The Heir of Jeragoth
Anarcorwin's Curse

Naroah looked around the dark house, uninhabited since the day of the killing, perhaps to be left empty forever. His Assassin companion, Dugan, told him that he hadn’t seen anyone go into or come out of the house nor seen a light on in it.

The front foyer was flooded with the impression of death. The Mendari focused his thoughts. Images began to form in his mind. The Assassin had entered here and surprised a servant. The servant’s death had been quick and almost painless—a pity. Naroah loved to absorb the agonized death throes of a victim. At least he had discovered that the identity of the Assassin was indeed a Tagonic elf as the Priest had told him. His lip curled up in loathing. It was a good thing the Igea worshiper had died, even if it was by the hand of a cursed Novadi.

“If you’re quite finished there,” Dugan interrupted from the stairs. The Mendari came back to the present, opened his eyes and considered whether or not to melt his brain.

“In case you forgot,” Dugan scolded, “the battle was upstairs.”

“I thought you were an Assassin.” Naroah said as he followed Dugan up the stairs. “I thought you could feel death.”

“I feel it just fine, thank you. I’m no green backstabber. I feel the life energy even though it’s two months gone. I just know how to focus on my task.” He made a sound of disgust, “The stench of Igea is all over the place.”

Naroah entered the empty bedroom slowly. Here the impression of death was far stronger. The Tagoni strength of spirit and single minded pursuit of their goals were legendary. He supposed it was only natural that in death their strength lingered on.

Once again, he closed his eyes and sent out his psychic energy. The battle between the Tagoni and the Novadi had been fierce. He glimpsed the dagger of Igea tucked into the elf’s sheath. “This assassination was sanctioned,” he said to Dugan.

“Who was the target?” Dugan asked.

“It was not the Novadi, else he would be dead,” Naroah replied.

“Then who?” Dugan asked again.

“The Priest said there was a woman and child here,” Naroah answered. “He was told the Novadi was protecting them. But I see no child. I see the woman. She looks like she might be holding a child, but I cannot see the child.”

“I don’t understand,” Dugan said.

“I will try to reach deeper,” Naroah murmured. He intensified the flow of his psychic energy, trying to discover why he couldn’t see the child.

“Look out!” Dugan shouted.

Naroah’s eyes flew open and he stepped back a pace. A green light had formed in front of him. It coalesced into the form of the Tagonic elf. The elf Assassin stood there motionless, her arms limp at her sides. She was adorned in the clothing and talons she died in, a gaping wound in her chest. Naroah took a breath and regained his composure. At least now he might get some answers. He addressed the ghost of the Assassin. “Who are you?”

“Anarcorwin, first Assassin of the High Priestess.”

“Who did you come to kill?”

“Terin Berinath.”

“The Heir? The Heir was here? Did you come to kill the Heir?” Naroah’s heart leapt at the prospect. That would explain why he could not see the child.

“Yessss.”

“Who sent you?”

“My Mistresssss.”

“How did your mistress know where to find the child?” Naroah was asking the next question before she finished answering the last.

The ghost form of the Tagonic elf looked at the Mendari for the first time, seeming only just to notice him. She smiled a slow, evil smile and said, “My mistress has a message for you...” She moved forward towards the Mendari, her taloned hands outstretched. Naroah’s exhilaration quickly evaporated.

“Be Still!” he bellowed. This did not halt her floating advance. When she reached him, her talons made of soft, pale green light, slid into his chest. Naroah screamed. His body went rigid.

Dugan was instantly beside the Tagonic ghost. He tried several times to slash her with his poisoned daggers. They just passed right through. Naroah continued to scream. Dugan reached quickly into his tunic and pulled out a small vial. Before he could get the stopper out, the ghost withdrew one set of talons from the Mendari and drove them into the Assassin’s chest.

The pain of it was unbearable. His whole body felt on fire. Dugan thought he was burning from the inside out. Indeed, the Mendari had caught fire. The light of him burning completely concealed the light of the ghost. As consciousness left Dugan, he heard a distant high pitched cackle of an old woman.

Their burning bodies both slumped to the floor. Dugan was already dead when the ghost faded, but Naroah, having mastered the art of controlling his body in intense environments and fire, fought on against the magical fire. As the rug caught fire and then the floorboards, he concentrated on healing his body as fast as the flames tried to consume it.

It was a stalemate. He could try to dimension travel to a healer of Arnitath but they might not be able to heal him and he would no longer be able to fight off the flame. The pain was unbearable and still he fought on for another hour before he died.

The entire house was a loss. No other house around it was affected. The nearby townsfolk couldn’t put out the fire. The fire brigade couldn’t put out the fire. Two Wizards came to try to put out the fire. In the end, they all stood and stared in wonder as the house burned itself completely to the ground, leaving not a single board or brick behind, and not burning anything else.

