Tymora's Luck Read online

  By the light of the finder’s stone, Joel chanted the incantation inscribed on the scroll as Holly fought to hold off the slasrath. When the bard finished, he motioned toward the slasrath’s eyestalks, both focused on the paladin.

  A light as bright as day burst about the slasrath’s head. The beast howled in terror and soared upward. It hovered high above them, shaking its head, trying to throw off the light spell that now blinded it. It flew about in a spiral until it hit the mountainside. Then it lay still against the slope.

  Emilo came pelting back up to Joel as fast as his short legs could carry him.

  “You’ve got to come quick,” the kender said breathlessly. “I think Jas has been poisoned.”

  They hopped on the carpet and Emilo ordered it to fly low along the floor of the canyon.

  Jas lay on the ground on her stomach with her wings spread around her, effectively camouflaging her from view. Her left calf had swollen to the size of a melon, and her breathing was strained and shallow.

  Joel dug frantically through the scrolls until he discovered one to neutralize poison. He set his hand on Jas’s injured leg and chanted from the scroll. Blue light flowed from his hand and seeped into the winged woman. The swelling subsided slightly and Jas moaned. After a few minutes her breathing grew steadier and less labored. Emilo pulled out a water flask and helped Jas take a few sips.

  Holly looked back down the canyon while Joel and Emilo aided the winged woman. “I’m going to finish taking care of that creature,” the paladin said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Before Joel could stop her, Holly began trekking back to where they’d last fought the slasrath. Joel called after her, but the paladin had already disappeared behind an outcropping of rock.

  “Should I follow her?” Emilo asked.

  Intent on casting a spell to heal Jas’s injuries, Joel nodded without really thinking.

  When the magical energy finished seeping into her, Jas sighed and sat up. “I’m getting too old for this,” the winged woman grumbled.

  Holly and Emilo returned a few minutes later. Holly sat down and proceeded to clean the slasrath’s ichor from her blade.

  “I wish you wouldn’t run off like that,” Joel snapped.

  “You blinded the thing. It would be cruel not to put it out of its misery quickly,” the paladin countered. “Now we can camp here without worrying about it coming back.”

  Joel sighed. There was no sense arguing with Holly. The paladin was always certain she was doing the right thing.

  The canyon floor was covered with black flinty ash and broken hexagonal columns of stone that had sheared away from the mountainside above. The ground was warm but solid. It was also sterile. Nothing grew anywhere, not even lichen on the rocks.

  The adventurers set up camp on the carpet so they could flee quickly if attacked. They shared a meal from Winnie’s supplies. Holly insisted that she wasn’t very tired and took the first watch along with Emilo.

  Joel slept fitfully in the Gehennan heat. He dreamt of the Realms being beset with nothing but bad luck—earthquakes, floods, and fires. Others died all around him, crushed, drowned, and burned, yet he remained unharmed. He realized he must be in a dream. Since he knew he was dreaming, he tried to qualm his fears of the disasters he witnessed. If Selune’s suspicions were correct, it was not only Tymora’s luck that was being drained, but Beshaba’s as well. Eventually the bad luck would end, too. Yet that thought would not quell Joel’s dream fears, and the bard thought he understood why.

  When Beshaba and Tymora were salvaged from the poisoned Tyche, perhaps they didn’t really each possess a different kind of luck. Perhaps their very nature shaped the luck they had. Even were it within her power, the selfish and vengeful Beshaba would never grant anyone good luck, just as the kind and generous Tymora would never curse someone with misfortune. Now another power, was stealing both Beshaba’s and Tymora’s luck. If an evil, selfish god had dominion over good luck, “good” luck would cease to exist.

  Just when the bard thought his dreams couldn’t get any worse, he dreamt again of the children.

  Offstage

  Somewhere else in the Prime Material Plane on the world known as Toril in Realmspace, Amber Wyvernspur watched with annoyance as her cousin Cory jumped across the marble tiles of the floor of the family mausoleum. Either Cory was especially lucky from being favored by Tymora or his father had been fool enough to demonstrate the secret pattern to him. A rectangular section of the floor dropped a foot lower than the surrounding floor and slid away, revealing a staircase leading downward.

