Cyrene checked the location given to her grudgingly by Mora. She was told to look up a dwarven smith named Belif in the Low City. Probably one of the halfling's old contacts, she supposed. She was told that the dwarf had an odd tendency towards young elf females and that he would readily give away information if Cyrene were to try hard enough. She did not intend to have it that way, though. Playing a seductive elf with an old dwarf was not what she would consider a particularly appealing option. Considering, though, that she was being hunted, she chose to come in the form of a half-elf female that looked nothing like she – shoulder-length green hair that was common among wood elves, skin with a coppery hue and blue eyes. In this form, her build was more slight and her ears more round.
Unceremoniously, the half-elf rang the bell that hung in front of the door and found that it was probably attached there just because the owner had nothing better to hang; it gave no sound at all, so she pushed in the door, which creaked aloud – a better alarm than any bell would do. The workshop did not look as bad as she expected. It was made mostly of stone, though, while surrounding buildings were made of woods; dwarves favored stones over woods, saying that woods would not last as long. The plain workshop had weapons and armor displayed here and there, emphasizing the owner's occupation. The heat from the forge in the inner part of the shop warmed the air that it was almost intolerable. Longing for a bucket of cold water, Cyrene wiped a bead of sweat from her brow.
A gruffly voice greeted her, its owner still absorbed in his work and did not bother to turn to the half-elf. “'Ello there. What do ye want with me?”
Leaning on the wall, keeping as much distance as possible from the forge – and from the old dwarf – she replied, “What do you have to offer?”
The dwarf turned to her, both thick gray eyebrows rising. “Ah, an elf lass, eh? Welcome, welcome! Belif Stonereaper at your service!”
“A half-elf,” she corrected, “not an elf, thank you.”
“Touchy on that, ain't ye?”
“My lineage, I believe, is not a matter that requires your concerns,” she retorted coolly.
Belif made a short show of tsking, eyeing her in the way that made her itch to reward him with a magic missile. “Bite a lot, lasses these days. Where be the soft lasses with sweet eyes nowadays?”
“Those, I'm fairly certain,” she said, switching to the honeyed tone that most would hear before she made her point at the tip of a blade, “you can find aplenty in local brothels. Why not try that some time? Or, perhaps, they don't let you in?”
Again, he made a show of being hurt. “Ouch. This one bites hard,” he muttered. “Alrighty, missy, what do ye want?”
“Information. That and I have no more to ask.”
He narrowed his eyes, and the glint in them confirmed that he was no befuddled smith that he had put up as a façade. “No doubt some meddlesome friend of mine has sent ye. How about an exchange? Tell me who sent ye, and I might – might, mind ye – have the information ye want.”
Though certain that Mora was capable of taking care of herself, Cyrene replied with caution, “A retired rogue sent me.”
“Bah, how many 'retired rouges' do ye think I know? A name, lass, a name.”
“There's no promise that, even if I tell you, you'd have what I need,” she retorted dryly. “Why should I pre-sign a death contract for this rogue?”
“Got a good point there. Well, tell me then what ye be after, and I'll see if I should ask the name of this rogue of yers.”
The half-elf grimaced. Information, even the smallest bit of them, was precious. Then again, she was under an illusion. That, at any rate, assured her safety enough. “I'm looking for a wizard… A Red Wizard. I believe her abode is in underground – I do have the knowledge of an entrance to that, but being what it is, I'm led to believe that there's more than one passage. Would that do?”
The aged eyes now narrowed to mere slits, lending the dwarf a rather unpleasant aspect of an ill-tempered beast ready to strike. “A Red Wizard, hmm? Ye be treading a dangerous ground, missy.” He leaned his hammer against the wall, standing up. “Badly enough, I do happen to have a map for that. Now, do tell, from whom did ye know I would have what ye need?”
“Mora, the halfling rogue.”
Belif snapped his fingers. “Aha! That one. Hmm…” He looked her up and down, making a more careful scrutiny. “I know her to have a student. A half-elf, like ye, but looks a lot different.”
Cyrene shrugged, putting up an image of absolute ignorance. “Well, I'm a student to no one that you know of. So, the bargain should be sealed… given, I suppose, if I can provide you a proper amount of wage?”
