Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  As the Black Lord stood over her, Mystra suddenly became aware of his presence and released a single shred of her power—a modified geas spell meant for her intended avatar. The spell took the form of a bluish white falcon, soared into the night sky, and escaped. Bane ordered Blackthorne to follow the magical creature. The emissary transformed into a great black raven that took flight after the falcon, only to lose sight of it in Arabel.

  When he imprisoned the goddess in the dungeon of Castle Kilgrave with mystic chains born of enchanted fires, Bane felt a wave of power rush across the room. The barren rock dungeon shook as Mystra came to her senses and tested the strength of her bonds.

  And then Bane summoned a horror to keep Mystra weak and tractable.

  Come, monster, I call you into this plane, as my minions have so many times before.

  Bane heard a growl, deep in the back of his mind as the creature replied, I come.

  It first appeared as a swirling red mist, spiraling like a cyclone as it rose up and sprouted hundreds of quivering, misshapen hands that cleaved the air before the goddess hungrily. An equal number of pale yellow eyes suddenly opened, and they floated all around the swirling mist, passing like ghosts through their fellows as they darted back and forth, each eye anxious to study its prey from every angle. Finally, a score of wounds tore through the mists, revealing gaping mouths that reached back into an endless succession of dark dimensions. The mouths opened and closed rapidly as a cry that could only be considered one of hunger was loosed from them.

  Mystra recognized the creature: it was a hakeashar, a being from another plane with a voracious appetite for magic. Bane had no doubt made a pact with the monster. In return for aid in crossing into the Prime Material Plane, the monster would give the Black Lord something he valued—power. For the hakeashar had the ability to release some of the magic it consumed, and Bane would want that raw energy to power his plans.

  Mystra considered her options. If Bane had been foolish enough to enter into a pact with the creature, known for its treacherous nature, there might be a way she could use it to her advantage.

  “We have much to discuss,” Bane said, the hakeashar hovering behind him.

  “Why have you imprisoned me?” Mystra said.

  “I will be happy to release you from these shackles once you have heard me out … And you agree to help me complete my plan.”

  “Go on.”

  “I wish to form an alliance of the gods” Bane said. “Swear your allegiance to me and my cause, Goddess, and I will set you free.”

  Despite the presence of the hakeashar, Mystra could not hold back her laughter. “You’re mad,” she said.

  “No,” Bane said. “Merely practical.” He turned to the creature. “She’s yours,” Bane said calmly “But remember our agreement.”

  Of course.

  A hundred eyes turned from Bane and this time Mystra could not hold back her screams.

  When it was over, the grotesque creature giggled and fed its own glowing eyes into its gaping maws, ready to sleep now that it had feasted. Mystra was surprised to find herself alive. The pain, even in her nebulous form, had been horrifying.

  Bane screamed curses at the creature until it opened a few eyes and let loose a burst of bluish white fire that enshrouded the villain. After a moment, Bane literally pulsed with stolen power.

  “Enough!” Bane cried, and the blue-white fires ceased.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Mystra said as she struggled sluggishly with her bonds. “You stole the Tablets of Fate. I suspected you from the beginning.”

  “I took them,” Bane said, and the creature he had brought to this plane slumped in place, swallowed the last of its eyes and fell into a deep, silent slumber. “Along with Lord Myrkul.”

  “Ao will make you pay for this,” she said, and Bane felt a trace of the magic that had been siphoned from her curl within him, waiting to be unleashed.

  “Ao will have no power over me,” the Black Lord said, his laughter filling the chamber.

  Since that night, Bane had let the hakeashar take Mystra’s power, which seemed to replenish itself like the blood cells of a human, more than a a dozen times. Each time, Bane received a fraction of that energy, according to the terms of his bargain with the creature.

  Each time he was given more power, Bane prowled the corridors of New Acheron, the former Castle Kilgrave, longing for his true temple, and wishing for someone to share his triumphs with. Blackthorne was away almost constantly, either supervising matters in Zhentil Keep or searching for some sign of the magic Mystra had loosed before her capture. The handful of humans Blackthorne had conscripted to look after Bane’s human needs were pitiful examples of the species, and Bane had no interest in any of them.

