The meeting chamber at Castle Trinity was quite different from the great and ornate hall of the Edificant Library. Its ceiling was low and its door squat and barred and heavily guarded. A single triangular table dominated the room, with three chairs on each side, one group for the wizards, one for the fighters, and one for the clerics.
Scan the room, Druzil suggested telepathically to Aballister, who was in the room. The imp surveyed through the wizard's eyes, using their telepathic link to view whatever Aballister was looking at. Aballister did as he was bidden, moving his gaze around the triangular table, first to Ragnor and the other two fighters, then to Barjin and his two cleric companions.
Druzil broke the mental connection suddenly and hissed a wicked laugh, knowing that he had left Aballister in complete confusion. He could feel the wizard trying to reestablish the mental link, could hear Aballister's thoughts calling to him.
But Aballister was not in command of their telepathy; the imp had used this mental form of communication for more decades than Aballister had been alive and it was he who decided when and where he and the wizard would link. For now, Druzil had no reason to continue contact; he had seen all that he needed to see. Barjin was in the meeting hall and would be busy there for some time.
Druzil found his center of magic, his otherworldly essence, which allowed him to transcend the physical rules governing creatures of this host plane. A few seconds later, the imp faded from sight, becoming transparent, then he was off, flapping down the hallways to a wing of Castle Trinity to which he rarely traveled.
It was risky business, Druzil knew, but if the chaos curse was to be in the priest's hands, then Druzil needed to know more about him.
Druzil knew that Barjin's door would be locked and heavily warded against intrusion, but he considered that a minor problem with one of Barjin's bodyguards standing rigid in the hall just outside it. Druzil entered the man's thoughts just long enough to plant a suggestion, a magical request.
"There is an intruder in Barjin's room," came Druzil's silent beckon.
The guard glanced about nervously for a moment, as if seeking the source of the call. He stared long at Barjin's door-looking right through the invisible imp-then hastily fumbled with some keys, spoke a command word to prevent the warding glyphs from exploding, and entered.
Druzil quietly mouthed the same command word and walked in behind.
After, a few minutes of inspecting the apparently empty room, the guard shook his head and left, locking the door behind him.
Druzil snickered at how easily some humans could be controlled. The imp didn't have the time or inclination to gloat, though, not with all of the mysterious Barjin's secrets open for his inspection. The room was ordinary enough for one of Barjin's stature. A large canopy bed dominated the wall opposite the door, with a night table beside it. Druzil rubbed his hands together eagerly as he headed for the table. Atop it, next to the lamp, was a black-bound book and, next to that, several quills and an ink-well.
"How thoughtful of you to keep a journal," Druzil rasped, carefully opening the work. He read through the first entries, dated two years earlier. They were mostly lamentations by Barjin, accounts of his exploits in the northern kingdoms of Vaasa, Damara, and Narfell, to the north.
Druzil's already considerable respect for the priest grew as he devoured the words. Barjin once had commanded an army and had served a powerful master-he gave no direct references to the man, if it was a man-not as a cleric, but as a wizard!
Druzil paused to consider this revelation, then hissed and read on. Although formidable, Barjin admitted that he had not been the most powerful of the wizards in his master's service-again a vague reference to the mysterious master, giving Druzil the impression that perhaps Barjin, even years later, feared to speak the creature's name aloud or write it down. Barjin's rise to power had come later, when the army had taken on a religious zeal and his master apparently had assumed godlike proportions.
Druzil couldn't contain a snicker at the striking parallels between the priest's ascent and the chaos curse's transformation into a goddess's direct agent.
Barjin had become a priest and headed an army to fulfill his evil master's desire to conquer the whole of the northland. The plans had fallen through, though, when an order of paladins-Druzil hissed aloud when he read that cursed word-arose in Damara and organized an army of its own.
Barjin's master and most of his cohorts had been thrown down, but Barjin had barely escaped with his life and a portion of the evil army's accumulated wealth.
Barjin had fled south, alone but for a few lackeys. Since his proclaimed "god" had been dispatched, his clerical powers had greatly diminished. Druzil spent a while musing over this revelation; nowhere did Barjin mention his claimed meeting with Talona's avatar.
The journal went on to tell of Barjin's joining the triumvirate at Castle Trinity-again with no mention of the avatar. Druzil snickered aloud at Barjin's opportunism. Even a year ago, coming in as a pitiful refugee, Barjin had duped Castle Trinity's leaders, had used their fanaticism against them.
