Umber

While attempting to penetrate Imperagon’s stronghold in Acheron, Vayel is stricken with a mysterious geas that drives her toward a confrontation with the leader of the fortress’ mechanical feline guards.

On the third floor of the Grey Pelican Inn Klavicus Starton the Third, scholar and balor with a fondness for rare books and fine brandy, set a tray of eggs, toast and orange juice in front of his house guest and clapped his claw-like hands loudly. “Rise and shine!” His guest, a man with distinctly tigerish features who lay sprawled on a sofa in the sitting room with his arm thrown over his eyes, groaned. This had been their morning routine for the past several days, as Svengali took his first faltering steps toward recovering his health. Klavicus might have found serving daily breakfast less engaging save for two mitigating factors: the cheery greeting clearly annoyed Svengali, and Klavicus strongly suspected, although Svengali seemed unaware of it, that the shapeshifter had no need for the breakfast, or any other food, at all, giving the ritual a certain amusing, perverse superfluity.

Most mornings he deposited the tray on the low table in front of the sofa and retreated to his study for the morning’s work after ordering his invalid to clean his plate, chuckling. Today, however, he took a seat across from his guest. Svengali, feeling eyes upon him, opened his own. “Did you want something?”

“You’re overexerting yourself.”

“What’s it to you?” Svengali swung his legs to the ground and sat up, slowly. The food and drink placed before him looked as unappetizing as they had the day before, and the day before that, but Klavicus insisted that he needed to regain his strength, and he supposed the old balor was right. He shook his head as he contemplated his host. There had been a few very awkward moments when he regained consciousness and found a demon in a velvet paisley smoking jacket standing over him. But Hanen smoothed matters over, after which Klavicus banished the bard from the third floor until further notice. Svengali had to admit he was relieved. He wasn’t much in the mood for talking, and the balor wasn’t much for listening, so they quickly established the congenial habit of mostly ignoring one another.

“The little celestial put you under my care. I believe you’re acquainted with her temper.”

“As if someone like you is worried about Psydney’s temper.”

“Perhaps not,” Klavicus smiled thinly. “But unless you want to strain yourself contemplating alternative explanations, that one will have to do. And what little energy you have seems directed down other avenues. Your ragged souls trickling into Hommlet.”

It hadn’t taken Svengali long to abandon the futile attempt to understand how the balor knew all the things he knew, and he didn’t bother denying the statement. “No one else is around to clean up my mess at the moment.”

“Some might say that illustrates the virtues of not getting involved. But – ” he pointed a warning finger at Svengali as he opened his mouth to interrupt, “that isn’t a topic for today.” The finger pointed down at the food, and with a sigh the shapeshifter picked up a fork. “Information on a certain item of academic interest to me has come my way, and I thought you might find it diverting. And relevant.”

He took a mouthful of the food which, knowing Hanen, was certainly well-prepared, but for some reason didn’t appeal to him. “And why would that be?”

“Its manner of creation – or, I should say, re-creation, is a subject of more than passing interest to you. And some friends of yours got themselves involved in the denouement of the little drama surrounding it.”

“Friends of mine? I doubt that.”

“I might be mistaken about your relationship to the panther-woman and the tiny death cleric. But,” he purred in a dangerous tone, “I doubt it.”

“Vayel and Brin? I wouldn’t precisely call them friends.”

“Rather a churlish thing to say about the woman who saved your life at no small risk to hers,” Klavicus scolded. “And the child who took your death as her own.”

“I was talking about their feelings,” he muttered. “Not mine.”

“Wallow in your alienation later. For now, attend. Have you ever heard of an ancient artifact once known as The Blade of Fiery Might?”

By the time Klavicus finished describing the blade, its breaking, and Imperagon’s particularly cruel scheme for its reforging, Svengali had pushed aside the remains of breakfast and was leaning forward, listening intently. “I don’t understand. Stealing petitioners from other planes? Murdering smiths on the Prime Material and binding them? How is any of that possible – now?”