  “We have to hurry,” Cory said. “The door doesn’t stay open for long.”

  Tavan and Toran took up the torches they had just lit and took the lead. Cory, Lumen, and Ferrin hurried after them.

  “Are there any spiders?” Heather asked uncertainly.

  “Giant ones, as big as cats, with furry bodies,” Olivia said gleefully. “We’ll catch one and make it a pet.”

  “All right,” Heather agreed. She didn’t like spiders, but she loved cats.

  The two younger girls headed down the stairs, leaving Amber with Pars.

  “Pars, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” the eldest Wyvernspur child said to her youngest brother.

  “I’m not a baby,” Pars shouted, and he started down the stairs, backward, so he could negotiate the steep steps without falling.

  Amber sighed and followed behind him. The mausoleum had been chill, but on the stairs, warm air rose up from below. The warmth failed to dispel the gooseflesh on Amber’s neck and arms.

  At the bottom of the stairs the way was blocked with a heavy leaden door, on which was painted the image of a red wyvern. Heather pulled out Uncle Steele’s key and turned it in the lock.

  “What does that say?” Olivia asked, pointing to words engraved in the stone over the door.

  Amber took Tavan’s torch and held it up high. “ ‘None but Wyvernspurs shall pass this door and live,’ ” she read aloud.

  “Neat!” Tavan said as he and his brother pushed open the door.

  From the stairs above came a shout, a hoarse, growling war cry.

  “What’s that?” Ferrin whispered.

  Amber looked back up the stairs with alarm. Something outside the mausoleum, something that must have been lurking in the graveyard, had followed them through the secret door. She squinted into the darkness and caught sight of glowing red eyes and the flash of a steel sword. A moment later she was able to make out the outline of a tall, hairy creature with a face like a pig’s.

  “It’s an orc!” Amber shouted, throwing the torch she held at the creature. “Run!” she screamed.

  The cousins raced through the door. Amber stopped only long enough to pick up Pars before dashing after the others. There was no time to close the door behind them.

  The crypt beyond the door was a vast tunneled chamber with straight walls and a curved ceiling. The children’s footfalls and screams echoed along the passage as they ran through the crypt. In the wall at the far end of the room was an arched opening that led to another stairway leading down.

  “Wait!” Amber shouted as she passed beneath the arch. “Don’t go down into the catacombs! It’s dangerous down there!”

  The others halted on the stairs and glared back at their eldest cousin.

  “It’s dangerous up here, too,” Tavan whispered angrily. “Or hadn’t you noticed, Lady Amber?”

  “The orc can’t get past the guardian,” Amber said.

  Tavan and Toran climbed back up to the landing beside the arched entrance and looked back into the crypt. By the light of the torch Amber had thrown, the children could make out at least five orcs hovering at the doorway at the opposite end of the crypt.

  The orcs were grunting and growling at one another as if they were arguing about something. Finally two of the orcs entered the crypt and began moving slowly across the length of the stone chamber as silently as cats. They were dressed in shabby, torn clot
hing, but they were both armed with swords.

  “They’re going to get us,” Toran hissed.

  “No. Look,” Amber said, pointing toward the crypt’s ceiling.

  The shadow of a great wyvern, even more silent than the orcs, floated along the ceiling and hovered over the trespassers. Suddenly a great shadowy tail plunged downward twice—a quick stab into the back of each orc.

  The orcs howled and fell forward stiffly, without any effort to break their fall. A shadowy wyvern’s neck and head snaked down over its kill, lifted one of the orcs in its huge maw, and bit it in half with a sickening, crunching sound.

  Pars began to cry. Amber covered his eyes, whispering, “Don’t look, honey.”

  The orcs who had remained standing in the doorway screamed and shouted in their own language, but they made no effort to rescue their companions. Unfortunately they didn’t leave, either, but stood eyeing the children at the other end of the room with hatred, waving their swords threateningly.

