
tearing cloth. An expanding globe of emptiness formed in the air above the binding triangle. Krollir stared
into the bottomless void and knew the beginnings of madness. Mentally gripping his sanity, he watched
transfixed.
Two pinpoints of yellow light took shape somewhere back in the emptiness, feral eyes so full of hate and
malice that their gaze nearly made Krollir vomit. Abruptly, the hissing ceased. All stood quiet but for
KrolhYs and Riven's breathing. The eyes began to draw closer… closer…
The candles suddenly flared and in an instant burned down half the length of their shafts. The melted wax
flowed along the platinum lines of the triangle inset into the floor and congealed like blood, then hardened
like day-old scabs. The emptiness above the triangle writhed, solidified, shaped itself into a towering,
black, demonic form that Krollir sensed as much as saw-a muscular biped with great batlike wings and
powerful, overlong arms that ended in vicious claws. Above, an oval head formed, featureless but for
yellow eyes and a darker line that might have been a mouth. It was a being that somehow seemed to
occupy space and create emptiness all at the same time. The malice in its eyes burned holes into Krollar's
brain. When it spoke, its sinister whisper hissed with such hate that it struck him like a physical blow.
"What creature dares summon Yrsillar, Lord of the Void?"
Despite his exhaustion, Krollirs heart leaped in his chest. To have summoned a demon of such power!
Indeed he must be the chosen of Mask!
Dripping with sweat but smiling triumphantly, he unclenched hie hands from the lectern and closed the
Shadowtome, each motion slow and deliberate. Yrsillar's angry hissing filled his brain but he pushed it
aside. He had succeeded! Succeeded where none before had even dared! Confidence lent strength to his
voice.
"I have summoned you, Yrsillar. I, the servant of Mask called the Righteous Man. Summoned you and
bound you."
At that, Yrsillar hissed. As though to test Krollir's claim, the great dread extended an arm and clawed
gently at the magical barrier that extended upward from the wax-filled lines of the binding triangle like an
invisible pyramid. When Yrsillar tried to reach beyond the borders of that invisible pyramid, green energy
flashed. The demon jerked back as though seared. Growling low but undeterred, Yrsillar examined the
inside of its cage and probed for weakness, testing in turn each side of the triangle.
Krollir knew that a single flaw in the platinum strips or the wax coating would corrupt the binding and free
the demon. He felt a flash of fear despite himself, though he knew he had made no mistake. Each time the
towering demon tried to reach through the air beyond the border established by the wax-coated,
platinum lines, flaring green energy elicited a growl and forced it to recoil. Krollir merely watched,
fascinated and horrified, gleeful that-
Yrsillar suddenly whirled on him, crouched, and tried to leap bodily through the binding. Surprised,
Krollir staggered a step backward in terror, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Green fire engulfed the demon and stopped it in midleap, framing its muscular black form in a penumbra
of crackling energy. Its mighty figure hung suspended in the air over the binding triangle, writhing and
growling as the fire seared its emptiness. Greasy black smoke boiled from its body and filled the room
with the acrid stink of ozone.
Krollir quickly regained his composure and again stepped forward to the lectern. After another moment
of growls and green flames, Yrsillar finally managed to pull his body free from the barrier and back into
the triangle. Streamers of smoke snaked from its torso to mix about the ceiling with the smoke from the
candles. The dread's baleful eyes bored into Krollir, but this time he refused to give ground.
He gestured at the binding triangle and the half-consumed candles burning at each corner. "The candles
bind you, demon. Virgins' blood and the fat from newborn babes went into their wax. I have prepared
well, and you are bound." He paused to let that sink in, then asked, "Do you agree to do my bidding in
exchange for your freedom?"
Yrsillar hissed and crouched low, a predator ready to kill. His yellow eyes narrowed to hate-filled
sparks. Each claw looked like a dagger blade. "I will drink your soul for this, human. I smell your fear
and taste your weakness. You are food, and I will consume you slowly. Your pain will be unending. I will
leave your body a dried husk. You will beg for dea-*
"Do you agree to do my bidding in exchange for your freedom? Or shall I cause you pain?" Meaningfully,
Krollir reopened the Shadowtome. "I can reduce the size of the binding pyramid so that you will not be
able to avoid its touch. The pain will be ceaseless."
