As they made their way across the twisted land, the adventurers encountered many strange things. Huge boulders, carved to resemble the faces of frogs by the bizarre forces that had been unleashed during Mystra’s fight with Helm, alternately cursed and praised the travelers, then told them risque jokes that they laughed at, but did not slow down for.
Farther down the road, a war seemed to be in progress between opposing hills, as boulders and bits of rock were tossed back and forth, striking thunderous blows. The hostilities ceased as the travelers approached and resumed once they had passed. As the party moved farther from the site of Mystra’s death, the strange occurrences became less and less, and the heroes relaxed just a bit.
They stopped and made camp for the night in a clearing at the foot of a huge mountain that seemed unaffected by the chaos Mystra’s passing had brought about. Cyric was shocked to find the self-replenishing pouch of food and drink completely empty. When he reached inside, he felt the pull of something cold and damp that licked at his hand until he withdrew it in haste and tossed the pouch away.
They were forced to rely on the separate food that was left, but the heroes felt confident these would be enough for the long journey ahead. When Midnight and Cyric prepared the meal, however, the meat seemed to be spoiling, the breads becoming stale, and the fruits gone to rotting. They ate what they could and drank heavily of the mead and ale. But that, too, seemed to have lost its taste, going down more like bitter water than nectar.
Cyric was very quiet. Only when a topic that truly fascinated him arose did he bring his opinions to bear, and then he was vehement in his assertions. Then Cyric would lapse into one of his meditative silences, staring at the flames of the campfire as night wrapped itself around the weary travelers.
That night, Midnight went to Kelemvor, and he took her in his arms without uttering a word. Afterward, she watched him as he slept, excited by the quiet rhythms of his body. Midnight smiled; there was such strength and ferocity in his movements when they touched, such wonderful passion, that she wondered why she doubted her feelings for the man. She was amazed that he had never married, one of the few facts she was able to draw from him as they lay side by side just before sleep took hold of the fighter.
Midnight quietly dressed and made her way to Adon, who had taken first watch. She found the cleric trying to hold a small mirror between his bare feet, moving the angle slightly as he plucked at any unseemly facial hairs with one of Cyric’s daggers. Then he tended to his hair, running a silver comb through it as he quietly counted off one hundred strokes. Midnight relieved him of the watch, and he carefully made his bunk, then settled into a deep sleep with a contented smile. Once during her watch, Midnight heard Adon whisper, “No, my dear, of course I’m not shocked,” then the voice faded.
When Midnight attempted to rouse Kelemvor to relieve her of the watch, the fighter swatted at her playfully and attempted to drag her back to his bed. “Tend to your duty,” she told him as he rose, stretching his arms wide. He turned, grinned, then walked away before he could say something that would have caused Midnight to stone him on the spot.
Just before morning, Kelemvor became hungry. The packhorses had been roped nearby, and he decided not to wait until morningfeast. He left the campfire and made his way to the horses and supplies. Even in the dim light of dawn, he could see that the horses were dead. Beyond the packhorses, the mounts that had been provided by Mystra for Cyric and Adon were on their sides, trembling.
Kelemvor called out to the others, bringing them to his side in moments. Cyric fetched a torch, lighting it in the flames of the campfire. They found no reason for the condition of the animals. There were no marks upon the beasts, nor tracks that would indicate a wild animal or saboteur in their midst.
When they checked their provisions, the heroes found that their food had become completely foul. The meats bubbled with green, cancerous growths. Strange, black insects crawled from the fruits. The breads were stale and moldy. The ales and meads had evaporated. Only the water they had taken from the colonnade outside Castle Kilgrave was unaffected.
Kelemvor searched through the pouches containing their gold and treasures and let out a cry as he found nothing but yellow and black ash. The harp of Myth Drannor had been rotted through, and it broke apart as Midnight tried to pick it up. She found a bag that had once contained diamonds. Now it held only their dust. The mage set it aside for use as spell components.
