R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 4 - The Fallen Fortress

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To Nancy, for showing true courage.

THE FALLEN FORTRESS

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

this book is protected under the copyright laws of the United Steles of

America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of die material or artwork

contained herein is prohibited without me express written permission of TSR,

inc.

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the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to die book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors. Cover art by

Jeff Easley.

FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is

a trademark owned by TSR, Inc. All TSR characters and the distinctive

likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR Inc.

First Printing: June 1993.

Printed in the United Sates of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 92-61090

987654321

ISBN: 1-560764193

TSR Inc.

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i iNCi) = 30 Miles

Castle CKiNfty

Aballister walked along Lakeview Street in Car-radoon, the wizard's black

cloak wrapped tight against his skin-and-bones body to ward off the wintry

blows whipping in from Impresk Lake. He had been in Carradoon less than a day,

but had already learned of the wild events at the Dragon's Codpiece. Cadderly,

his estranged son and neme-sis, had apparently escaped the assassin band

Aballister had sent to kill him.

Aballister chuckled at the thought a wheezing sound from lips withered by

decades of uttering frantic enchantments, channeling so many tingling energies

into destructive purposes. Cadderly had escaped? Aballister mused, as though

the thought was preposterous. Cadderly had done more than escape. With his

friends, the young priest had obliterated the Night Mask contingent, more than

twenty professional killers, and had also slain Bogo Rath, Aballister's second

underling in the strict hierarchy of Castle Trinity.

2 R. A. Satvatore

All the common folk of Carradoon were talking about the exploits of the young

priest from the Edificant Library. They were beginning to whisper that

Cadderly might be their hope in these dark times.

Cadderly had become more than a minor problem for Aballister.

The wizard took no fatherly pride in his son's exploits. Aballister had

designs on the region, intentions to conquer it given to him by the avatar of

the evil goddess Talona. Just the previous spring, those intentions appeared

easy to fulfill, with Castle Trinity's force swelling to over eight thousand

warriors, wizards and Talonan priests included. But then Cadderly had

unexpectedly stopped Barjin, the mighty priest who had gone after the heart of

the region's goodly strength, the Edificant Library. The following season,

Cadderly had led the elves of Shilmista Forest in the west to a stunning

victory over the goblinoid and giantkin forces, chasing a sizable number of

Castle Trinity's minions back to their mountain holes.

Even the Night Masks, possibly the most dreaded assassin band in the central

Realms, had not been able to stop Cadderly. Now winter was fast approaching,

the first snows had already descended over the region, and Castle Trinity's

invasion of Carradoon would have to wait

The afternoon light had grown dim when Aballister turned south on the

Boulevard of the Bridge, passing through the low wooden buildings of the

lakeside town. He crossed through the open gates of the city's cemetery and

cast a simple spell to locate the unremarkable grave of Bogo Rath. He waited

for the night to fully engulf the land, drew a few runes of protection in the

snow and mud around the grave, and pulled his cloak up tighter against the

deathly cold.

When the lights of the city went down and the streets grew quiet, the wizard

began his incantation, his summons to the netherworld. It went on for several

minutes, with Aballister attuning his mind to the shadowy region between

The Fallen Fortress 3

the planes, attempting to meet the summoned spirit halfway. He ended the spell

with a simple call: "Bogo Rath."

The wind seemed to focus around the withered wizard, collecting the nighttime

mists in a swirling pattern, enshrouding the ground above the grave.

The mists parted suddenly, and the apparition stood before Aballister. Though

less than corporeal, it appeared quite like Aballister remembered the young

Bogo—straight and stringy hair flipped to one side, eyes darting

inquisitively, suspiciously, one way and the other. There was one difference,

though, something that made even hardy Aballister wince. A garish wound split

the middle of Bogo's chest Even in the near darkness, Aballister could see

past the apparition's ribs and lungs to its spectral backbone.

"An axe," Bogo's mournful, drifting voice explained. He placed a less-than-

tangible hand into the wound and flashed a gruesome smile. "Would you like to

feel?"

Aballister had dealt with conjured spirits a hundred times and knew that he

could not feel the wound even if he wanted to, knew that this was simply an

apparition, the last physical image of Bogo's torn body. The spirit could not

harm the wizard, could not even touch the wizard, and by the binding power of

Aballister's magical summons, it would answer truthfully a certain number of

Aballister's questions. Still, Aballister unconsciously winced again and took

a cautious step backward, revolted by the thought of putting his hand in that

wound.