“Anything you can think of under the sun is almost certainly achievable – given sufficient funds and the right connections. And it might take interested parties a while to track you down if you undertake it in a sufficiently remote place, like Kolyoral.”

“Where?”

Klavicus’ smile made his point without words. “One of the cubes of Acheron – I assume you’ve heard of Acheron? Among individuals who are educated on the subject, it’s called The Lost Cube, because there are no known planar portals to it.”

“But if there are no portals, how did – ”

“Your little friends reach it in the first place? They made the acquaintance of an effreeti merchant on Rigus, by the name of Varachus. Evidently in addition to souls and shards of Baatorian green steel, Imperagon had a rather voracious appetite for adamantine and an aversion to paying for it. Varachus was one of his victims. He must have been quite irritated about the theft, if he was willing to treat with the little paladin and his Heironian wizard. He gave them a copy of an obscure spell that permits the caster to hop directly between Acheron’s cubes. Nasty trip, otherwise.”

“For that matter, how did Imperagon find out about it in the first place, if it’s so obscure?”

“I can only hypothesize,” Klavicus shrugged. “He did surround himself with an impressive array of both brawn and brains. His chief advisor, the Rakshasa sorcerer Zharunkumar, might have told him of it. Or Lydzin,” his snarling tone suggested he was familiar with this individual, “his pit fiend guard dog. Or he might have heard of it himself – being the spawn of Ashardalon might open certain doors and mouths that would otherwise be closed. However he happened upon it, it gave him everything he needed to nurse his plans for world domination. Including an ages-old stronghold, the cubical – naturally – Iron Fortress of Zandikar, complete with a forge the like of which won’t be found on the Prime Material. Or much of anywhere else, for that matter. Some say that fortress is virtually impregnable.”

“Vayel and her companions seem to have managed,” Svengali pointed out. “Unless the finale to the story is that they’ve all been slaughtered, or enslaved. I’m a little unclear on what makes for an amusing tale to a balor.”

The demon sighed in mock despair. “Eternally misunderstood. But in fact their attempts to penetrate the stronghold by stealth or force went quite poorly. Their first thought was to infiltrate it through the steel predator den to which their Formian allies directed them.” He paused as Svengali held up a hand. “Yes?”

“Did you say Formian allies? I thought – ”

“That the Formians habitually enslave any humanoids they encounter for hive workers? True enough, under ordinary circumstances. But a pack of Slaadi looking for sport encountered a Formian patrol. They were being rather thoroughly slaughtered by the Slaadi when the tiny cleric, recognizing the Formians as allies of her Witch Goddess, insisted despite all strategic wisdom to the contrary on going to their aid – for which their myrmarch commander, to the extent that oversized ants are capable of such emotions, was grateful.”

“And they thought there might be an entrance to the fortress through the den.”

“I wouldn’t dignify the mental state with the term ‘thinking.’ They hoped there would be an entrance. If they’d bothered to research the fortress as thoroughly as they did the blade, they would have realized the extreme remoteness of that possibility.”

“So they got to the den and found – ”

“Oh, they didn’t get to the den at all. Not that try. A hobgoblin hunter with two pet dire tigers was prowling after the predators as well, but had no aversion to altering his prey when he caught sight of a choice elven morsel in the person of their ranger. They defeated him, but it was some drain on their resources, and once the tiny assassin realized the inhospitability of the den’s entrance – one tends not to worry about precipitous descents when one is four-footed, nor barbed walls when one is metallic – they retreated to the Formian hive to lick their wounds and contemplate another way into the fortress.” He chuckled to himself.

“Something funny?” Svengali asked.

“Their idea had merit, but fortune – in the short term, at least – was very much against them. A direct assault on the fortress…well, as I said, Zandikar is virtually impregnable. A peculiarly vicious specious of golem, with blades for hands, is an accoutrement of the castle. One of them guards the entrance, and one of its blade-hands is the key that opens the fortress’ sole door.”

