Free Crypt of the Shadowking by Anthony Mark Page A

mission as a true Harper, and she had been anxious to prove herself. Now she was having second thoughts. This cynical, ill-mannered, scruffy-looking scoundrel was not the legendary Harper she had been led to expect Old Master Andros, the Harper who had been her mentor, used to tell her stories of Caldorien’s adventures: how he had destroyed the Cult of Bane’s plan to seize the throne of the Empire of Amn; how he had freed an army enslaved by a bloodthirsty Calimshite sorcerer; how he had rescued hundreds of children who had been kidnapped from Waterdeep and forced to work in a goblin prince’s mines. As a child, such tales had enthralled Mari. But she was no longer a child, and Caldorien obviously was not the hero he once was.
    A wagon appeared on the dusky avenue, drawn by a pair of dark horses. On it sat two men. One held the reins, the other rested a hand comfortably on the hilt of his short sword. Zhentarim soldiers. The wagon itself was a box-shaped rig, like a gypsy wagon, and Mari knew that within it was a valuable cargo. Mari and Caledan had met with one of Cormik’s countless spies that morning. The woman had told them that a wagon entered the city’s east gate every evening bearing stiff tariffs that Cutter’s men had extracted from caravans that tried to bypass the city on their journey toward Cormyr.
    Unfortunately, the information about Cutter’s tax collectors wasn’t the only news Mari and Caledan had learned at the Prince and Pauper. The body of Cormik’s apprentice, Dario, had been discovered that morning on the north highway outside the city.
    “I suppose it was brigands,” Cormik had said, his round face haggard. “Gods know the roads are crawling with ruffians these days, what with no guards riding out on patrol. It’s Ravendas’s fault the highways aren’t safe anymore.”
    Caledan felt responsible and tried to say something, but Cormik had waved his words away. “No, Caledan,” he said wearily. “It was I who devised the little charade, not you. Besides, the culprit couldn’t be Ravendas. You and I both know that Ravendas would prefer you alive, not dead. No, Dario has always been lucky—until now.”
    Despite his grief, Cormik had been ready to help plot this night’s adventure. He was eager to help organize a resistance movement against Lord Ravendas. And for that they needed gold.
    As the wagon drew close, Man lifted the hood of her tattered gray cloak and gripped her stout walking stick tightly in one hand. Back bent, she hobbled out onto the avenue, directly in the wagon’s path. The driver swore loudly, pulling back on the reins. The wagon clattered to a stop just short of Man’s shambling form.
    “Hey there, old woman!” the driver shouted. “Make way, unless you want to spend the night in Cutter’s dungeon.” Mari just stood there, muttering under her breath as if she were some simpleminded old crone.
    “Gods, Brim, get the old witch off the road, will you?” the driver snapped. “Cutter’ll have our heads if we’re late to the countinghouse.”
    “All right, all right,” the other Zhentarim said in annoyance, climbing off the wagon. He swaggered toward Mari. “You’re in our way, hag. Be off with you, before we do something to you that you wouldn’t like.” He flashed a lurid grin at his partner, but in the moment his head was turned Mari hefted the gnarled walking stick and swung it in a whistling arc. It struck the Zhent’s jaw with a resounding crack, and the guard sprawled to the ground.
    “I guess that will teach you to respect your elders,” Mari said with a grim laugh.
    “By all the bloody gods!” the driver shouted in shock. “You’ll pay for that, you crazy old witch!” He stood up, drawing his short sword, but he never had the chance to swing it. A dark form leaped from the overhanging branch of an oak tree, landing nimbly on the roof of the wagon. The driver turned around in surprise—just as Caledan’s boot caught him square in the