"Cadderly and his friends killed you," Aballister began.

"Yes," Bogo answered, though Aballister's words had been a statement, not a

question. The wizard silently berated himself for being so foolish. He would

only be allowed a certain number of inquiries before the dweomer dissipated

and the spirit was released. He reminded himself that he must take care to

word his statements so that they could not be interpreted as questions.

"I know that Cadderly and his friends killed you, and I know that they

eliminated the assassin band," he declared.

4 R. A. Salvatore

The apparition seemed to smile, and Aballister was not certain whether the

clever thing was baiting him to waste another question or not The wizard

wanted to go on with the intended leading conversation, but he couldn't resist

that bait

"Are all..." he began slowly, trying to find the quickest way to discern the

fate of the entire assassin band. Aballister wisely paused, deciding to be as

specific as possible and end this part of the discussion efficiently. "Which

of the assassins still live?"

"Only one," Bogo answered obediently. "A traitorous fir-bolg named Vander."

Again, the inescapable bait "Traitorous?" Aballister repeated. "Has this

Vander joined with our enemies?"

"Yes—and yes."

Damn, Aballister mused. Complications. Always there seemed to be complications

where his troublesome son was concerned.

"Have they gone for the library?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Will they come for Castle Trinity?"

The spirit, beginning to fade away, did not answer, and Aballister realized

that he had erred, for he had asked the apparition a question which required

supposition, a question which could not, at that time, be positively answered.

"You are not dismissed!" the wizard cried, trying desperately to hold onto the

less than corporeal thing. He reached out with hands that slipped right

through Bogo's fading image, reached out with thoughts that found nothing to

grasp.

Aballister stood alone in the graveyard. He understood that Bogo's spirit

would come back to him when it found the definite answer to the question. But

when would that be? Aballister wondered. And what further mischief would

Cadderly and his friends cause before Aballister found the information he

needed to put an end to that troublesome group?

The Fallen Fortress 5

"Hey, you there!" came a call from the boulevard, followed by the sounds of

boots clapping against the cobblestone. "Who's in the cemetery after

nightfall? Hold where you are!"

Aballister hardly took notice of the two city guardsmen who rushed through the

cemetery gate, spotting him and making all haste toward him. The wizard was

thinking of Bogo, of dead Barjin, once Castle Trinity's most powerful cleric,

and of dead Ragnor, Castle Trinity's principle fighter. More than that, the

wizard was thinking of Cadderly, the perpetrator of ail his troubles.

The guardsmen were nearly upon Aballister when he began his chant He threw his

arms out high to the sides as they closed in and started to reach for him. A

cry of the final, triggering rune sent the two men flying wide, hurled through

the air by the released power of the spell, as Aballister, in the blink of an

eye, sent his material body cascading back to his private room in Castle

Trinity.

The dazed city soldiers pulled themselves from the wet ground, looked to each

other in disbelief, and fled back through the cemetery gates, convinced that

they would be better off if they pretended that nothing at all had happened in

the eerie graveyard.

Cadderly sat upon the flat roof of a jutting two-story section of the

Edificant Library, watching the sun spread its shining fingers across the

plains east of the mountains. Other fingers stretched down from the tall peaks

all about Cadderly*s position to join those snaking up from the grass.

Mountain streams came alive, glittering silver, and the autumn foliage, brown

and yellow, red and brilliant orange, seemed to burst into flame.

Percival, the white squirrel, hopped along the roofs gutter when he caught

sight of the young priest, and Cadderly nearly laughed aloud when he regarded

the squirrel's

6 R, A. Salvatore

eagerness to join him—a desire emanating from PercivaTs always grumbling

belly, Cadderly knew. He dropped his hand into a pouch on his belt and pulled

out some cacasa nuts, scattering them at Percival's feet

It all seemed so normal to the young priest, the same as it had always been.

Percival skipped happily among his favorite nuts, and the sun continued to

climb, defeating the chill of late autumn even this high up in the Snowflakes.

Cadderly saw through the facade, though. Things most certainly were not

normal, not for the young priest and not for the Edificant Ubrary. Cadderly

had been on the road, in the elven wood of Shilmista and in the town of

Carradoon, fighting battles, learning firsthand the realities of a harsh

world, and learning, too, that the priests of the library, men and women he

had looked up to for his entire life, were not as wise or powerful as he had

once believed.