Yrsillar screamed, a frustrated howl of rage that shook the limestone. At that moment, Krollir knew that
his plan had come to fruition. Tonight, Zhentarim would die by the score, never to be raised from the
dead by the foul priests of Cyric the Dark Sun.
The demon finished its outburst and spoke slowly, growling the while, the words reluctantly spilling forth.
"So long as I am bound, I agree to do your bidding."
Well enough, Krollir thought, and barely managed not to laugh aloud. He spoke over his shoulder to
Riven, unable to keep the glee out of his voice. "Witness, lieutenant! You see before you the end of our
enemies. The end of the Zhentarim! Witn-"
The shriek of the opening door jerked Krollir around. Riven stood in the open doorway, his squat,
athletic silhouette framed by the torchlight in the stairwell. A cold chill raced up Krollir's spine. Behind
him, Yrsillar began to softly hiss.
"Riven, what are you doing?"
The assassin reached into his cloak, pulled out a small token, and flung it at him. It linked on the stone
floor and skittered to a stop at Krollir's feet. His eyes went wide when he saw a black triangle with a
yellow circle inset and a Z superimposed over the whole-the device of a Zhentarim agent. The realization
crashed over him like a collapsing wall. Riven is a Zhentarim agent! They know! He looked up,
goggle-eyed-
"Riven, no! Don't! You don't know what you're do-"
The assassin had already pulled a dagger from his belt sheath. "Witness this, fool," he snapped, and threw
the dagger.
Krollir felt his next heartbeat as though it were an hour, or an eternity. The dagger toppled slowly through
the air, with every turn the blade's edge glinting orange in the candlelight. It flew through space toward the
binding triangle, toppling end over end. Krollir's heart stopped. His eyes threatened to burst from his
skull. Point, hilt, point, hilt, toppling, toppling.
Yrsillar crouched low in anticipation, flexed his muscular, clawed arms. Yellow eyes narrowed to hungry
slits.
Krollir watched in horror as the dagger's point impaled one of the candles. A few droplets of melted wax
jumped into the air. The candle fell to its side and rolled along the floor. The dancing flame snuffed
instantly, drowned in the remainder of the candle's wax, drowned in virgins' blood and babies' fat.
The great iron door to the summoning chamber slammed shut. Riven was gone and Yrsillar was free.
The demon began to laugh loud and long. The sound, like the opening of a hundred mausoleum doors, hit
Krollir like a fist. A wave of supernatural fear flowed from the broken binding and drove him to his
knees. His eyes welled with tears and snot streamed down his face as he helplessly watched the demon
flow tnrough the open corner of the triangle, laughing. Cold yellow eyes stared out of emptiness and
pulled his breath from his lungs. The demon approached. He closed his eyes and prayed to Mask for a
quick death. I'm not the Champion, I'm not the Champion, I'm not the-
Yrsillar stood before him. Fear blanked his mind. Every hair on his body stood on end. A coldness
embraced him and set his teeth to chattering. He dared not open his eyes. Terror pulled inarticulate
moans from his throat. He felt a disgustingly soft caress on his neck and face, like ice running over his
skin. A scream rose in his throat.
"Food," Yrsillar hissed in his ear, and began again to laugh.
********************
Breathing hard, Riven grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and raced up the stairs three at a time. Though
blocked by an iron door, the terrified screams of the Righteous Man still filled his ears and chased him
like a specter. The hopeless sounds of a helpless animal, those screams. He felt no guilt for the betrayal,
of course-Nine Hells, that's why the Zhentarim had placed him with the Night Knives in the first place.
He actually felt a certain satisfaction for a job well done, but even Riven found it mildly distasteful to leave
the Righteous Man as food for a demon. No way for a man to die, he thought. He would have preferred
to drive a dagger into the old man's back and have done with it.
Abruptly, the screaming ceased. He stopped running, steadied his breathing, and listened for a moment.