After only a month in the castle, Barjin had ascended to the third rank in the priestly hierarchy, and after only a few more weeks, Barjin had taken over undisputed command as Talona's chief representative. And yet, Druzil realized as he flipped quickly through the pages, Barjin thought not enough about his goddess to give her more than a few passing references in his journal.
Aballister was correct: Barjin was a hypocrite, a fact that hardly seemed to matter. Again Druzil snickered aloud at the irony, at the pure chaos.
Druzil knew the rest of Barjin's story well enough; he had been present long before Barjin ever arrived. The journal, sadly, did not offer any further revelations, but the imp was not disappointed when he dosed the book; there were too many other items to be investigated.
Barjin's new vestments, a conical cap and expensive purple robes embroidered in red with the new insignia of the triumvirate, hung beside the bed. An offspring of Talona's symbol, the three teardrops inside a triangle's points, this one sported a trident, its three prongs tipped by teardrop-shaped bottles, much like the one carrying the chaos curse. Barjin had designed it personally, and only Ragnor had offered any resistance.
"So you do plan to spread the word of your god," Druzil muttered a few moments later when he discovered Barjin's bedroll, folded tent, and stuffed backpack under the bed. He reached for the items, then jumped back suddenly, sensing a presence in that pile. He felt the beginnings of a telepathic communication, but not from Aballister. Eagerly, the imp reached under the bed and pulled the items out, recognizing the telepathic source immediately as Barjin's magical mace.
"Screaming Maiden," Druzil said, echoing the item's telepathic declaration and examining the crafted item. Its obsidian head was that of a pretty young girl, strangely innocuous and appealing. Druzil saw through the grotesque facade. He knew this was not a weapon of the material plane, but one that had been forged in the Abyss, or in the Nine Hells, or in Tarterus, or in one of the other lower planes. It was sentient, obviously, and hungry. More than anything else, Druzil could feel its hunger, its blood-lust. He watched in joyful amazement as the mace enhanced that point, its obsidian head twisting into a leering visage, a fanged maw opening wide.
Druzil clapped his padded hands together and smiled wickedly. His respect for Barjin continued to mount, for any mortal capable of wielding such a weapon must be powerful indeed. Rumors around the fortress expressed disdain that Barjin did not favor the poisoned dagger, the usual weapon of Talona's clerics, but, seeing this mace up close and sensing its terrible power, Druzil agreed with the priest's choice.
Inside the rolled tent Druzil found a brazier and tripod nearly as intricate and rune-covered as Aballister's. "You are a sorcerer, too, Barjin," the imp whispered, wondering what future events that might imply. Already Druzil imagined what his life might be like if he had stepped through the brazier to Barjin's call instead of Aballister's.
The thick backpack held other wondrous items. Druzil found a deep, gem-encrusted bowl of beaten platinum, no doubt worth a king's fortune. Druzil placed it carefully on the floor and reached back into the pack, as exuberant as a hungry ore shoving its arm down a rat hole.
He pulled out a solid and heavy object, fist-sized and wrapped in black doth. Whatever was inside dearly emanated magical energies, and Druzil took care to lift only one comer of the doth to peek in. He beheld a huge black sapphire, recognized it as a necromancer's stone, and quickly rewrapped it in the shielding cloth. If exposed, such a stone could send out a call to the dead, summoning ghosts or ghouls, or any other netherworld monsters in the area.
Of similar magical properties was the small ceramic flask that Druzil inspected next. He unstoppered it and sniffed, sneezing as some ashes came into his ample nose.
"Ashes?" the imp whispered curiously, peering in. Under the black cloth, the necromancer's stone pulsed, and Druzil understood. "Long dead spirit," he muttered, quickly dosing the flask.
Nothing else showed to be of any particular interest, so Druzil carefully rewrapped and replaced everything as he had found it. He hopped up on the comfortable bed, secure with his invisibility, and relaxed, pondering all that he had learned. This Barjin was a diversified human-priest, wizard, general, dabbling in sorcery, necromancy, and who could guess what else.
"Yes, a very resourceful human," Druzil decided. He felt better about Barjin's involvement in the chaos curse. He checked in telepathically with Aballister for just a moment, to make certain that the meeting was in full swing, then congratulated himself on his cunning and folded his plump hands behind his head.
Soon he was fast asleep.
* * * * *
"We have only the one suitable bottle," said Aballister, representing the wizards. "The ever-smoking devices are difficult to create, requiring rare gems and metals, and we all know how costly it was to brew even a small amount of the elixir." He felt Barjin's stare boring into him at the reference to the cost.