The single notion that dominated young Cadderly's thoughts as he sat up there

on the sunny roof was that something had gone terribly wrong within his order

of Deneir, and within the order of Oghman priests, the brother hosts of the

library. It seemed to Cadderly that procedure had become more important than

necessity, that the priests of the library had been paralyzed by mounds of

useless parchments when decisive action was needed.

And those rotting roots had sunk even deeper, Cadderly knew. He thought of

Nameless, the pitiful leper he had met on the road from Carradoon. Nameless

had come to the library for help and had found that the priests of Deneir and

Oghma were, for the most part, more concerned with their own failure to heal

him than with the consequences of his grave affliction.

Yes, Cadderly decided, something was very wrong at his precious library. He

lay back on the gray, slightly pitched roof and casually flipped another nut

at the munching squirrel.

No Time for Guilt

The spirit heard the call from a distance, floating across the empty grayness

of this reeking and forlorn plane. The mournful notes said not a discernable

word, and yet, to the spirit, they seemed to speak his name.

Ghost. Clearly it called to him, beckoned him from the muck and mire of his

eternal hell Ghost, its melody called again. The wretch looked at the

growling, huddled shadows all about him, wicked souls, the remains of wicked

people. He, too, was a growling shadow, a tormented thing, suffering

punishments for a life villainously lived.

But now he was being called, being carried from his torment on the notes of a

familiar melody. Familiar?

The thin thread that remained of ghost's living consciousness strained to

better recall, to better remember its life before this foul, empty existence.

Ghost thought of sunlight, of shadows, of killing....

R. A. Satvatore

The Ghearuju! Evil Ghost understood. The Ghearuju, the magical item he had

carried in life for so many decades, was calling to him, was leading him back

from the very hellfires!

"Cadderly! Cadderly!" wailed Vicero Belago, the Edifi-cant Library's resident

alchemist, when he saw the young priest and Danica at his door on the huge

library's third floor. "My boy, it's so good that you have returned to us!"

The wiry man virtually hopped across his shop, weaving in and out of tables

covered with beakers and vials, dripping coils and stacks of thick books. He

hit his target as Cadderly stepped into the room, throwing his arms about the

sturdy young priest and slapping him hard on the back.

Cadderly looked over Bel ago's shoulder to Danica and gave her a helpless

shrug, which she returned with a wink of an exotic brown eye and a wide,

pearly smile.

"We heard that some killers came after you, my boy," Belago explained, putting

Cadderly back to arm's length and studying him as though he expected to find

an assassin's dagger protruding from Cadderly's chest. "I feared (hat you

would never return." The alchemist also gave Cadderly's upper arms a squeeze,

apparently amazed at how solid and strong the young priest had become in the

short time he had been gone from the library. Like a concerned aunt, Belago

ran a hand up over Cadderly's floppy brown hair, pushing the always unkempt

locks back from the young man's face.

"I am all right," Cadderly replied calmly. "This is the house of Deneir, and I

am a disciple of Deneir. Why would I not return?"

His understatement had a calming effect on the excitable alchemist, as did the

serene look in Cadderly's gray eyes. Belago started to blurt out a reply, but

stopped in midstut-ter and nodded instead.

The Fallen Fortress 9

"Ah, and lady Danica," the alchemist went on. He reached out and gently

stroked Danica's thick tangle of strawberry-blond hair, his smile sincere.

Belago's grin disappeared almost immediately, though, and he dropped his arms

to his sides and his gaze to the floor.

"We heard about Headmaster Avery," he said softly, nodding his head up and

down, his expression clouded with sad resignation.

The mention of the portly Avery Schell, Cadderly's surrogate father, stung the

young priest profoundly. He wanted to explain to poor Belago that Avery"s

spirit lived on with their god. But how could he begin? Belago would not

understand; no one who had not passed into the spirit world and witnessed the

divine and glorious sensation could understand. Against that ignorance,

anything Cadderly might say would sound like a ridiculous cliche, typical

comforting words usually spoken and heard without conviction.

"I received word that you wished to speak with me?" Cadderly said instead,

raising his tone to make the statement a question and thus shift the

conversation.

"Yes," Belago answered softly. His head finally stopped bouncing, and his eyes

widened when he looked into the young priest's calming gray eyes. "Oh, yes!"

he cried, as if he had just remembered that fact "I did—of course I did!"