#

Bertrand smiled bleakly at the woman who stood before him. “I know investigating murders wasn’t what you had in mind when you became a Mendari.”

Lyria pushed her wild, long red hair out of her face and replied with a slight laugh, “Well, it certainly is not as exciting as adventuring with the Brothers Candril.”

A chuckle came from behind her and she heard Iliard say, “Those were wild days.”

A genuine smile briefly lit Bertrand’s face. “Yes, they were.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t much help with Assumka’s murder, Lyria said. “Whoever did it must have known you have a Mendari working for you. They were very careful to hide their face and have nothing identifiable on their clothing.”

“Of course,” Bertrand said with a bitter note in his voice. “Traitors everywhere. Well, I’m taking care of that now.”

“Huh,” Iliard commented from his place on the sofa.

Bertrand just shot him a glare and then looked back at Lyria. “I suppose you heard about what happened in Candril City last night?”

“You mean the house burning down?” Lyria asked.

“Yes,” Bertrand replied grimly. “They say it was a magical fire. I’d like you to go see if you can get a reading on it.”

“I can do that,” Lyria said.

“And I want you to bring Cranerock with you,” Bertrand added.

Lyria frowned. “I can handle this on my own. I don’t need his help.”

“I’m not questioning your ability,” Bertrand assured her. “I know you can take care of yourself. But you need a second point of view and Cranerock is uniquely qualified.”

Lyria wrinkled her nose. “I doubt he could provide any better reading than I.”

Bertrand let out an explosive sigh. “Just take him, will you?”

Lyria let out a sigh of her own. “All right Bert. But only because it’s you asking.”

“Thank you,” Bertrand said. “Do you know the way to his office?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Lyria replied as she turned to leave.

After she was gone, Bertrand said to Iliard, “Why does she always look like she dressed in a small, dark closet?”

Iliard chuckled. “She’s a Mendari. They’re like Wizards. They spend all their time studying. She doesn’t really care about what she looks like.”

“But how does she manage to make black robes look messy?” Bertrand asked.

“It’s a rare talent, I’ll admit,” Iliard said with a smile.

#

Lyria’s knock on Cranerock’s door was answered by a thin, frightened looking clerk. “I’ll tell Minister Cranerock you’re here,” he said in response to her request.

“Thank you,” Lyria replied.

The clerk showed Lyria into the small waiting room. Lyria stood near the outer door while the clerk went into Cranerock’s office. He came out a moment later and said, “Please go in.”

Lyria nodded to the clerk and walked through the open door. The clerk shut the door behind her. She felt a shiver of distaste run through her as she gazed at Cranerock sitting behind his desk, his head bent over a scroll. She wondered whose life he was about to ruin or end. He finally looked up from his scroll and said, “Please sit,” then went back to reading.

The Mendari sighed inwardly. She knew that meant that he was going to leaf through a few more scrolls and keep her waiting until it suited him to acknowledge the reason for her visit. Lyria decided she had had enough of his games. She remained standing and said, “Baron Candril wants us to investigate the fire at Erienne’s house.”

Cranerock looked up slowly and said, “I know. I just have to finish reading this scroll. Then we can go. Please sit,” he repeated.

“Of course,” Lyria said with thinly veiled sarcasm. She sat on the chair across from him and set herself for a long wait. As usual, Cranerock was hiding his aura from her knowing how much it irritated her.

About twenty minutes later, Cranerock finally rolled up the scroll and stood up. “We should get going now,” he said with a slight smile. “You know how Baron Candril hates to be kept waiting.”

Lyria imagined all sorts of ways of melting his brain. Of course, she knew she couldn’t really hurt him, his mind was a fortress. Still, it was nice to dream. “I am ready,” was all she said.

“I have been there before,” Cranerock said as he came around to the front of his desk. “I will teleport us there—if you don’t have any objections.”

“Of course not,” Lyria said. She cringed a bit when he put his gloved hand on her shoulder.

#

Two of the three moons of Gorthus had already risen when Cranerock and Lyria appeared in front of the property that was once Erienne’s home. With its stone wall and iron gate, it now looked like a cemetery.

Lyria didn’t like the feel of the place. As she and Cranerock moved closer, a sense of foreboding filled her. The place reeked of evil intent. Cranerock put his hand over the lock on the gate and it clicked open. He walked through it and blended with the shadows made by the trees. Lyria followed slowly behind, tentatively reaching out to get a better sense of the place.

Lyria discerned traces of the auras of the people who had lived in the house. The two maids, Erienne and Iliard. She knew she wouldn’t get a reading of Bertrand’s aura—she never could. She also couldn’t get a reading on the child, Alana. Perhaps the child was too young to give off a strong enough aura.