“Only a single guard? Then kill the golem and – ”

“And you set off an alarm that reverberates through the entire castle. The tiny adventurers didn’t know that yet, but decided for other reasons that knocking on the front door was a poor idea.”

“I assume that someone like the spawn of Ashardalon would have his nest protected against arcane modes of travel.”

“The same assumption they made.”

“That doesn’t leave much besides blasting a hole in the wall.”

“Indeed. And if they hadn’t guessed poorly, they might have succeeded at that very thing. A field of arcane suppression to protect against the fountain of negative energy bubbling from the fortress’ top face and bathing the exterior walls, employing the psion to disintegrate a portion of the wall…if only they hadn’t blasted through straight into the Great Hall.”

Svengali winced. “Which, I assume, was occupied.”

“By a blade golem, a pair of steel predators, and Lydzin’s pride and joy, the fallen archon Zalatian. Joined momentarily by Imperagon and Lydzin himself. The archon tried to set up a repulsion field around herself, but the tiny cleric dispelled it. Zalatian seemed to take that quite personally.”

“They couldn’t possibly survive a force like that.”

“No, indeed,” Klavicus agreed. “Which is why they quickly gathered up their dead ranger and left.”

“Dead ranger?” Svengali started. “Dryden died?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that? Apparently that bow of his is an arcane product of his mind. So in a region of dampened magical energy he has nothing to fire. His rather impatient solution to the problem involved stepping into the hall, out of range of the dampening field, ahead of his more heavily armored and less fragile companions. The blade golem’s response was to chop him into pieces.”

“You could at least try to sound regretful.”

“Why?” Klavicus asked. “I don’t really care what happens to them, as long as they’re entertaining along the way. If they perish, someone will replace them. That’s the way the mortal races are – always rushing about doing things. In any case, they’re in possession of that ring that hands out spells of resurrection like candy. The one from – how was she named? Your Catlord in Manifest.”

“She wasn’t my Catlord,” Svengali snapped.

“Of course not,” Klavicus said mockingly. “It wasn’t your battlefield, and you weren’t their general. And that ring isn’t a dangerous toy for children to play with. Seems the warrior panther revived the ranger only to find herself the victim of a geas in payment.”

“A geas? Caused by the ring?”

“She was quite peevish about it. And the tiny cleric too inexperienced to do anything. So they were all forced to follow her otherwise aching feet where they led her, or suffer the unpleasant consequences. No rest for the wicked, as they say.”

“And where was that?” Svengali asked impatiently.

“Right back to the steel predator den they so desperately wanted to avoid.”

“I don’t understand why – ”

“You should,” the balor cut him off. “You would be extraordinarily foolish if you thought yourself the only one aware of your shards of half-developed soulstuff. The little celestial has seen them for what they are. I suspect she couldn’t touch them herself, but saw that the warrior-panther could, through the bond that you yourself created between you. The honorable servant of the honorable bear-king,” his sarcasm nearly dripped in the air between them, “could prove a worthy surrogate. But the kittenish fragments grew desirous of birth, as you yourself have seen in Hommlet. And whatever of the Catlord’s consciousness or will adheres in that ring hatched plans of its own for the little warrior and her reservoir of tiny cat souls. At least, that’s my current theory.” He laughed. “If I were her, I think I’d wash my hands of the lot of you.”

Svengali’s face darkened. “I would have nothing to do with a geas.”

“No,” Klavicus’ tone grew unexpectedly sober, “I don’t suppose you would.”

Leaning back and closing his eyes, the shapeshifter said, “So how did the steel predators fit in?”