Obviously embarrassed, the wiry man hopped back across the shop to a small

cabinet. He fumbled with an oversized ring of keys, muttering to himself all

the while.

"You have become a hero," Danica remarked, noting the man's movements.

Cadderly couldn't disagree with Danica's observation. Vicero Belago had never

been overjoyed to see the young priest before. Cadderly had always been a

demanding customer, taxing Belago's talents often beyond their limits. Because

of a risky project that Cadderly had given the alchemist, Belago's shop had

once been blown apart

R. A. Salvatore

That had been long ago, however, before the battle in Shilmista Forest, before

Cadderly's exploits in Carradoon, the city to the east on the banks of Impresk

Lake.

Before Cadderty had become a hero.

Hero.

What a ridiculous title, the young priest thought He had done no more than

Danica or either of the dwarven brothers. Ivan and Pikel, in Carradoon. And

he, unlike his sturdy friends, had run away from the battle in Shilmista

Forest, fled because he could not endure the horrors.

He looked down at Danica again, her brown-eyed gaze comforting him as only it

could. How beautiful she was, Cadderly noted, her frame as delicate as that of

a newborn fawn and her hair tousled and bouncing freely about her shoulders.

Beautiful and untamed, he decided, and with an inner strength clearly shining

through those exotic, almond-shaped eyes.

Belago was back in front of him then, seeming nervous and holding both his

hands behind his back. "You left this here when you came back from the elven

wood," he explained, drawing out his left hand. He held a leather belt with a

wide and shallow holster on one side that sported a hand-crossbow.

"I had no idea that I would need it in peaceful Carradoon,'' Cadderly replied

easily, taking the belt and strapping it around his hips.

Danica eyed the young priest curiously. The crossbow had become a symbol of

violence to Cadderly, and a symbol of Cadderly's abhorrence of violence to

those who knew him best To see him strap it on so easily, with an almost

cavalier attitude, twisted Danica's heart

Cadderly sensed both the woman's gaze and her confusion. He forced himself to

accept it thinking that he would probably shatter many conceptions in the days

ahead. For Cadderly had come to see the dangers facing the Edificant Library

in ways that others could not

"I saw that you had nearly exhausted your supply of the

The Fallen Fortress

darts," Belago stammered. "I mean... there's no charge for this batch." He

pulled his other hand around, producing a bandolier filled with specially

crafted bolts for the tiny crossbow. "I figured I owed it to you—we all owe it

to you, Cadderly."

Cadderly nearly laughed aloud at the absurd proclamation, but he respectfully

held his control and accepted the very expensive gift from the alchemist with

a grave and approving nod. The darts were special indeed, hollowed out in the

center and fitted with a vial that Belago filled with volatile Oil of Impact.

"My thanks for the gift," the young priest said. "Be assured that you have

aided the cause of the library in our continuing struggle against the evil of

Castle Trinity."

Belago seemed pleased by that remark. Head bobbing once more, he accepted

Cadderly's handshake eagerly. He was still standing in the same place, smiling

from ear to ear, as Cadderly and Danica walked out into the hall

Cadderly could still sense Danica's continuing unease and could see the

disappointment etched in her features. The young priest's narrowing stare

attacked that disappointment. "I have dismissed the guilt because it has no

place in me," was all the explanation he would offer. "Not now, not with all

that is left to be done. But I have not forgotten Barjin or that fateful day

in the catacombs."

Danica looked away down the hall, but hooked Cadderly's arm with her own,

showing her trust in him.

Another form, shapely and obviously feminine, entered the corridor as the pair

moved toward Danica's room at the southern end of the complex. Danica

tightened her grip on Cadderly's arm at the scent of an exotic and

overpowering perfume.

"My greetings, handsome Cadderly," purred the shapely priestess in the crimson

gown. "You cannot imagine how pleased I am that you have returned."

Danica's grip nearly cut off Cadderly's blood flow; he felt his fingers

tingling. He knew that his face had blushed a

R. A. Satvatore

deep scarlet, as reddish as Priestess Histra's revealing gown. He realized,

sensibly, that this was probably the most modest outfit he had ever seen the

lusty priestess of Sune, the Goddess of Love, wearing, but that did not make

it modest by anyone else's standards. The front was cut in a low V, so low

that Cadderly felt he might glimpse Histra's navel if he got up on his toes,

and though the gown was long, its front slit was incredibly high, displaying

all of Histra's shapely leg when she brought one foot out in front of the

other in her typically alluring stance.