  Today, Lord Bane stood in the massive dungeon beneath Castle Kilgrave, staring at the still water of the scrying pool he had constructed, speaking to Lord Myrkul. Much of the room—much of the castle, in fact—had been modified to suit Bane’s needs, and Castle Kilgrave had undergone many changes since the god took it over as a base. The Black Lord had attempted to magically sculpt certain chambers and hallways into replicas of his Temple of Suffering in Acheron, although his efforts had met with failure much of the time. The instability of magic made it impossible, even for a god, to throw every spell accurately, and when using magic, Bane felt like an artist attempting to paint without benefit of hands. The shape of the castle was almost amusing to Bane except for its existence as a monument to his loss, and in that regard it gave no pleasure to the displaced god.

  “What do you hope to achieve by draining Mystra’s power?” Myrkul said impatiently. “Your mortal form can contain only so much power at a time, and the vessel must always be refilled.”

  “You miss the point,” Bane said. “You and I formed an alliance when we stole the tablets together.”

  “A temporary alliance,” Myrkul said. “Which has hardly proven successful. Look at what we have become. Less than gods, more than men. What place have we in the Realms, Lord Bane?”

  Bane looked at the emaciated, almost skeletal face of Myrkul’s avatar, then thought of his own hideous form and shuddered.

  “We have our birthright,” Bane said. “We are gods, no matter what trials Ao puts us through.” Bane shook his head, then stopped himself as he realized it was a purely human gesture. “Myrkul, think back to why we took the Tablets of Fate.”

  Myrkul scratched his bony face, and Bane nearly laughed. The sight of the feared God of the Dead plagued by something so ordinary as a human itch was so pathetic it was almost funny. The God of Strife sighed at the idea and went on.

  “We stole the tablets because we believed Ao drew strength from them, and without the tablets, Ao would be less inclined to interfere with our dealings.”

  “So we believed,” Myrkul said ruefully. “We were fools to do so.”

  “We were right!” Bane shouted. “Think for a moment! Why has Ao not taken the tablets back?”

  Myrkul set his bony hands at his side. “I have wondered that myself.”

  “I think it is because Ao cannot!” Bane said. “Perhaps he no longer has the strength. That may be why our liege exiled us from the Planes! Our plan succeeded, and Ao feared that the gods would unite, and rise up in revolt. That is why Ao has scattered us across the Realms and made us suspicious, afraid, and vulnerable to attack.”

  “I see,” Myrkul said. “But this is only your theory.”

  “Supported by the facts,” Bane said. “I have already captured our first pawn in this game, if you would call her that.”

  “Mystra?”

  “With her power, all the magic in the Realms will be ours to control!” Bane laughed. He was lying, of course. If the goddess had such power, he never would have captured her so easily.

  “Those gods who do not wish to go along with your plans will be enslaved or destroyed, I assume,” Myrkul said suspiciously. “And you will use Mystra’s power to accomplish this.”

  “Of course,
” Bane said. “But we are already allies. Why speak of such things?”

  “Indeed,” Myrkul said.

  “Further, I believe there is power to free us from this state,” Bane said. “Power Mystra has secreted somewhere in the Realms.”

  Myrkul nodded. “How do you plan to proceed?”

  “We will discuss that later,” Bane said. “For now I must deal with other, equally pressing matters.”

  Myrkul lowered his head, and his image faded from the scrying pool. In truth, Bane had contacted Myrkul prematurely; he had not yet decided what the next move should be.

  Bane turned sharply as a black raven flew into the dungeon at a mind-boggling speed, and then became his servant, Blackthorne.

  “Lord Bane, I have much to report. I believe I have located the human in Arabel that holds a gift from Mystra. She wears it as a blue-white star-shaped pendant.”

  Bane smiled. The pendant Blackthorne described was identical to the symbol Mystra had worn in the Planes.

  “Better still,” Blackthorne said, “the magic-user who wears the pendant is coming here.”