"Do not speak of the Most Fatal Horror as an elixir," the clerical leader commanded. "Once it may have been just a magical potion, but now it is much more."
"Tuanta Quiro Miancay," chanted the other two priests, scarred and ugly men with blotchy tattoos covering nearly every inch of their exposed skin.
Aballister returned Barjin's glare. He wanted to scream at Barjin's hypocrisy, to shake the other clerics into action against him, but Aballister wisely checked his outburst. He knew that any accusations against Barjin would produce the opposite results and that he would become the target of the faithful. Druzil's estimation of Barjin had been correct, Aballister had to admit. The priest had indeed consolidated his power.
"Brewing the Most Fatal Horror," conceded Aballister, "has depleted our resources. To begin again and create more, and also acquire another bottle, could well prove beyond our limits."
"Why do we need these stupid bottles?" interrupted Ragnor. "If the stuffs a god as you say, then
..."
Barjin was quick to answer. "The Most Fatal Horror is merely an agent of Talona," the priest explained calmly. "In itself, it is not a god, but it will aid us to comply with Talona's edicts."
Ragnor's eyes narrowed dangerously. It was obvious that the volatile ogrillon's patience had just about expired.
"All of your followers embrace Tuanta Quiro Miancay," Barjin reminded Ragnor, "embrace it with all their hearts." Ragnor eased back in his seat, flinching at the threatening implications.
Aballister studied Barjin curiously for a long while, awed by how easily the priest had calmed the ogrillon. Barjin was tall, vigorous, and imposing, but he was no match physically for Ragnor.
Usually, physical strength was all that mattered to the powerful fighter; Ragnor normally showed the clerics and wizards less respect than he gave to even his lowliest soldiers. Barjin seemed to be the exception, though; especially of late, Ragnor had not openly opposed him on any issue.
Aballister, while concerned, was not surprised. He knew that Barjin's powers went far beyond the priest's physical abilities. Barjin was a charmer and a hypnotist, a careful strategist who weighed his opponent's mind-set above all else and used spells as often for simple enhancement of a favorable situation as to affect those he meant to destroy. Just a few weeks earlier, a conspiracy had been discovered within the evil triumvirate. The single prisoner had resisted Ragnor's interrogations, at the price of incredible pain and several toes, but Barjin had the wretch talking within an hour, willingly divulging all that he knew about his fellow conspirators.
Whispers said that the tortured man actually believed Barjin was an ally, right up until the priest casually bashed in his skull. Aballister did not doubt those whispers and was not surprised. That was how Barjin worked; few could resist the priest's hypnotic charisma. Aballister did not know much of Barjin's former deity, lost in the wastelands of Vaasa, but what he had seen of the refugee priest's spell repertoire was beyond the norm that he would expect of clerics.
Again Aballister referred to the whispers for his answers, rumors that indicated Barjin dabbled in wizardry as well as clerical magic.
Barjin was still speaking reverently of the elixir when Aballister turned his attention back to the meeting. The priest's preaching held the other clerics, and Ragnor's two fighter companions, awestruck. Aballister shook his head and dared not interrupt. He considered again the course that his life had taken, how the avatar had led him to Druzil, and Druzil had delivered the recipe.
Then the avatar had led Barjin to Castle Trinity. That was the part of the puzzle that did not fit in Aballister's reasoning. After a year of watching the priest, Aballister remained convinced that Barjin was no true disciple of Talona, but again he reminded himself that Barjin, sincere or not, was furthering the cause, and that because of Barjin's purse and influence, all the region might soon be claimed in the goddess's name.
Aballister let out a profound sigh; such were the paradoxes of chaos.
"Aballister?" Barjin asked. The wizard cleared his throat nervously and glanced around, realizing he had missed much of the conversation.
"Ragnor was inquiring about the necessity of the bottles," Barjin politely explained.
"The bottles, yes," Aballister stuttered. "The elix- ... the Most Fatal Horror is potent with or without them. Minute amounts are all that are required for the chaos curse to take effect, but it will last only a short while. With the ever-smoking bottles, the god-stuff is released continually. We have created just a few drops, but I believe there is enough liquid to fuel the ever-smoking bottle for months, perhaps years, if the mixture within the bottle is correct."
Barjin looked around and exchanged nods with his clerical companions. "We have decided that Talona's agent is ready," he declared.
"You have ..." the wizard Dorigen stammered in disbelief.
Aballister stared long and hard at Barjin. He had meant to take command of the meeting and suggest just what the priest was getting at; again Barjin had thought one step ahead of him, had stolen his thunder.