Histra did not seem displeased by Cadderly's obvious discomfort or by Danica's

growing scowl. She bent one leg at the knee, her thigh slipping completely

free of the gown's meager folds.

Cadderly heard himself gulp, didn't realize that he was gawking at the brazen

display until Danica's small fingernails dug deep lines into his upper arm.

"Do come and visit, dear young Cadderly," Histra purred. She looked

disdainfully at the woman on Cadderly's arm. "When you are not so tightly

leashed, of course." Histra slowly, teasingly moved into her room, the door's

gentle click as she closed it lost beneath the sound of Cadderly's repeated

swallowing.

"I—* he stammered, at last looking Dariica in the eye.

Danica laughed and led him on down the hall. "Fear not," she said, her tone

more than a little condescending. "I understand your relationship with the

priestess of Sune. She is quite pitiful, actually."

Cadderly looked down at Danica, perplexed. If Danica was speaking the truth,

then why had little lines of blood begun their descent on his muscled arm?

"I am not jealous of Histra, certainly," Danica went on. "I trust you, with

all my heart." Just outside her room, she stopped and faced Cadderly squarely,

one hand brushing the outline of his face, the other tight about his waist

"I trust you," Danica said again.

"Besides," added the fiery young monk in very different,

Hie Fallen Fortress

stronger tones as she turned into her room, "if anything romantic ever

happened between you and that single-minded, over-painted lump of too-too

quivering flesh, I would put her nose somewhere in back of one of her ears."

Danica abruptly disappeared into her room to retrieve the book of notes she

and Cadderly had prepared for their meeting with Dean Thobicus. The young

priest remained in the hall, considering the threat and privately laughing at

how true it could be. Danica was fully a foot shorter than he, and easily a

hundred pounds lighter. She walked with the grace of a dancer—and fought with

the tenacity of a bee-stung bear.

The young priest was far from worried, though. Histra had spent all of her

life in the practice of being alluring, and she made no secret of her designs

on Cadderly. But she hadn't a chance; not a woman in the world had a chance of

breaking Cadderly's bond with his Danica.

*****

A blackened, charred hand tore up through the newly turned earth, reaching

desperately for the open air above. A second arm, similarly charred and broken

at a gruesome angle halfway between the wrist and the elbow, followed,

grasping at the mud, tearing at the natural prison that held the wretched

body.

Finally the creature found enough of a hold to pull his hairless head from the

shallow grave, to look again upon the world of the living.

The blackened head swiveled on a neck that was no more than skin shriveled

tight to the bone, surveying the scene. For a fleeting instant, the wretch

wondered what had happened. How had he been buried?

A short distance away, down a little hill, the creature saw the glow of the

evening lamps of a small farmhouse. Beside it stood another structure, a barn.

A barn!

R. A. Satvatore

The thin sliver of the consciousness that had once belonged to a man known as

Ghost remembered that barn. Ghost had seen this body, his body, charred by

that wicked Cadderly in that very barn! The evil corpse drew in some air—the

action could not be called breathing where this undead thing was concerned—and

dragged his blackened and shriveled body the rest of the way out of the hole.

The notes of that distant, yet strangely familiar, melody continued to thrum

in the back of his feeble consciousness.

Unsteadily, Ghost loped more than walked toward the structure, the memories of

that horrible, fateful day coming back more fully with each stride.

Ghost had used the Gkearufu, a powerful device with magical energies directed

toward the spirit world, to steal the body of the firbolg Vander, an unwilling

associate. Disguised as Vander, with the strength of a giant, Ghost had then

crushed his own body and had thrown it across the barn.

And then Cadderly had burned it The malignant monster looked down to his bone-

skinny arms and prominent ribs, the hollow shell that somehow lived.

Cadderly had burned his body, this body! A single-minded hatred consumed the

wretched creature. Ghost wanted to kill Cadderly, to kill anybody dear to the

young priest, to kill anybody at all.

Ghost was at the barn then. Thoughts of Cadderly had flitted away into

nothingness, replaced by an unfocused anger. The door was over to the side,

but the creature understood that he did not need the door, that he had become

something more than the simple material wooden planking now blocking his way.