“No,” Kelemvor said softly, pulling away from Midnight’s comforting hand as she attempted to console him. He glared at her. “Now all we have is your miserable quest!”
“Kel, don’t—”
“It’s all been for nothing!” he screamed as he turned his back on the magic-user.
Adon moved forward. “What will we eat?”
Kelemvor looked over his shoulder. His eyes and teeth seemed unusually bright, as if they were catching the first rays of sun and holding them. His skin seemed darker. “I’ll find something,” Kelemvor said. “I’ll be the provider for us all.”
Cyric offered to help, but Kelemvor waved him away as he ran toward the mountains. “At least take the bow!” Cyric called, but Kelemvor ignored him, becoming a dark blur against the shadow-filled foothills.
“ ‘The gods giveth, the gods taketh away,’ ” Adon said philosophically, shrugging.
Cyric let out a bitter little laugh. “Your gods—”
Midnight raised her hand, and Cyric didn’t finish his sentence. “Take what you will from your mounts,” the mage said. “Then we should make them as comfortable as possible until the end.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” Adon said, taking pity on the suffering animals.
“There is one thing,” Cyric said, and drew his blade.
Midnight exhaled a ragged breath and nodded. Cyric offered to wait until after Midnight and Adon were out of view of the dying mounts, but they each agreed to remain and offer some degree of comfort and compassion to the animals as Cyric mercifully ended their pain.
* * * * *
Hours passed, and Kelemvor did not return. Finally, Adon volunteered to look for the fighter.
Adon found deep shadows and tiny, unseen creatures that made odd sounds. The cleric wondered if Kelemvor had been injured, or if perhaps he had deserted them. The fighter would have taken his mount, Adon reminded himself, though the thought brought little comfort as the cleric allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.
Something scampered by his boot, and Adon was pleasantly surprised to see a soft, gray squirrel suddenly stop, look at him, then bolt as the cleric crouched down to look into its deep, blue eyes. He moved through a thicket of trees, forcing branches away carefully so that his face would not be scratched. As he climbed higher, Adon found a clearly marked trail before him.
Kelemvor had come this way.
Adon was congratulating himself for finding the trail when he stumbled over Kelemvor’s breastplate. The armor was covered with blood. Adon cautiously untied his war hammer from his belt.
Farther up the trail, the cleric found the rest of Kelemvor’s armor, bloody like the breastplate. He considered Kelemvor’s fighting prowess, and wondered what manner of beast could have brought the fighter down.
There was movement in the trees. Adon caught a glimpse of black fur and snarling teeth, and he bit back a call for help, afraid he would reveal his position. The cleric remained still for a few minutes, then heard a roar from behind him.
Adon didn’t bother to look back as he ran, following the trail of broken branches and disturbed patches of earth, and he didn’t look down long enough to realize that the tracks leading away from the armor had begun as the imprints of human feet and become the pawprints of some huge animal.
The cleric didn’t know how far he had run when he broke through a web of branches and the earth suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling through the air. An instant later his body made a splash as he plunged into water.
Rising
to the surface of the water, Adon shook the mire from his hair and surveyed the area. A swamp? he thought. Here? This is madness!
Madness or no, the fact remained that Adon found himself paddling to the marshy shore of a beautiful, ghostly land, lit by a soft, bluish white glow. The sunlight was absorbed by elegant strands of Spanish moss that hung from the tall black cypress trees and glowed to reveal the wiry intricacies of its design. The moss seemed to be straining as it reached downward, an occasional strand gently touching the surface of the swamp. Huge lotus pads floated toward Adon, and as he climbed to the shore, he saw a beautiful butterfly with orange and silver wings burst from its cocoon before his eyes. A lone heron started as it watched Adon approach, then fled, making tiny splashing sounds as its feet broke the water.