  * * * * *

  The party left Arabel separately. Adon departed the city first, alone. Half an hour later, Midnight and Caitlan followed, leading two packhorses. Finally, at highsun, Kelemvor and Cyric, dressed as elderly beggar women, made it through the gate without incident. Then they rendezvoused a half hour’s ride away, as Kelemvor had planned. The fighter insisted on burying the costumes he and Cyric had worn. Actually he wanted to burn them, but he worried that the smoke would be visible from the watchtowers in Arabel.

  Now, the better part of an hour had passed since the oppressive walls of Arabel dwindled away into nothing but a faint speck marking the horizon at the heroes’ backs, then vanished altogether. There was nothing in sight but the well-traveled road before them and the flat earth that stretched endlessly across the land to the east and west. The mountains of Gnoll Pass were visible in the distance to the north.

  Kelemvor rode up beside Cyric and slapped him on the back. Cyric was thrown forward in his saddle by the blow and he looked at the other man warily.

  “Ah, this is the life, is it not, Cyric?”

  Simple pleasures for simple minds, Cyric thought, but merely responded with a grin and a healthy “Aye!” Soon Kelemvor moved on, and Cyric stopped to check the tethers that secured the packhorses attached to his mount and found everything to be in order.

  After a time, Cyric set the wanderings of his fanciful imagination on another, more pleasant course, and studied the silky smooth legs of Midnight as they clung to the sides of her horse just ahead. Every now and again he caught a glimpse of her beautiful features as they contorted into a pained grimace. Adon, riding beside the magic-user, was deluging her with a constant and embarrassing stream of compliments.

  Cyric wondered if the cleric was trying to seduce Midnight with his words. It didn’t seem likely. It seemed, instead, that Adon preferred the din of constant conversation, even if he were the only willing participant, to the silence of the land they passed through. Perhaps Adon doesn’t want to be alone with his own tedious thoughts, Cyric noted.

  Ahead, Midnight had come to this same conclusion what seemed to be an eternity before. She sensed that Adon was troubled, but she found it difficult to be sympathetic as the man refused to divulge the nature of his problems. Worse still, this was the time she should have been using to conserve her energies and lose herself in meditation, but her unwanted traveling companion would not allow her a moment’s peace.

  Her patience reaching its end, Midnight attempted to express her desire to be left alone. Subtlety had not worked, so she tried to address the issue directly.

  “Go away, Adon! Let me ride in peace!”

  But even being direct did not earn Midnight a rest from Adon’s endless list of compliments.

  “A veritable goddess!” Adon cried.

  “If you believe you can continue to sing my praises without benefit of both lungs—pray do go on.”

  “And modest as well!”

  Midnight looked to the sky. “Mystra deliver me!”

  “Ah, to bask in the warmth of one even the strongest of flames would pale beside …”

  Finally she looked back and said to Kelemvor, “May I kill this man?”

  Kelemvor shook his head, enjoying the entertainment. Caitlan rode up beside him. She seemed to find nothing amusing about the apparent dissension in the ranks; if anything, the display made her nervous.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Kelemvor said to the girl. “Trust me.”

  Caitlan nodded slowly, unable to shift her gaze away from the dark-haired magic-user and the cleric.

  “Ah, with a fiery temper, matching her flaming heart!” Adon said.

  “Portions of your anatomy will be flaming if you do not cease this instant!” Midnight cried.

  And so it went, until the air grew thin, and storm clouds gathered overhead. Suddenly, the sky split with a mighty roar, and a summer shower poured warm rain upon the heroes.

  Adon continued to drone on, occasionally pausing to spit out rain water, but the sounds of the storm served to muffle his voice until his words were nothing but a dull hum buried beneath the patter of the rain.

  Midnight threw back her head. The gentle caress of the rain served to relax the magic-user’s nerves, and as the storm grew worse, Midnight closed her eyes and gave herself over to the soothing sensations caused by the steady rainfall. She smiled, imagining strong, firm hands massaging her temples, neck, and shoulders. She pictured Kelemvor’s arms; they seemed strong enough to wrestle a tree from its roots, and yet they were furnished with hands gentle enough to wipe away the tears of a child. Midnight’s mount reared up and the magic-user shook herself from her daydream.