The shriveled form wavered, became insubstantial, and Ghost walked through the

wall.

He heard the horse whinnying before he came fully back to the material plane,

saw the poor beast standing wild-eyed, lathered in sweat. The sight pleased

thellndead

The Fallen Fortress

thing; waves of a new sensation of joy washed over Ghost as he smelled the

beast's terror. The undead monster ambled over to stand before the horse, let

his tongue drop out of his mouth hungrily. With all the skin burned away from

the sides of the tongue, its pointy tip hung far below Ghost's blackened chin.

The horse made not a sound, was too frightened to move or even to draw breath.

With a wheeze of evil anticipation, Ghost put deathly cold hands against the

sides of the beast's face.

The horse fell dead.

The undead creature hissed with delight, but while Ghost felt thrilled by the

kill, he did not feel sated. His hunger demanded more, could not be defeated

by the death of a simple animal. Ghost moved across the barn and again walked

through the wall, coming into view of the lights within the farmhouse. A

shadowy shape, a human shape, moved across one of the rooms.

Ghost was at the front door, undecided as to whether to walk through the wood,

tear the door apart, or simply knock and let the sheep come to the wolf. The

decision was taken from the creature, though, when he looked to the side of

the door, to a small pane of glass, and saw, for the first time, his own

reflection.

A red glow emanated from empty eye sockets. Ghost's nose was completely gone,

replaced by a blacker hole edged by ragged flaps of charred skin.

That tiny part of Ghost's consciousness that remembered the vitality of life

lost all control at the sight of that hideous reflection. The monster's

unearthly wail sent the barnyard animals into a frenzy and shattered the

stillness of the quiet autumn night more than any violent storm ever could.

There came a shuffling from inside the house, just behind the door, but the

outraged monster didn't even hear it With strength far beyond that of any

mortal, he drove his bony hands through the center of the door and pulled out

to the sides, splintering and tearing the wood as though it were no more than

a thin sheet of parchment

A. Salvatore

A man stood there, wearing the uniform of a Carradoon city guardsman and an

expression of sheer horror, his mouth frozen wide in a silent scream, his eyes

bugged out so far that they seemed as if they would fall from his face.

Ghost burst through the broken door and fell over him. The man's skin

transformed, aged, under the creature's ghostly touch; his hair turned from

raven black to white and fell out in large clumps. Finally the guardsman's

voice returned, and he screamed and wailed, flailing his arms

helplessly.

Ghost ripped at him, tore at his throat until that revealing scream was no

more than the gurgle of blood-filled lungs,

The creature heard a shuffle of feet, looked up from the kill to see a second

man standing beyond the foyer, in a doorway at the other side of the house's

small kitchen.

"By the gods," this man whispered, and he dove back into the far room and

slammed the door.

With one hand, Ghost lifted the dead man and hurled him out the shattered

portal, halfway across the barnyard. The undead creature floated across the

floor, savoring the kill, yet hungry for more. His form wavered again, and he

walked across the room and through another closed door.

The second man, also a city guardsman, stood before the wicked thing, swinging

his sword frantically at the horrid monster. But the weapon never touched

Ghost, slipped right through the insubstantial, ethereal mist the creature had

become. The man tried to run away, but Ghost kept pace with him, walked past

furniture that the man stumbled over, walked through walls to meet the

terrified man on the other side of a door.

The torment went on for a long and agonizing time, the helpless man finally

stumbling out into the night, losing his sword as he tumbled down the porch

steps. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the dark night, ran with all

speed for Carradoon, howling all the way.

Ghost could have, at any time, re materialized and torn the man apart, but

somehow the creature felfthat he

The Fallen Fortress

enjoyed this sensation, this smell of terror, even more than the actual

killing. Ghost felt stronger for it, as though he had somehow fed off of the

horrified man's emotions and screams.

But now it was over and the man was gone, and the other man was long dead and

offered no more sport

Ghost wailed again as the thin sliver of remaining consciousness considered

what he had become, considered what wretched Cadderly had created. Ghost

remembered little of his past life, only that he had been among the highest

paid killers in the living realm, a professional assassin, an artist of

murder.

Now the creature was an undead thing, a ghost, a hollow, animated shell of

evil energies.