The evil Lyria felt seemed to come from two different, warring entities. She felt the sharp sting of Igea, which she had expected since the Tagoni worshipped Igea exclusively. Unexpectedly, she also felt the burning will of Arnitath. She walked over to the stone slab that was once the foundation of the house. Here the evil was strongest. She was drawn to a blackened spot on the slab. The hatred was almost overwhelming. Whatever battle had occurred had taken place here on this spot. She gathered her psychic strength and focused her thoughts on getting an impression of exactly what happened.

“Be careful,” Cranerock said softly, from behind her. “Whoever was here has left a powerful imprint.”

Lyria slid him a sideways glance and said, “I know what I’m doing, Assassin.”

“As you wish,” Cranerock replied.

Lyria closed her eyes and focused her thoughts. The images began to form in her mind. Another Mendari had been here. And also another Assassin. A battle. But with whom? Unnoticed by her, the stone at Lyria’s feet began to glow green. The glow rose, still nothing more than a pale green cloud.

“Be careful,” Cranerock repeated sharply.

Incensed at his interference, Lyria opened her eyes and cried out in agony as the ghostly green talons of Anarcorwin sank into her chest. Green flames erupted from the wound and began to consume Lyria from within.

Still in the shadows, Cranerock slowly removed one black leather glove. A casual observer might have wondered whether the hand revealed was entirely human. He raised his ungloved right hand and a ball of red flame shot from it, slammed into the vaporous form of Anarcorwin and threw her across the stone slab into the trees. Lyria dropped to her knees and concentrated on trying to heal her body ahead of the flames that threatened to engulf her.

Cranerock walked toward Lyria but changed direction when he saw the ghost of the Tagonic Assassin moving toward him. He turned toward her and took off his other glove. His eyes glowed red in the darkness. In three strides he was directly in front of her with his hands around her neck.

The specter let out a hissing laugh, slid her talons into his chest and said, “My goddess awaits your soul.”

Cranerock looked down at the luminous talons and laughed. He bared his sharp teeth and said, “I’m so good, I can kill you a second time.” The hands that encircled her neck became a garrote of red flames. He pulled her in close and whispered in her ear, “I’m going to send you to meet some of my relatives.” The talons in his chest turned to red flames that ran quickly up her arm. Anarcorwin’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the flames began to envelop her. Cranerock stepped back from her and watched until her entire form had been consumed.

He turned his attention back to Lyria, who was still on her knees with her hands extended as if in supplication, desperately trying to fight the flames. Cranerock knelt in front of her and said quietly, “I told you to be careful.”

Lyria couldn’t believe it. She was dying and he was taunting her. She wished with all her might that she could strike out at him with what little strength she had left. “Don’t worry,” he said, “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to get back at me.” He put his hands on her chest, right over the wound made by Anarcorwin and pressed his thumbs into it. Once again red flames flowed from his hands. They combined with the green fire of Anarcorwin, contained it and extinguished it.

Lyria let out a low groan and fell forward. Cranerock caught her and eased her onto the ground. She opened her eyes, looked up and him and whispered, “Thank you.”

Cranerock stared at her in surprise and replied, “You’re welcome.” Then he teleported her back to Castle Candril.

#

When Bertrand got back to his study later that evening, Iliard was waiting for him. “How’s Lyria?” he asked.

“I brought her to the Novadi stronghold and Grandmaster Philip contacted Grandmaster Jared,” Iliard replied. “She’ll make a full recovery.”

“Good,” Bertrand responded. “I think we’re going to have to send some Priests down there. We can’t have that kind of evil aura hanging around the place. It will infect the whole neighborhood.”

“I agree,” Iliard replied. “If you like, I can bring a couple of high order Priests there tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Bertrand said. “You probably know a few who could make short work of it.”

“A few,” Iliard said with a smile. His smiled faded after a moment. “We still don’t know who was there and why. Lyria was attacked before she could find out and Cranerock had to bring her back before he could investigate.”

“I know,” Bertrand responded. “I’m going to send him back to see if he finds anything.”

“You had better hope he doesn’t end up like Lyria.”

Bertrand looked at his brother with a raised eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you say he has a certain advantage as far a that’s concerned?”

Iliard shook his head and replied, “I suppose you’re right about that.” After a pause he asked, “How’s Erienne?”

Bertrand shrugged and grimaced slightly. “She’s still upset about the house.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. It’s just a house.”

“Yes, but it was her house,” Iliard said. “It would be like Castle Candril burning down.” Seeing the look on Bertrand’s face, he added, “All right, maybe that’s a bad example. But it was the only place she ever called home.”

“Well, now this is her home,” Bertrand retorted. “She has everything she needs here. What I want to know,” he went on, ignoring the skeptical look on Iliard’s face, “is how she found out about it in the first place. I never said anything about it to her.”

Iliard shrugged. “The servants hear everything. Servants talk. Someone told someone who told Erienne.”

“Yeah well,” Bertrand growled, “I’d like to find out who told her and wring their bloody neck”

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