The dwarf waved a hand to forestall her. “Wait a minute, lass, I don't think there be many elf-blooded lasses Mora would know.” He chuckled wryly, seeing a jade-green eyebrow rising. “'Sides, a knack for disguises ye sure have, but no need to play that here. Come on, lass, show up yer pretty face. Green hair gets on my nerves. Silver, though just as unnerving, looks a lot better. Moreover, ye be safe here from the scums of yer guild. Aye, ye be thinking how do I know that, eh?” The last he said when she frowned. “Never underestimate an old man – or old dwarf, for that matter – I say, miss Cyrene.”
Reluctantly, she dispelled her illusion. “Satisfied?” she said, her tone somewhat acidic as the ensorcelled visage melted away, revealing a taller half-elf.
“Aye, much better. Ye know, I've got a thing for purple eyes.”
Stop droning, will you? That, of course, was not let out. “Well?” she insisted.
Much to her surprise, the dwarf was truly concerned. “Think again, will ye? I'll help with what I can, all right, but this red-headed harpy is no one to mess with.”
She frowned again. “You do know her?”
“Aye. A little too much.”
“How coincidental,” she muttered dryly. “Well, I'm pretty capable of defending myself, and I do know my limitations. I'm not going against her foolhardy and-“
“Want to speed yer death, eh?” he interrupted. “Alright. If ye be so eager to get a trip to afterlife, then help ye I will. One thing though, Miss Mora'll have a real good cause to strangle me this time.” The last he added under his breathe.
* * * *
“Yer alright, missy?”
“Why shouldn't I be?” Cyrene returned, shaking her head to clear it. A full night's sleep did not seem to suffice for what had been taxed from her by spellbooks and hours of study. The weariness did not find her yielding, though. She did sway once, but otherwise she would not let it win.
That was, minus the stench of the sewers that was threatening to choke her. As Belif had said, the section was secreted well, and very few knew of it. The drainage was rusty, and the stinking water was filled with many corpses floating on its surface – rats, mostly – and she had no desire to puzzle out the rest. Their footsteps resonated hollowly in the tunnel, the sound bouncing back and forth, accompanied by softer noises of small animals that inhabited the place and dripping water.
The dwarf, however, did not seem bothered in the least. He calmly walked forward, only partly caring if she was following or not. At last, Belif stopped. He turned around, groping the flat wall as if looking for something. “Aha,” he intoned when he found what he was looking for. To her astonishment, he tugged his axe from his belt and smashed the solid wall. Expecting that to merit very little other than notching the axe, Cyrene was surprised to see when the stony wall turned out to be made of wood. From that, he plucked out a pyramid-shaped object and assembled it with an identical piece from his pouch. That done, he glanced around some more, and placed the object into a small hole nearby, twisting it like a key. Several minutes passed, and the object glowed softly and buzzed. A door suddenly came into existence, sliding open from the wall.
“A dreary way these secret doors come,” the half-elf muttered.
“Not really, lass,” replied the dwarf. “It won't be boring if that red-headed harpy suddenly checks this passage of hers.”
“I thought you were certain it's secreted,” she said, more just to fill the emptiness and lack of sounds.
He shrugged. “Nothing's this world's ever certain, lass. Now, let's go,” he said as he poked his head into the passage, seeming to lead her in.
"You don't need to-"
"I've got a score to settle with that harpy, missy, and this is precisely the time to do so." Seeing her begin to frown, he added, “'Sides, this could be far more pleasant than being skinned alive inch by inch by yer 'teacher'.”
“Fine,” she said, sighing irritably. “Fine. Don't complain then if we meet again in the after life.”
“That much, lass,” the dwarf said with a grin. “I be ready ever since I know that halfling.”