Adon rose from the bog, disgusted at the mess he had made of his fine clothing. Suddenly he froze as he heard a roar and the sounds of some beast crashing through the forest above him. But, the sounds stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and Adon looked around in vain for someplace to hide. Clusters of bright yellow and red leaves capped the spindly gray trees close by, but little cover was afforded the cleric as he slowly made his way up the hill toward the tiny clearing from which he had fallen.
As he climbed, Adon found his war hammer, where it had landed when his fall jolted it from his grasp. Good, he thought. At least I’ll go down fighting.
Like Kelemvor.
The creature in the woods howled once more, and Adon broke into a run, reminding himself not to scream for help with every passing step. Finally, the clearing rose up before him, but a huge black shape padded back and forth, barring the way.
Adon stopped.
It was a panther, and at its feet lay a deer, savaged almost beyond recognition. How very natural, the cleric thought. And here I thought it was some horrible troll.
The panther’s head swung back and forth, as if it were dazed. Adon prayed to Sune that the beast would be content with its feast, and just before he took his first step backward, the beast began to shudder. It threw back its head, and Adon caught a glimpse of its shining green eyes as the beast roared in pain, a human hand bursting from its throat.
Adon dropped his hammer. It fell to the earth and landed with a thud. The creature didn’t notice. A second gore-drenched hand burst from the flank of the beast, and there was a sickening sound as the rib cage exploded and Kelemvor’s head emerged from the opening. One of the beast’s legs tore open, and a pale, shriveled, child-sized leg emerged. The leg grew until it was the proper length for a man’s limb, and its twisted foot straightened, its bones crackling as they popped into place.
A second leg emerged, repeating the process, as the thing that was somehow becoming Kelemvor sprang from the shell of the beast. The fighter gave an exhausted grunt as he fell to the ground, a sleek network of hair already forming on his naked and smooth flesh.
Adon felt himself bending low to retrieve his hammer. He moved forward, shuddering as he approached the fighter. “Kelemvor?” he said, but the fighter’s eyes, wide and staring, registered nothing. Kelemvor’s breathing was shallow, and a current ran beneath his skin as blood vessels burst and his flesh aged to it proper years.
“Kelemvor,” Adon said again, and issued a blessing over the man, then passed through the clearing without looking back. He found the trail without difficulty, and soon he was moving down through the thicket of trees until he reached the campsite. Midnight and Cyric were waiting.
“Did you find him?” Midnight asked.
Adon shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “Game and solitude are plentiful in the valley over the first ridge. I’m sure he has found both. He will return soon.”
Adon told them of the odd swamp nature had created over the ridge, and soon the sounds of a man awkwardly making his way through the brush drifted to their ears. Midnight and Cyric met Kelemvor at the base of the foothills. The blood covering his armor looked to have come from the bloodied deer swung over his shoulder. Cyric helped the fighter with his freshly slain burden. They butchered the animal and quickly prepared it over a small fire.
Adon watched the fighter, who seemed oblivious to everything except the meal before him. Kelemvor looked up sharply at one point, catching the cleric’s gaze. “What? Did you forget to bless the meal?” Kelemvor asked bitterly.
“No,” Adon said. “I was—” he waved his hand in the air. “—lost in thought.”
Kelemvor nodded and returned to the feast. When they were done, Adon and Cyric went to work saving what meat they could from the animal, wrapping it tightly for their dinner.
“I must speak with you,” Kelemvor said, and Midnight nodded, following him as they made their way to the road. Midnight had already sensed his intent, and was not surprised when Kelemvor made his request. “There must be a reward, or I cannot go with you.”
Midnight’s frustration was evident. “Kel, this makes no sense! At some point you’re going to have to tell me what this is all about!”
Kelemvor said nothing.
Midnight sighed. “What shall I ply you with this time, Kel, more of the same?”
Kelemvor hung his head. “It must be different every time.”
“What else can I give you?” Midnight put her hand up to the fighter’s cheek.
Kelemvor grabbed Midnight’s hand roughly, forcing it away from him as he broke from her embrace. “It is not what I desire that matters, only what you are willing to give! The reward must be something of value to you, but worth what I must go through to earn it.”
