Waterdeep by Troy Denning Read Free Book Online

pony.
    Afterward, Dalzhel and the men had continued north on foot, dispatching sentries to watch key crossroads. Cyric had taken the pony and arranged more trouble for Midnight’s company in the other cities they might visit.
    The hawk-nosed thief felt that his plan was both a sound and subtle one. But with no word from his messengers, he didn’t know whether or not it was working.
    Fane rapped on the door, interrupting Cyric’s reflections, then entered without awaiting permission. His face was as pale as bone. “We’ve found Alrik and Edan,” he said. “Dalzhel requests your presence.”
    Cyric frowned, then rose and grabbed his cloak. “Lead the way.” He kept his short sword in his hand, just in case Fane was leading him into a mutinous ambush.
    They slipped past the hall’s crooked door into the dark courtyard. Cyric’s boots sank to the ankle in mud. A driving rain, so cold it should have been sleet, stung his face. The eerie wail of the wind echoed from the keep’s stone walls.
    In the opposite corner of the courtyard, torchlight flickered between what had once been the guards’ barracks and the blacksmith’s shop. That was where the well was located. Fane led the way across the yard, each step creating a slurp that punctuated the hard patter of the raindrops. Three men stood beneath the inner curtain’s eaves, trying to shelter their torches and themselves from the rain. Two of the men were pointedly looking away from the well. Since it still provided water, it was the one item the castle’s periodic inhabitants kept in good repair.
    A moan, low-pitched and feral, issued from the well’s depths. Tied to the blood-smeared crossbar was a gray cord that descended into the dark pit. Dalzhel stepped forward and grabbed the cord. Without speaking, he began to pull. An anguished scream rang out deep down the well. Dalzhel allowed the cry to continue for several seconds before dropping the cord.
    “What was that?” Cyric asked, peering into the black depths.
    “Edan, we think,” Dalzhel reported.
    “He’s still alive,” Fane added informatively. “Every time we try to pull him up, he screams.”
    Though he had seen many slow deaths, and had caused one or two himself, Cyric’s stomach turned as he tried to imagine what had happened at the other end of the rope.
    Fane drew his sword to cut the rope.
    Cyric grabbed Fane’s arm and said, “No, we need the well.” He turned to the two men holding torches. “Pull him up and end his misery.”
    They paled, but did not dare object.
    Next, Dalzhel and Fane led the way to a latrine on the outer curtain. The castle had been abandoned too long for the thing to stink from use, but it exuded a coppery odor that was equal parts blood and bile. From inside came a plaintive groan.
    “Alrik,” Fane reported.
    Cyric peered inside. Alrik faced the corner, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He held his hands cupped in front of his stomach. A barbed, wooden tip protruded from his lower back, suggesting that a stake had been driven through his body. Because of the barbs, the stake could not be removed without dragging Alrik’s intestines out with it.
    When Cyric pulled his head out of the cramped room, Dalzhel said, “I’ve never seen such cruelty. I’ll lay my blade into whoever-“
    “Don’t promise what you might not dare to deliver,” Cyric said coldly. “Put an end to Alrik’s misery. Fane, wake every man and send them out on patrol in threes.”
    “They’re awake already,” Fane reported. “I could not have-” He was interrupted by a terrified yell from the inner gatehouse.
    “No!” A high screech followed. It did not fade, even after the man’s throat should have gone hoarse.
    Cyric turned toward the gatehouse, unsure of what he would find. Few humans were capable of the efficient brutality with which Alrik and Edan had been tortured. Still, the thief moved at his best pace. If he appeared frightened of the murderer, his men would no longer