Nothing. Satisfied, he ascended the rest of the long staircase at a walk. By the time he reached the door
at the top, he had fully regained his breath. He took a moment to compose himself. Knowing that he had
nothing to fear from the dread, he took his time. When he felt ready, he pushed open the door and
walked into the lower level of the Night Knives' guildhouse.
The long hallway to either side of him stood empty and dim. Torches hung from wall sconces along the
uneven plaster walls and cast shadows that looked uncomfortably similar to the black nothingness of the
dread.
It's long gone already, he assured himself, long gone.
Still, the screams of the Righteous Man echoed in his brain and sent a cold shudder up his spine. Out of
long habit, his hands fell to his saber hilts as he walked.
The lower level of the guildhouse was used mainly for storage, training, and worship. It also doubled as a
final defensive strongpoint in the unlikely event of some kind of frontal assault on the guild. At this hour,
the area stood empty. The main hallway Riven walked served as a spine from which branched all of the
other rooms, hallways, and stairs of the lower level. At the northern end of the hallway, behind a sturdy
door, stood a small storage chamber with a concealed trapdoor that opened onto a secret access route
into the city's old sewer system. At the southern end of the hall is the old man's shrine, he thought with
contempt. He glanced behind him down the hallway to the double doors of the shrine and sneered in
derision.
Over the past three years the Righteous Man had quietly spent guild proceeds to build an elaborate
worship hall dedicated to Mask the Shadowlord. Riven had seen smaller temples dedicated to so-called
"legitimate" gods.
What a waste of coin, he thought. Pissing away valuable time and resources, the Righteous Man had led
the guild in a service every tenth night of every tenday since. Over time, more and more of the Knives
had attended and more and more had come to actively worship Mask. So much so that the worship had
come to dominate the activities of the guild.
Idiots! he sneered. This place was becoming more priesthood than thieves' guild with every passing day.
I did you all a favor tonight. Riven had made a point never to set foot in the shrine. He despised gods,
even Cyric, the patron of many of his fellow Zhentarim. Reliance on the gods made men weak,
overconfident, and willing to rely on miracles rather than their own abilities. He figured that the fate of the
Righteous Man was the ultimate fate of all priests, for priests kept their eyes on a god and not on the
world around them. Riven had spied on the Knives for the Zhentarim for years, all the while holding the
implicit trust of the Righteous Man. The old fool's faith had made him stupid and blind.
Weeks before, when the Righteous Man had told him about the Shadowtome, Riven had sent word of it
to Malix, his Zhentarim superior. Then, upon retrieving the book and returning to Selgaunt, he had not
taken it directly to the Righteous Man. Instead, he had taken it to Malix for study. Based on the book's
contents, Zhentarim mages had easily determined that the old man planned to summon a dread. Riven
was told how to sabotage the delicate binding. At the time, he had thought he would have to create an
excuse to be present for the summoning, or that he would have to break in during the casting of the spell,
but the old fool had actually required him to be present! Witness this, lieutenant! Riven had almost
laughed aloud. The arrogant ass!
Though Riven knew little of magic-he disdained spellcasters almost as much as priests, trusting his steel
over spells any day-even he had seen the potential danger of turning a demon loose from its binding,
possibly turning it loose on Selgaunt. Malix had laid that fear to rest, though. The Zhentarim did not fear
the dread running amok in the eity because, according to the Shadowtome, it could not long endure
existence on this plane. Since negative energy made up so much of a dread's being, existence on this
plane-a plane full of positive energy-caused it immense pain.
Or some such. Riven had ignored most of Malix's explanation. It was enough for him that the dread
would kill the Righteous Man and then leave. He smiled viciously. Kill and then leave. He liked that. He
had done the same countless times himself, was doing so again now. Killing and then leaving.
After he walked out of the guildhouse tonight, his time as a Night Knife was over. The Night Knives were
over. When Riven informed Malix of the Righteous Man's death, the Zhentarim would pounce on the
leaderless guild. Without someone to organize a defense, the Night Knives would be easy prey. The
Zhentarim would hunt them down, recruit those who would turn, and kill the rest.