  “I sent Adon back to convert Cyric to the ways of Sune,” Kelemvor said with a grin, despite his notable annoyance at the constant flow of the rain. His long black hair was matted to his skull, and the gray streaks made him look as if he wore the fur of a skunk who had died of fright. Midnight felt it her duty to tell him so, and he hung his head, muttering some private oath, attempting to ignore the rain as he continued to speak.

  “We have not discussed …” He paused and spat out a mouthful of water. “Division of duties.”

  Midnight nodded.

  “You, being the woman, will be in charge of preparing the food and all other domestic chores.”

  Midnight’s mount shuddered as his mistress ground her powerful legs against his flanks and dug her hands firmly into his neck.

  “Being the woman?” Midnight said, biting back the spell she had studied that morning that would turn the pompous ass beside her into a species more suitable for his attitudes. Then she remembered the last time she had prepared a meal for an entire party. The lone cleric who had not partaken had to use all his healing spells on her unintentional victims.

  “Caitlan can help you. We will divide the man’s work amongst ourselves.”

  Midnight flinched, trained her eyes forward, and spat out a simple, “Aye.”

  “Well met!” Kelemvor said, and slapped Midnight’s horse. The mount turned his head slightly, and ignored the blow that was supposed to cause him to go galloping off at a mad pace. Midnight’s grip on the animal loosened and became a pleasant caress.

  Kelemvor turned back to speak with the others, and Midnight strained hard to remember exactly why it had been so important to her to ride with these men.

  Unconsciously, her fingers had found the surface of her pendant, and she was still stroking the blue-white star when she noticed the effects the rain were having on the flatlands surrounding them.

  Patches of ground grew damp, while others hardened as if to solid rock. Elsewhere, small fissures opened in the surface of the earth. In other places, whole areas of green grass rose up at an incredible pace, nurtured by the strange rain.

  Suddenly, the soaked earth became black and charred, and trees long dead began to sprout and grow, their
blackened limbs reaching out to the sky as if imploring the maker of this madness to stop at once. Small armies of worms hung from the quivering branches, growing to obscenely bloated sizes before exploding and turning into blood-red apples. Small black bugs crawled about the fruit, then revealed themselves to be tiny black eyes, which blinked wildly at the falling rain.

  Beautiful saplings sprouted and grew upside-down out of the earth, their most fragile upper branches impossibly assuming the weight of the main trunk as it grew straight up. The trees were filled with gorgeous green leaves and transparent pink and golden fruit. At their crowns, the trees began to sprout a network of amber roots that reached high into the air and intertwined with the new roots/branches from its nearest neighbor. Finally, even the branches of the decaying trees reached up into the air and joined the network, their ebony strands mixing with the amber roots.

  Where only moments ago there had been nothing but barren earth now stood a lush forest filled with miracles and mysteries. Above the road, the network of roots had formed a canopy of crisscrossed roots and charred tree limbs that grew tighter and more complex until the sky, which was now red, was visible only in patches and rain fell only lightly on the heroes.

  Travel through the new forest, even on the road, was slow going. And soon the road itself became blocked by trees, and the heroes had to follow it on foot as best they could through the tangle of tree limbs on the ground.

  “I get the feeling we’re completely lost,” Cyric mumbled as he pushed through a tangle of vines into a clearing.

  “Impossible,” Kelemvor said gruffly. “There is but one road, and it leads only to Castle Kilgrave and what lays beyond.”

  “But we may have gone off the road some time ago, Kel. Who can tell?” Midnight said, stopping to help her horse over a branch and lead it into the open area.

  “We may have been traveling in circles for hours,” Adon whined.

  The forest, silent until now, suddenly shrieked to life. Insects buzzed, speaking their secret language. The rustle of wings merged with the thumps of newly formed legs that burst from ichor-laden cocoons and took their first short, plodding steps.