Crypt of the shadowking - Mark Anthony [24]
"Caledan the Harper?" a voice spoke suddenly from the mist.
Dario's mare spooked, rearing. He fought with the reins, managing to bring the horse to a stop. Its hooves skittered nervously against the cobbles of the road.
"Who's there?" Dario called into the thick fog. His dagger was ready in his hand.
A tall figure, clad head to toe in a black, concealing robe, stepped out of the swirling mist.
"Caledan the Harper?" the stranger asked again, in a voice that was both cold and dry. It sent a shiver up Dario's spine.
"Who wishes to know?" Dario asked, confused at the fear he felt rising in his throat.
"I wish to know," the black-robed figure said. Dario began to lift his dagger in alarm, but with dizzying speed a long arm reached out and, with terrible strength, pulled Dario from his horse. The mare neighed in terror and galloped away. An icy, strangely smooth hand closed about Dario's throat. His eyes widened in terror, but he was unable to move.
Another hand pulled the hood of Dario's cloak away from his face. A cold finger traced a line down his cheek. Dario tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.
"No, you are not the one," the attacker hissed.
Cold fingers closed about Dario's neck. There was a wet, snapping sound, and the young man fell limply to the ground, dark eyes staring lifelessly into the silvery light.
The black-robed stranger hesitated a moment. This was odd. The man's cloak had smelled right, but there was no scent of the shadow magic.
Of course-there could be only one answer. This man was a decoy. Caldorien must still be within the city's walls.
This was troublesome. The stranger dared not enter the city. No, the stinking streets were too much. Their scents were too overpowering. They would cause torment, resulting in sure madness. There was nothing to do now but wait. Yes, wait. Eventually Caldorien would set foot beyond those walls, and when he did, the stranger would be there to greet him.
Silently the black-robed figure drifted back into the veils of mist from which it had emerged just as the first rays of sunlight set fire to the tops of the city's towers.
Five
The crimson fire of sunset was fading to ash-gray behind the dark silhouette of the Tor when Mari heard the clatter of horses' hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. She waited in the shadows to the side of one of the New City's broad, tree-lined avenues, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She could only hope that Caldorien was ready. He had done little enough to inspire her trust these last days.
Mari had been elated when Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall, had given her the task of finding Caldorien in Iriaebor. It was her first important mission as a true Harper, and she had been anxious to prove herself. Now she was having second thoughts. This cynical, ill-mannered, scruffy-looking scoundrel was not the legendary Harper she had been led to expect Old Master Andros, the Harper who had been her mentor, used to tell her stories of Caldorien's adventures: how he had destroyed the Cult of Bane's plan to seize the throne of the Empire of Amn; how he had freed an army enslaved by a bloodthirsty Calimshite sorcerer; how he had rescued hundreds of children who had been kidnapped from Water-deep and forced to work in a goblin prince's mines. As a child, such tales had enthralled Mari. But she was no longer a child, and Caldorien obviously was not the hero he once was.
A wagon appeared on the dusky avenue, drawn by a pair of dark horses. On it sat two men. One held the reins, the other rested a hand comfortably on the hilt of his short sword. Zhentarim soldiers.