The tunnel was small and narrow that even the lithe half-elf had to crawl on all fours and still somehow felt as if her surrounding was trying to squeeze itself in and suffocate her – not a most alluring way to end one's days and certainly not what she'd ask for a way to die – and what seemed to be soil kept falling on her head. It snaked and crisscrossed in twisty directions; curved here, turned there and then straight again over and over. After what seemed many hours to her, they came to the end of this torturous trip. Belif went out first, following by a stumbling half-elf. What dexterity Cyrene usually possessed, it was all erased away by this single miserable tunnel. As much as she tended to overlook the fact that the elven blood in her was stronger than she'd like to admit, she instantly understood the dwarven phrase – 'elves – with the exception of drow – just aren't made for living underground'.
Arising to her feet with rather wounded dignity, she inhaled a deep breath, feeling as if she'd been underwater for hours and that her lungs were burning for oxygen. In fact, it did not have that much difference, except that she would prefer underwater over this ten times with hostile sea elves, a pack of sharks and a hunting party of sahuagin surrounding her too, at that.
“You could go back now, if you've changed your mind,” Cyrene said to the dwarf, who had no problem at all with the crawling and had emerged without any trouble.
“No way, missy. 'Sides, that way's used in case of emergency, so to speak, and it can't be reopened 'less you have another piece of key to open it from this side.”
She groaned. “Splendid. Simply splendid. Remind me, next time, to bring a pickaxe too, will you?”
Cyrene later thanked the dwarf's courtesy of following silently, though, as he seemed to know the way here pretty well – that was, provided that no betrayal was forthcoming. In that case, she made an oath to herself that she would roast Belif alive and banish him to the depth of the Lower Planes.
They went on without any noise, invisible by the half-elf's spell. Much to her relief, the place was guarded. If it were not, she'd feel rather insulted and uneasy. A pair of unpleasant-looking men was guarding what appeared to be flat wall, but the dwarf informed her that it probably was a secret door. A moment of searching revealed a thread-thin outline in the stone to her sensitive eyes and confirmed that it was true – yet another ability inherited from the elven blood. She nodded to the dwarf, her hands moving to her arsenal of weapons. This might as well alarm the owner of this abode, but then, that was exactly her intention. Spells, however, she must save and store for later, more important usage.
Fishing an enspelled dart from the pouch at her side, she aimed it at the man to her left. Expectedly enough, the small needle in the dart bit into the man's flesh, sending him into a deep slumber. Alert now, and incredulous by the sudden unconsciousness of his comrade, the second man glanced around nervously and found Cyrene, whose presence was revealed by her sudden assault. He did not expect the coming axe of the dwarf, though, and his head soon came rolling down on the floor, following by the headless corpse that fell with a thud, blood gushing and painting the floor crimson. A protest was ready at Cyrene's lips when Belif finished the sleeping man off, but the fact of necessity got the better of her, so she remained quiet as he dragged both bodies to more shadowy corner. She did make a mental note, though, that if the situation were reversed, her head would surely be the one that was rolling.
“Any idea where does this door lead to?” she asked the dwarf softly as she traced her fingers experimentally along the door's outline, checking if there was any magical ward. He shrugged, motioning at another side of the wall. She followed his gesturing, and found that there were several more alike doors. “A dungeon?”
“Precisely so, lass.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “But it's usually empty. Wonder who's been stored in this one – and guarded.”
“Usually empty?”
“Don't look at me like that, missy, I'm no spy,” Belif said when the half-elf turned a narrow-eyed glance at him. “Not that I've got anything to prove, but do ye trust yer old mentor? Yes? No? Anyway, think carefully, would she send you to someone untrustworthy?” Apparently, that did not convince her, so he continued, “Suffice to say that I've got… an eye for such matters here.”
“How convenient,” she stated dryly. “You wouldn't mind telling me who your 'eye' is, would you?”
“Do ye go around shouting that ye be a mage?”
“No,” she admitted, seeing what the dwarf was leading to.
“Professional secret it is, then.”
The strong odor of a long-neglected place greeted her as they entered the chamber behind the stone door – sweat, unwashed smell and probably uneaten food that was left to rot and decay. Her eyes slowly adjusting from the torchlight outside to the darkness within the cell, she detected a red outline of a humanoid shape. She then let out a nearly inaudible gasp of surprise, causing Belif to follow her in.
Half-leaning, half-crumbled in a pile of flesh and tattered robes was the mage Kibryan. “What happened to you?” asked the half-elf, rather disbelievingly, as she knelt down.
