Crypt of the shadowking - Mark Anthony [51]
"Wait," Tyveris said, holding up a hand. "We may have one other choice. Loremaster Avros told me about a friend of his, one Loremaster Erill, a disciple of Oghma who resides in a monastery in the Sunset Mountains to the east It seems this Loremaster Erill has made a life's hobby of copying as many rare and decaying tomes as he has been able to find, to preserve them for future generations. Lore-master Avros isn't certain, but he thinks Loremaster Erill might once have journeyed to the library of Elversult to copy the Mal'eb'dala."
A triumphant grin crept slowly across Caledan's face. 'The Sunset Mountains, you say?" He looked at Mari and then back to the monk, his pale green eyes dancing. "How do you two feel about going on a little journey?"
* * * * *
The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas ran a hand lightly over the cool steel spikes protruding from the machine. It was a curious device. There was a flat table beneath the needle-sharp spikes where an uncooperative prisoner might be bound, lying upon his back. At the foot of the table were a number of small wheels. Each one could be spun to raise or lower a single spike. The dozen spikes were positioned so that lowering them would cause terrible pain long before they caused fatal injury. Once Ravendas had been able to lower nine of them into the flesh of a captain who had failed her before his screams had ended in death. One day she hoped to lower all twelve into a subject without actually killing him. It was a great challenge, and Ravendas enjoyed challenges. But so far nine was her best.
The circular stone chamber was filled with other malevolent devices formed of twisted steel, sharpened wood, and leather straps. All were different, yet all had the same function-to maim and cause agony, without causing death. This was her torture chamber, deep among the foundations of the city lord's tower. It was a favorite refuge when she was in a rage, a place of peace. And Ravendas had been in a rage much these last days.
Cityfolk had dared to stand against her.
True, not many so dared. And while persons had stolen from her caravans and slain her guards, no real damage had been done. But that was not the point. The point was that cityfolk had dared to oppose her. The rebels would be punished for that.
So far the resistance groups had eluded her attempts to find them. They were well hidden in the city, like rats cowering in the filth of a sewer. But now the rats had made a foolish move. They had tried to discover something about her. In turn she would discover something about them.
The heavy, iron-bound door opened with a grating of rusted hinges. Two guards entered, cruelly dragging a prisoner between them. Behind them strode the lord steward, Snake, in his poison green robes, eyes emotionless as always.
Ravendas, clad in a robe as dark as an executioner's, approached the prisoner. He was an old man, his limbs thin and frail, his bony shoulders slumped, his head hanging downward in despair. She lifted his chin with a finger and found herself gazing into two empty pits of wrinkled skin where his eyes had once been.
"Greetings, dear Tembris," she said softly. Terror rippled across the old thief's face as he recognized her voice. His spidery limbs began to tremble.
She ran a finger slowly along his cheek. "Did you think that because your work for me was finished that you were no longer my servant, Tembris?" She spoke in a sicken-ingly sweet voice.
The thief shook his head in mute reply. "Once my servant, always my servant, Tembris. That is my rule. And I hate it when one of my servants betrays me." Her long crimson fingernail dug into his flesh. A bead of dark blood trickled down his cheek like a tear. "It seems I should have taken your hands as well as your eyes." The thief was shaking with fear, and Ravendas bared her teeth in satisfaction.