The rest will be a lot, Riven figured, with a backward look at the shrine. Too many of the Knives had
become religious fanatics. Far too many. They would not be open to recruitment. Zealots didn't change
sides, they were martyred.
This guild is already a cooling corpse, he thought. Other than he and Cale, everyone else in the guild had
the mind of a lackey, which was why they had been led to religion in the first place. None of them could
lead the guild in a fight against the Zhentarim. They all would be easy fodder. Of course, Riven was
prepared to acknowledge-reluctantly-that Cale could lead them, were he so inclined. But he was not so
inclined. In fact, Riven suspected that Cale wanted out of the guild, not leadership of it. The leaderless
Night Knives would soon be no more, another casualty in Selgaunt's ongoing gang wars.
Still, for the next few days Riven would have to lay low and watch his back. At least until after the
Zhentarim hit the guildhouse. If anyone with a grudge survived the coming purge, they might notice his
absence, put the puzzle together, and come looking for him. He wasn't afraid for his safety, but he didn't
want the bother of fanatics trying to hunt him down.
He smiled, appreciating the irony. The rabid fanaticism of the Knives had been the very reason the
Zhentarim had decided to move against them so forcefully in the first place. While Selgaunt's underworld
was a viper's pit of competing organizations, none of them had been fanatical prior to the radicalization of
the Night Knives. Thieves' guilds acted predictably; religious movements did not. Selgaunt's underworld
could not long tolerate an unpredictable actor-unpredictability drew the attention of the city's otherwise
disinterested authorities. The Zhentarim could not allow that.
One more reason to spurn religion, Riven supposed with a contemptuous sneer. Where was your god
tonight, old man? Holed up in the shrine, maybe? He chuckled aloud. Riven restricted his worship to only
three things-sharp steel, cold coin, and warm women, in that order. Anything else was weakness.
Still chuckling, he turned his back to the shrine and strode down the hallway until he reached the oak
door that opened into the storage room. Low voices from within carried through the wood. He spared
one last glance over his shoulder-his last sight of this den of idiots-wiped the satisfied grin off his face, and
pushed the door open.
Two men, Fek and Norwyl, decent thugs, not so decent sentries-hastily stood from their game of dice.
Two small piles of silver lay at their feet, and a pair of ivory knucklebones rested on the floor between
them. Asp eyes, Riven saw, and smiled coldly. Crates lined the walls. For light, Fek and Norwyl had
stuffed a tallow candle into the tap of an empty keg. A filthy rug covered the floor.
"Riven," Fek said in nervous surprise. The taller of the two, Fek wore a short sword at his belt and
looked as though he hadn't shaved his spotty beard in days. A wooden disc painted black and ringed
with red at the edge hung from a leather thong around his neck-the makeshift symbol of Mask that many
of the guild's members had taken to wearing. Riven managed not to strangle him with it. Barely.
"Fek," Riven replied with a nod. "Norwyl."
Norwyl too wore the black disc about his neck. A nervous little man even shorter than Riven. Norwyl
gestured at the knucklebones on the floor.
"Join us?" he asked halfheartedly. "Fek could use a change in his luck."
"Piss off," Fek said.
"No," Riven briskly replied and pushed past them. He thought about killing them both, a sort of
going-away present for the guild, but decided against it. They'd be dead soon enough. "I'm leaving for-a
few days," he announced. "Business for the Man."
摘要：

 CHAPTERONETHESUMMONINGThemonthofHammer,1371DR,theYearoftheUnstrungHarp Thedimlightfromthegutteringtorchesinthestairwellstoppedattheedgeofthedoorwayasthoughblockedbyawallofmagicaldarkness.ConsciousofRivenbesidehimandunwillingtoshowtheassassinthenervousnesswhichhadhimsweatingbeneathhisrobes,Krollirst...

展开>> 收起<<
Paul S. Kemp Sembia 2 - Shadow's Witness.pdf

共157页,预览32页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：157 页 大小：388.96KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 157
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注