The gray eyes slowly opened. “Who's there?” A word was quickly uttered and a pale glow of blue light answered him, hovering above his head and illuminating the half-elf's grim face and the dwarf's outraged expression. Kibryan lowered his eyelids at the unaccustomed light. “I haven't seen any light for… days?” He sighed. “I've lost track of time, I fear.”
“That bad?” asked Cyrene, cocking her head slightly and ignoring the near-bursting Belif. “Anyway, what did you do to get into this?”
“Misguided experiments, so to speak.” He left 'helping to rescue you' unspoken, but still it hung in the air, lingering as an echo to an unvoiced accusation.
The half-elf pursed her lips, the sentiment of guilt she knew so well of late rising in her chest. Swallowing and forcing it back, she said with a modulated tone, “Belif? Can you be a lookout? I think someone would soon notice that something is wrong here.”
“Damn it, lad, never listen to my warning, do you?” he blurted out, after being subdued by shock for a long moment before retorting to the half-elf with a glare that said, 'I'm not your lackey, girl, so don't even think of ordering me around'.
A weak smile accompanied the mage's response. “No, I'm afraid. You've just come in time, though – before I really go mad-“ He made a disgusted gesture at the chamber's condition. “-by this. Not even a good piece of furniture. What?” The last he asked when Cyrene tossed a ring into his lap.
“A ring of teleportation,” she replied as Belif grudgingly left to do as the half-elf's earlier request. The ring was, in fact, her only mean of escape should the situation was truly pressing – her spells would need to know both this place and her destination to transport her, and she had no idea where this underground dwelling was. It took her only some minutes if self-debate. She disliked being indebted, and the debt must be returned in kind, always. As was revenge. “Now, whatever gratitude I ought to feel compelled to pay is given.”
“That's a tad too harsh, lady,” he murmured.
She returned with a shrug when he lifted his hands to her, indicating that they were shackled and broken. “That's easy to fix. Khetsaram pakliol,” she intoned confidently, making a simple gesture by one hand as another tracing along the links with practiced fingers. The manacles obediently fell down to the floor, clattering noisily.
“Ah, damn, I didn't know it could be broken that easily.”
Cyrene raised an eyebrow. “Depends on how advanced you are. I'd be happy to discuss magic with you, had we been in a more luxurious place,” she said when she saw the look he gave her – of an eager student. Not that, to be honest, she possessed that degree of tolerance and knowledge – much less being a teacher. “But now, you better leave here before we're seen and thrown into cells again.”
“And what about you?”
Somehow, that was jostling enough to push her to a rather uncharacteristic snap. “Did you think I came here just to drag you out of this place? And why on Toril would I know you are imprisoned, for that matter?”
“Well,” he said, more carefully now. “This is going to be stupid, I know, but why would you drag yourself into this place?”
“I need to settle something with your so-called mistress.”
He looked genuinely incredulous. “What? Is one time not enough? Why, I thought-“
The half-elf had no intention of letting him finish. She thrust the ring into one of his broken fingers, causing him to wince with pain, and twisted it, quickly pulling her own hand back before the ring was activated. Within a matter of seconds, Kibryan disappeared, the wide-eyed surprise on his face the last thing she saw. Now, even possessing such a twisted sense of humor as Cerisha was, there would surely be a long lecture awaiting Cyrene. Depositing leftovers from her 'lurking mischief', as the priestess had dubbed, too often was going a little too far beyond personal jests.
“I hope that wasn't our only way out?” asked the dwarf from behind.
Turning, she answered, “Yes.”
“Have the guts, you sure do, missy,” Belif complained, “but that was a tad too much for comfort.”
“Just when did I ask you to come with me?” the half-elf returned smoothly.
* * * *
Grrr. I thought I was going to finish it in this chapter, put in an epilogue and be done with it. The... damn... thing... won't... let... me... do... that...!
*runs a hand through her hair, hoppinh up and down and then lets out a scream of frustration and madness*
Scared of me yet, anyone?
As always, anything you want to throw at me is welcome.
On a spiral road