Midnight could barely hold back her anger. “What we have together is of value to me.”
Kelemvor nodded slowly as he turned to face her. “Aye. And to me.”
Midnight moved forward, stopping before she came close enough to touch the fighter. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I can help you—”
“No one can help me!”
Midnight looked at Kelemvor. The same violent desperation she had seen in his eyes at Castle Kilgrave was there now. “I have conditions,” Midnight said.
“Name them.”
“You will ride with us. You will defend Cyric, Adon, and me from attack. You will help in the preparation of meals and setting up camp. You will impart any information you have that is relative to our safety and well being, even if it is only your opinion.” Midnight drew a breath. “And you will follow any direct orders I give you.”
“My reward?” Kelemvor said.
“My true name. I will tell you my true name after we have spoken to Elminster of Shadowdale.”
Kelemvor nodded. “It will suffice.”
The adventurers traveled the rest of the day, returning to their earlier practice of sharing two mounts. That night, after they set up camp and feasted, Midnight did not go to Kelemvor. Instead, she sat beside Cyric, keeping him company on the watch. They spoke of the places they had seen, with neither ever telling what they had done in those strange lands.
Soon, though, Midnight grew tired and left Cyric, settling into a deep, restful sleep that was shattered by an image of a horrible black beast with glowing green eyes and a slavering, fanged mouth. She woke with a start, and for a moment she thought she saw tiny blue-white fires playing over the surface of the amulet. But that was impossible. Mystra’s power had been returned to the goddess, and the goddess had been slain.
The magic-user heard movement and reached for her knife. Kelemvor stood above her.
“Time for your watch,” he said and vanished into the night.
As Midnight sat by the fire, she watched the darkness for signs of Kelemvor, but there were none. A few feet away from her, Cyric tossed and turned in his sleep, plagued by some personal nightmare.
Adon found he could not sleep at all. He was disturbed by the secret he had inadvertently uncovered. Kelemvor seemed to have no memory of Adon’s presence during his metamorphosis from panther to human. Or was Kelemvor merely pretending not to remember? Adon wanted desperately to confide in someone about w
hat he had seen, but he felt honor-bound as a cleric to respect the privacy of the fighter. It seemed clear that he should let Kelemvor’s secret remain just that until the fighter either chose to confide in his comrades or became a threat to the party due to his affliction.
Adon stared into the night and prayed that he had made the right decision.
* * * * *
Tempus Blackthorne lit a torch before he entered the tunnel, then he wrestled with the supplies he had purchased. The tunnel had been expertly constructed. The walls and ceiling were perfectly cylindrical, and the floor was a long two-foot wide plank. The walls had been polished then sealed with a substance that resembled marble when it dried. Blackthorne still regretted killing the craftsmen and fabricating the story of their accidental death. He wondered if anyone believed him.
In the chamber above, Bane was bellowing incoherently in a tongue Blackthorne had never heard before. The emissary listened as he climbed the stone steps carefully and practiced the routine he had helped Lord Bane install as a fail-safe against intruders: right foot on the first step, left on the third. Right foot joining left on the third step. Left up one, right up two, then retracing the steps in reverse, and returning upward once more in a different sequence. Any who varied from this routine would be sliced to ribbons by the traps Bane had created.
Blackthorne teetered on one foot as he struggled to keep hold of the packages. He touched the lever on the wall, pulling it back three clicks, forward nine, back two. The wall before him vanished, and Blackthorne stepped through into Bane’s secret chamber.
The mage turned away from the sight of Bane’s dark, bubbling flesh and the froth of blood at his mouth. There was a new hole in the wall beside the Black Lord, and Blackthorne saw that one of the restraints had been torn from the wall. The bed frame had been shattered long ago, and the mattress torn to ribbons. Bane screamed, his body convulsing as the fit grew worse.
Shadowdale Page 18