  From the stairs where he stood transfixed with the other children, Cory murmured, “Uh-oh.”

  “I think we have another problem,” Olivia said.

  Amber looked down the stairs. Climbing up toward them were several black-scaled creatures with white horns and tails like rats. Amber recognized them as kobolds, monsters at least as vicious as orcs. They were no taller than Pars, but they held loaded crossbows, aimed directly at the children.

  “I guess this is the proverbial rock and a hard place that Uncle Giogi’s always talking about,” Lumen muttered.

  Inspired by the thought of his father, Cory declared, “Enough is enough!” He drew himself up to his full height and shouted down at the kobolds, “We carry the goddess Tymora’s blessing. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll flee now.”

  The kobolds tittered and guffawed. The one in the lead drew himself up to his full height and, in a broken version of the common tongue, replied, “We carry blessings of Beshaba. We ask her kiss you with misfortune, you die.”

  Act Three

  Scene 2

  Joel awoke drenched in sweat and anxious. He’d dreamt the Wyvernspur children were trapped in a cave by foul monsters. They had called upon Tymora, but Tymora’s luck was gone from the Realms, leaving them helpless. The bard shook his head. Selune had said she would check on the children, but perhaps his warning had come too late. Of course, it was possible that the dream had nothing to do with reality, but Joel doubted it. He rolled over, praying that Selune was able to do something for Finder’s mortal family.

  Soon after falling back asleep, the dreams returned. Joel dreamt of the earthquake in Tymora’s garden. In his dream, however, the birch tree fell on top of him instead of away from him. He tried to push the trunk off his body, but it was soggy and rotten. A section broke off, leaving his hands covered with slime.

  After several more attempts, Joel managed to wriggle out from beneath the tree.

  “Joel,” the tree called.

  Joel whirled about. Buried within the rotting tree trunk was Finder. The tree fell away from the god. Then Finder began to age until he was an ancient, toothless old man. Joel gasped.

  “Find Beshaba,” Finder said. “Take her to the Spire.”

  “Is she here in Gehenna?” Joel asked. “And why the Spire? How do we get there?”

  Finder didn’t answer Joel’s question. The god’s flesh fell from his skeleton. Then the skeleton’s mouth clacked, “Barghests use fear.”

  The ground began to shake once more, until gradually Joel realized it wasn’t the ground shaking. Emilo was shaking him awake, calling his name.

  “I’m awake,” Joel said, some unknown fear making his heart pound and bringing him to instant alertness. “What’s wrong?” he demanded of the kender.

  “It’s Holly,” Emilo explained. “She started muttering to herself. Then she cried out, ‘Danger! Run!’ and ran off.” Emilo pointed deeper into the canyon.

  Joel shivered despite the hot air. “There’s something wrong here.” His breathing grew very fast. “There’s something terrible. Something dangerous all around us,” he declared. With a rising sense of panic, he rose quickly to his feet, only to be seized with sudden, overwhelming fear. He started to run down the canyon and disappeared in the darkness.

  Emilo shook his head with confusion. The bard had left in such a hurry that he’d left the finder’s stone lying on the carpet. The kender was just about to wake Jas when it occurred to him that the winged woman might be better off left sleeping. Instead, he scooped all the party’s gear into the center of the flying carpet. Then, with the finder’s stone clutched in his hands, he ordered the carpet to fly after the terrified bard and paladin.

  Joel ran pell-mell down the canyon, heedless of whether Emilo and Jas were following or were left behind and equally heedless of what lay ahead. He tripped over something metallic and sprawled across the rocky ground.

  Joel rose to his hands and knees and looked around. A plume of molten lava shot into the sky on the slope overhead, and by its light, Joel was able to see what had impeded his flight. Holly lay on the ground nearby, unconscious but breathing.

  A moment later something pounced heavily on Joel’s back and sent him sprawling again. When he looked up, he was face-to-snout with a growling wild dog with glowing red eyes and horrible breath.

  “N-N-Nice doggie,” the bard whispered cautiously. He debated in his mind whether he should back away slowly or flee outright. His courage returned to him, however, and he held his ground, unwilling to abandon Holly to this beast.