"We are the representatives of Talona," Barjin coolly replied to Dorigen's outrage. His companions bobbed their heads stupidly.
Aballister's clenched fingers nearly tore a chunk out of his oaken chair.
"The goddess has spoken to us, has revealed her wishes," Barjin continued smugly. "Our conquests will soon begin!"
Ragnor beat a fist on the table in excited agreement; now the priest was speaking in terms the ogrillon warrior could understand. "Who are you planning for carrying the bottle?" Ragnor asked bluntly.
"I will carry it," Aballister quickly put in. He knew as soon as he heard his own words that his claim sounded desperate, a last attempt to salvage his own position of power.
Barjin shot him an incredulous look.
"It was I who met Talona's avatar," Aballister insisted, "and I who discovered the recipe for the Most Fatal Horror."
"For that, we thank you," remarked the priest in a condescending tone. Aballister started to protest, but sank back in Percival chair as a magical message was wispered into his ear. Do not fight with me over this, wizard, Barjin quietly warned.
Aballister knew that the critical moment was upon him. Š he gave in now, he felt he might never recover his standing in Castle Trinity, but if he argued against Barjin, against the religious fury that the priest had inspired, he would surely split the order and might find himself badly outnumbered.
"The priests of Talona will carry the bottle, of course," Barjin answered Ragnor. "We are the true disciples."
"You are one leg of a ruling triumvirate," Aballister dared to remind him. "Do not claim the Most Fatal Horror solely as your own."
Ragnor did not see things quite the same way. "Leave it to the priests," the ogrillon demanded.
Aballister's surprise disappeared as soon as he realized that the brutish fighter, suspicious of magic, was simply relieved that he would not have to carry the bottle.
"Agreed," Barjin quickly put in. Aballister started to speak out, but Dorigen put a hand over his arm and gave him a look that begged him to let it go.
"You have something to say, good wizard?" Barjin asked.
Aballister shook his head and sank even deeper into his chair, and even deeper into despair.
"Then it is settled," said Barjin. "The Most Fatal Horror will descend upon our enemies, carried by my second-" he nodded to the priests on his right and on his left "-and my third."
"No!" Aballister blurted, seeing a way to salvage something of this disaster. All gazes descended upon him; he saw Ragnor put a hand to Percival sword hilt. "Your second?" the wizard asked, and now it was he who feigned an incredulous tone. "Your third?" Aballister rose from his chair and held his arms out stretched.
"Is this not the direct agent of our goddess?" he preached. "Is this not the beginning of our greatest ambitions? No, only Barjin is fit to carry such a precious artifact. Only Barjin can properly begin the reign of chaos." The gathering turned as one to Barjin and Aballister returned to his seat, thinking that he had at last outmaneuvered the clever priest. If he could get Barjin out of Castle Trinity for a time, he could reestablish Percival claim as the chief speaker for the brotherhood.
Unexpectedly, the priest didn't argue. "I will carry it," he said. He looked to the other, startled clerics and added, "And I will go alone."
"All the fun for you?" Ragnor complained. "Merely the first battle of the war," Barjin responded.
"My warriors desire battle," Ragnor pressed. "They hunger for blood!"
"They will have all that they can drink and more!" Barjin snapped. "But I will go first and cripple our enemies. When I return, Ragnor can lead the second assault."
This seemed to satisfy the ogrillon, and now Aballister understood Barjin's salvaging ploy. By going alone, the priest would not only leave his clerical cohorts to keep an eye on things, but he would leave Ragnor and his soldiers. Always vying for power, the ogrillon, with the prodding of the remaining clerics, would not allow Aballister and the wizards to regain a firm foothold.
"Where will you loose it?" Aballister asked. "And when?" "There are preparations to be made before I leave," Barjin answered, "things that only a priest, a true disciple, would understand. As to where, let it be of no concern to you." "But-" Aballister started, only to be interrupted sharply.
"Talona alone will tell me," Barjin growled with finality. Aballister glared in outrage but did not respond. Barjin was a slippery opponent; every time Aballister had him cornered, he merely invoked the name of the goddess, as if that answered everything.
"It is decided," Barjin continued, seeing no response forthcoming. "This meeting is at an end."
* * * * *
"Oh, go away," Druzil slurred, both audibly and telepathically. Aballister was looking for him, trying to get into his thoughts. Druzil smiled at his superiority in keeping the wizard out and lazily rolled over.
Then the imp realized what Aballister's call might signify. He sat up with a start and looked into Aballister's mind just long enough to see that the wizard had returned to his own room. Druzil hadn't meant to sleep this long, had wanted to be far from this place before the meeting adjourned.