After more than a century of being in possession of the Ghearufu, Ghost had

come to consider mortal forms in a much different way than others. Twice the

evil man had utilized the powers of the magical device to change bodies,

killing his previous form and taking the new one as his own. And now, somehow,

Ghosf s spirit, a piece of it at least, had come back to this plane. By some

trick of fate, Ghost had risen from the dead.

But how? Ghost couldn't fully remember his place in the afterlife, but sensed

that it was not pleasant, not at all. Images of growling shadows surrounded

him; black claws raked the air before his mind's eye. What had brought him

back from the grave, what compelled his spirit to walk the earth once more?

The creature scanned his fingers, his toes, for some sign of the regenerative

ring Ghost had once worn. But he distinctly remembered that the ring had been

stolen by Cadderly.

Ghost felt a call on the wind, silent but compelling. And familiar. He turned

glowing eyes up toward the distant mountains and heard the call again.

The Ghearufu,

The malignant spirit understood, remembered hearing the melody from his place

of eternal punishment. The

R. A. Satvatore

Ghearufu had called him back. By the power of the Ghearufu, Ghost walked the

earth once more. At that confused, overwhelming moment, the creature couldn't

decide if that was a good thing or not He looked again to his shriveled,

gruesome arms and torso, wondered if he could withstand the light of day. What

future awaited Ghost in such a state? What hopes could the undead thing hold?

The silent call came again.

The Gheantfyt!

It wanted Ghost back—and by its power, the creature's spirit could surely

steal a new form, a living form.

In Carradoon, not so far from the farmyard, the horrified guardsman stumbled

to the closed gate, screaming of ghosts, crying for his slaughtered companion.

If the soldiers manning the gate held any doubts about the man's sincerity,

they needed only to look into his face, a face that appeared much older than

the man's thirty years.

A large contingent of men, including a priest from the Temple of Ilmater, rode

out from Carradoon's gate less than an hour later, hell-bent for the

farmhouse, prepared to do battle with the malignant spirit Ghost was far gone

by then, sometimes walking, sometimes floating across the fields, following

the call of the Gkearufit, his one chance for deliverance.

Only the cries of the nighttime animals, the terrified bleating of sheep, the

frightened screech of a night owl, marked the ghost's passage.

Step Over A Dangerous line

The dawn had long since passed, but the room Cadderly entered was darkened

still, shades drawn tight to the windows. The young priest moved to the bed

quietly and knelt, not wanting to disturb Headmistress Pertelope's sleep. If

Headmaster Avery had been Cadderly's surrogate father, then wise Pertelope had

been his mother. Now, with his newfound insight into the harmonious song of

Deneir, Cadderly felt that he needed Pertelope more than ever. For she, too,

heard the mysterious notes of that unending song; she, too, transcended the

normal boundaries of the clerical order. If Pertelope had been beside Cadderly

in his discussion with Thobicus, then his reasoning would have been bolstered,

and the withered dean would have been forced to accept the truth of Cadderly's

insights.

But Pertelope could not be with him. She lay in her bed, deathly ill, caught

in the throes of a magical enchantment gone wild. Her body had been trapped in

a transformation

R. A. Salvatore

somewhere between the smooth and soft skin of a human and the sharp-edged

denticles of a shark, and now neither air nor water could satisfy the

headmistress's physical

needs.

Cadderly stroked her hair, more gray than he remembered it, as though

Pertelope had aged. He was somewhat surprised when she opened her eyes, which

still held their inquisitive luster, and managed a smile in his direction.

Cadderly strained to return that look.

"You must recover your strength," he whispered to her.

"I need you."

Pertelope smiled again, and her eyes slowly closed.

Cadderly's sigh was one of helpless resignation. He started to turn away from

the bed, not wanting to tax Perte-lope's depleted strength, but the

headmistress unexpectedly spoke to him.

"How went your meeting with Dean Thobicus?"

Cadderly turned back to her, surprised by the strength in that voice, and

surprised also that Pertelope even knew he had met with the dean. She had not

been out of her room in many days, and on the few occasions Cadderly had come

to visit her, he had not mentioned his upcoming meeting.

He should have expected that she would know, though. As he considered the

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rToNancy,forshowingtruecourage.THEFALLENFORTRESSCopyright©1993TSR.Inc.AflRightsReserved.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.thisbookisprotectedunderthecopyrightlawsoftheUnitedStelesofAmerica.Anyreproductionorunauthorizeduseofdiemateria...

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R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 4 - The Fallen Fortress

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