  Before his eyes, the dog transformed into a giant humanoid with a flat face, broad nose, pointed ears, and sharp teeth and fangs. It resembled some sort of overgrown goblin, except its skin had a strange purplish color. It raised a huge fist covered in a spiked gauntlet.

  Joel could feel his heart racing, and a surge of energy rushed through his body. He ducked, but not fast enough. The gauntlet struck him in the side of the head with the force of a heavy club. Aware that his life depended on it, Joel spent several moments fighting against the darkness trying to claim him. In the end, he lost.

  When he regained consciousness, the bard found himself lying on his stomach, his feet and his knees bound together and his hands tied behind his back. Holly lay beside him, similarly trussed with what appeared to be torn strips of blue fabric. The paladin was awake now, glaring at their captor.

  About twenty feet away, seated beside a bubbling pool of lava, was the giant goblin who’d hit him. It was tearing strips of cloth from Joel’s cloak and dangling them over the lava. When a strip caught fire, the barghest would shake it until it was about to burn his fingers, then drop it in the lava pool, where the cloth made a brilliant flash before finally incinerating completely.

  “What’s happening?” the bard whispered.

  “We’ve been captured,” Holly whispered back.

  “I can see that,” Joel muttered. “By what? I seem to have misplaced my Volo’s guide to Gehenna.”

  “It’s a barghest,” Holly explained. “Remember? Finder mentioned them when he was telling us about Gehenna. They can shapeshift into wild dogs.”

  Joel recalled the last words Finder spoke in his dream. “Barghests use fear,” he quoted.

  “Yes,” Holly said. “They can cast several different spells, including those to effect the emotions of their prey. This one must have cast magic to make us fear our own campsite. I was so afraid that I abandoned you and Jas and Emilo and fled right into a snare. Then something bashed me on the head.”

  “Me, too,” Joel acknowledged. Even with Finder’s warning, he hadn’t managed to see through the barghest’s trick. “Except I tripped on you before getting smashed in the head. What else do you know about barghests?” he asked the paladin, hoping to learn something that might help free them.

  “They leave their young in the Realms to forage for themselves. The young tend to live with goblins. The immature barghests eat people, preferably heroes. That’s how they grow
in strength. There was one terrorizing travelers around Daggerdale a year or so ago. I was with the party that hunted it down. According to Elminster, when they gain enough power, barghests return to Gehenna, but sometimes they return sooner, before they’re ready, if they’re fireballed in their canine form. I think that’s what happened to this one. It’s not as tall as most of them and its skin isn’t quite all blue. That’s how you tell when a barghest is mature.”

  A great wolflike dog appeared out of the darkness and immediately transformed into another barghest. The second barghest sat down beside the first. This creature, like the first, was about seven feet tall with purplish skin. “Lucky us,” the bard murmured. “There’s two of them, but they’re not fully grown.”

  The barghests made growling sounds at each other, speaking in a language Joel did not know.

  Holly smiled suddenly. “Emilo took off on the carpet with Jas. They weren’t captured.”

  Joel gave a sigh of relief. He’d been feeling guilty about abandoning the pair, but they were probably safer than he. “You can understand the barghests?” he asked the paladin.

  Holly nodded. “A little,” she said. “They’re arguing about who gets which one of us.”

  “This might be a good time to break the harps Finder gave us and go back to Fermata,” Joel said.

  “Probably,” Holly agreed. “Can you reach your harp?”

  Joel wriggled in his bindings. “Um … no.”

  “Me either,” Holly said.

  Suddenly, from the outer ridge of the canyon, someone shouted, “Hey, dog-breath!”

  “It’s Emilo!” Joel whispered excitedly. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the kender, hoping to warn him away.

  Emilo stood alone on the ridge, the finder’s stone shining at his feet. He held his thumbs up to his temples and wriggled his fingers at the barghests. “Why don’t you go back to your doggie shapes? Then you could round up some sheep.”

  The barghests rose to their feet. One moved farther down the canyon, while the other began to move toward Emilo.