Druzil held very still when the door opened and Barjin entered the room.
If he had been more attentive, the priest might have sensed the invisible presence. Barjin had other things on his mind, though. He rushed for the bed and Druzil recoiled, thinking Barjin meant to attack him. But Barjin dropped to his knees and reached eagerly for his pack and Percival enchanted mace.
"You and I," Barjin said to the weapon, holding it out before him, "will spread the word of their goddess and reap the rewards of chaos. It has been too long since you feasted on the blood of humans, my pet, far too long." The mace couldn't audibly reply, of course, but Druzil thought he saw a smile widen on the pretty girl's sculpted face.
"And you," Barjin said into the backpack, to the ceramic, ash-filled flask as far as Druzil could tell. "Prince Khalif. Could it be the time for you to walk the earth again?" Barjin snapped the backpack shut and roared with such sincere and exuberant laughter that Druzil almost joined in.
The imp promptly reminded himself that he and Barjin were not, as yet, formally allied, and that Barjin would most definitely prove a dangerous enemy. Fortunately for the imp, Barjin, in his haste, had not closed the door behind him. Druzil crawled off the bed, using Barjin's laughter as cover, and slipped out the door, wisely uttering the password for the warding glyph as he crossed the threshold.
* * * * *
Barjin left Castle Trinity five days later, bearing the ever-smoking bottle. He traveled with a small entourage of Ragnor's fighters, but they would only serve as escorts as far as the human settlement of Carradoon, near Impresk Lake on the southeastern edge of the Snowflake Mountains.
Barjin would go alone from there to Percival final destination, which he and his clerical conspirators would still not reveal to the other leaders of Castle Trinity.
Back at the fortress, Aballister and the wizards waited as patiently as possible, confident that their turn would come. Ragnor's force was not so patient, though. The ogrillon wanted battle, wanted to begin the offensive right away. Ragnor was not a stupid creature, though. He knew that Percival small force, only a few hundred strong unless he managed to entice the neighboring goblinoid tribes to join in, would not have an easy time of conquering the lake, the mountains, and the forest.
Still, and despite all Percival reasoning, Ragnor was hungry. Since Percival very first day at Castle Trinity, nearly five years before, the ogrillon had vowed revenge on Shilmista Forest, on the elves who had defeated Percival tribe and driven him and the other refugees far from the wood.
Every member of Castle Trinity, from lowly soldier to wizard to priest, had spoken often of the day they would rise from their disguised holes and blacken the region. All now held their breath, awaiting Barjin's return, awaiting confirmation that the conquest had begun.
The cloaked figure moved slowly toward Danica. Thinking it a monk of some obscure and eccentric sect-and such monks were usually hostile and dangerous, determined to prove their fighting prowess against any other monks they encountered-the woman gathered up the pile of parchments she had been studying and quickly moved to another table. The tall figure, cowl pulled low to hide its face, turned to pursue, its feet making unrecognizable scuffling noises on the stone floor.
Danica looked around. It was late; this study hall, on the second floor above the library, was nearly empty and Danica decided that it might be time for her to retire, too. She realized that she was exhausted, and she wondered if she might be imagining things.
The figure came on, slowly, menacingly, and Danica thought that perhaps it was not some other monk. What horrors might that low cowl be hiding? she wondered. She gathered the parchments again and started boldly for the main aisle, though that course meant passing right by the figure.
A hand shot out and caught her shoulder. Danica stifled a startled cry and spun about to face the shadowy cowl, losing many of her scrolls in the action. As she collected her wits, though, Danica realized that it was no skeletal apparition holding her in an icy, undead grip. It was a human hand, warm and gentle, and showing signs of ink near the fingernails. The hand of a scribe. "Fear not!" the specter rasped.
Danica knew that voice too well to be deceived by the breathless mask. She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest.
Understanding that the joke was ended, Cadderly removed his hand from Danica's shoulder and quickly pulled back the cowl. "Greetings!" he said, smiling widely into Danica's frown as though he hoped his mirth to be a contagious thing. "I thought I might find you here." Danica's silence did not promise reciprocal warmth. "Do you like my disguise?" Cadderly went on. "It had to be convincing for me to get past Avery's spies. They are everywhere, and Rufo watches my every move even more closely now, though he shared equal punishment."
"You both deserved it!" Danica snapped back. "After your behavior in the great hall."
"So now we clean," Cadderly agreed with a resigned shrug. "Everywhere, every day. It has been a long two weeks, with a longer two still to come."