The Mage in the Iron Mask - Brian Thomsen [19]
A chill unlike the one caused by the Moonsea climatic conditions passed down the spine of the master traveler.
That's odd, he thought. No one seems to be on watch. Even during meals there is always someone on watch.
Volo put his two fingers up to his mouth and let loose with a birdcall almost identical to that of the Bowl-headed Greenwood, a bird indigenous to Shadowdale. He repeated the call, listening carefully for a reply.
None came.
He immediately realized that something was not right. Where could they be? he thought to himself. The elders would always respond to a Harper signal of distress, even when it isn't given by a Harper. The network of secret agents dedicated to preserving balance in Faerun were longtime allies of the old mages therein. Surely the Harpers could never fall out of favor with them. Where could they all have gone, and why wasn't anyone responding to his call?
Quickly reaching into his cloak to assure himself of the readiness of yet another blade, Volo urged the horse onward at a slower pace, eyes and ears wide open and ready for danger.
The gate of the Retreat had been left wide open, and though the rocky terrain obscured any tracks that might have otherwise been left, the dried spoor of numerous horses was still evident by the series of rails that were normally used for the tethering of steeds.
Volo dismounted, and, with reins still in hand in case he had to make a quick return to the saddle and an even faster egress, approached the evidential detritus, and stooped down to get a closer look at it. As I recall, the master gazetteer (who also considered himself to be a more than adequate detective) reflected, it rained just two days ago. Whatever caused the Retreat to be evacuated must have occurred since then, or else this fertilizer would have been washed away.
Righting himself and stepping carefully so as to avoid treading in the evidence at hand (or underfoot, as was the case), Volo approached the gate.
Before he had even gained entrance, he realized that he had been mistaken about the Retreat's evacuation, for there, just inside the gate, was the not quite two-day-old corpse of the Thayan exile who had been known as Donal Loomis. As two rats were feasting in the orifices of the elder's face, Volo saw no need to bend over for a closer examination. He knew the monk was dead and saw little reason to further turn his travel-worn stomach.
With a dagger in hand, the brave gazetteer stepped over the body, and ventured further into the stronghold that had been known as the Retreat. The further he went the more bodies he found, each gutted like a pig for a Mayday feast. The master traveler used his free hand to bring a neckerchief up to his nose and mouth to help fight back the gall that was rebelling in his stomach. Maintaining his composure, he tried to piece together what must have happened.
I would immediately jump to the conclusion that the Retreat had been attacked by some foreign force, he thought, but there seems to be no sign of a struggle. My second theory, he went on, would have been that they were the victims of a surprise attack, perhaps in the middle of the night, but all of the bodies are attired in their day wear, and the gate and stronghold walls show no signs of being breached, jimmied, or assailed. Whoever engineered this horrible bloodbath must have been granted entrance by the elders in broad daylight, and therefore were assumed by the elder on watch to have been either allies, or harmless. I guess the elder on watch was mistaken.
Scanning the residue of slaughter, Volo thought he recognized one of the corpses. He was about to stoop to get a closer look when he barely saw a moving blur out of the corner of his eye, and reacted in a second, raising his dagger to a defensive posture.
He was half a second too slow.
The master traveler felt the coolness of a steel blade against his windpipe, and heard an authoritative voice say, "Drop it, or breathe blood."
Realizing he had no alternative