“They may be feline in form, but their social structure is more reminiscent of the canine. They have a pack leader, Tevarus, to whom they give their unquestioning loyalty. The fortunes of the pack rise and fall on his judgment. In Imperagon’s company, they began to fall precipitously. Not every smith they attacked was without defenses – your friend at Khundrakar and his guardian dragon, for example. Tevarus’ losses were not inconsiderable.”

“What did Imperagon offer him that was worth such a risk?”

“Nothing Tevarus wanted, as it happened. The pack leader refused him outright when he asked for assistance. But Imperagon is one of those individuals who doesn’t like taking no for an answer. So he had one of his minions sneak in while Tevarus slept and slip a rather special collar around his neck.”

Svengali snarled in anger at the thought. “Didn’t the others notice there was something wrong with him?”

“They’re constructs,” Klavicus reminded him, “not mortal mind and flesh. Once the little adventurers understood the situation, they managed to communicate to Tevarus’ underlings that they wished to attack the collar, not Tevarus himself. Not an easy task even with his minions’ forbearance: I’ve seen mansions that were smaller than the pack leader. They pulled it off, though, and earned Tevarus’ gratitude. And his gratitude was more immediately useful than the Formians’. Having learned the hard way that brute force wasn’t likely to gain them entrance to the fortress, the tiny adventurers could now with his aid resort to the time-honored strategy of all weak things opposing the strong: treachery. For in addition to their steel and soul collection duties, Imperagon fortified the blade golems and his own internal guard with the predators. And as I said, they obey no one but Tevarus.”

“Some might say the treachery began with Imperagon.”

“Certainly Tevarus thought so.”

“While I’ll admit to your description of the story as diverting,” Svengali said, “forgive me if I fail to see what about it is relevant to me.”

“If you had waited five more minutes…” Klavicus frowned. “While the debate rages as to where you mortals came from originally, everyone agrees that constructs have creators. In the case of the steel predators, she was a psion of no small power and engineering skill. Long-dead, of course, but the ‘den’ where Tevarus lived served both as her factory and, once her days drew to a close, her tomb. Hundreds of steel predator shells lined the walls.”

“Shells without an animate force. That was what Vayel was supposed to do.” He looked at the balor with concern. “But you said Tevarus is used to unquestioning loyalty – ”

“The warrior-cat and the tiny cleric made it abundantly clear to him that he wasn’t likely to have that from your progeny. They released only a few souls into the shells, on something of a trial basis. It seemed sufficient to satisfy this Catlord, or whatever was behind the geas. Broken souls in such powerful bodies,” he added casually. “I do hope your little panther protégé knows what she’s doing. And that the little celestial chose her role model well. They could be quite the nuisance otherwise, couldn’t they?”

Svengali didn’t look nearly as amused as Klavicus sounded. He rose and paced the room, stopping by the large picture window and staring out with his back to the balor. Anyone within the room would see a nearly seven-foot-tall man-tiger, but Klavicus assured him that to any passersby who chanced to look up he would appear as more or less his usual elven self. “More, or less?” Svengali had retorted.

“The answer to that, if you’re going to force me to be blunt,” Klavicus replied airily, “depends on how you feel about those scars. Your average passing Josefina on the street wouldn’t notice them, but I don’t want the attention of the less-average pedestrian either, so I took some additional artistic license with the illusion.” Svengali had scowled, but said nothing in reply.

Now Klavicus rose as well and moved toward the hallway leading to his private study. “It’s a weighty business, meddling in the affairs of the multiverse. And the consequences just roll on and on.”

“I didn’t do it on a lark,” Svengali muttered.

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“I suppose you would have done nothing.”

“I did do nothing,” Klavicus reminded him. “I’ve grown rather fond of nothing as a course of action. Perhaps, one day, I’ll know enough to feel differently. Then,” he laughed, “let the multiverse beware. But until that day…”

Svengali supposed he should find the balor’s words chilling, but somehow he didn’t. “What happened to them at the fortress?” he asked. But instead of a reply, he heard the closing down the hallway of the study door.