Blackthorne was attempting to devise a new excuse for the Black Lord’s absence when the noises behind him abruptly ceased. He turned and saw that Bane was absolutely still. As the emissary moved close to his god, he feared that Bane’s heart had stopped. There was an odor of death in the room.
“Lord Bane,” Blackthorne called, and Bane’s eyes shot open. A taloned hand moved toward Blackthorne’s throat, but the emissary fell back and out of the way of the blow, saving himself. Bane sat up slowly.
“How long?” Bane said simply.
“I am pleased to see you well!” Blackthorne fell to his knees.
Bane tore the remaining restraints from the wall and snapped the bonds at his ankles and wrists. “I asked you a question.”
Blackthorne told Bane everything about the dark times after Bane had been rescued from Castle Kilgrave. The Black Lord sat on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listened, nodding occasionally.
“I see my wounds have healed,” Bane said.
Blackthorne smiled enthusiastically.
“My physical wounds, anyway. There is always the matter of my pride.”
Blackthorne’s smile faded.
“Aye. My pathetic human pride …” Bane held up his talons before his eyes. “But I am not human,” he said, and looked to Blackthorne. “I am a god.”
Blackthorne nodded, slowly.
“Now help me dress,” Bane said, and Blackthorne rushed forward. As they struggled with Bane’s black armor, the god inquired about specific followers and the progress that had been made on his temple.
“The humans that came to Mystra’s rescue in Castle Kilgrave,” Bane said at last. “What of them?”
Blackthorne shook his head. “I do not know.”
One of the ruby red eyes of Bane’s gauntlet opened wide, and the Black Lord grimaced. Memories of Mystra’s final moments and of her warning to the dark-haired magic-user filled the mind of the dark god.
“We will find them,” he said. “They will journey to Shadowdale, to seek out the assistance of the mage, Elminster.”
“You wish them detained?” Blackthorne said.
Bane looked up, startled. “I wish them dead.” Bane’s attentions returned to the gauntlet. “Then I want the pendant from the woman brought to me. Now leave. I will call for you when I am ready.” The emissary nodded and left the chamber.
The Black Lord fell back against the wall, his body trembling. He was very weak. Bane corrected himself. The body had been weakened. Bane, the god, was immortal and immune to such petty concerns, despite his situation. Bane reveled in his first moments of true clarity since awakening from his healing sleep, then he considered his options.
Helm had asked Mystra if she bore the Tablets of Fate. When she offered the identities of the thieves instead of the actual tablets, Helm destroyed her. The secret he shared with Lord Myrkul was still safe.
“You are not omniscient after all, Lord Ao,” Bane whispered. “The loss of the tablets has made you weak, as Myrkul and I suspected it would.”
Bane realized he had said these words aloud in an empty room and felt a coldness in his essence. There were still a few traces of his avatar’s humanity to exorcise, but he would accomplish this in time. At least his search for power had not been a strictly human conceit. The quest had begun with the theft of the tablets and would end with the murder of Lord Ao himself.
Yet there were obstacles Bane would have to overcome before he could achieve his final victory.
“Elminster,” Bane said softly. “Perhaps we should meet.”
In the darkest hours of morning, Bane stood before an assembly of his followers. Only those who had been awarded the highest ranks or privileges were in attendance as Bane sat upon his throne and addressed his followers. He linked the minds of all present so they could share in his fevered dream of incredible power and glory. Without uttering a word, Bane had whipped the humans into a frenzy.
Fzoul Chembryl had the loudest voice and the most intense passion for Bane’s cause. Though the God of Strife knew Fzoul had opposed his will in the past, he felt a growing admiration for the handsome, red-haired priest, as Fzoul argued for the eventual dissolution of the Zhentarim—of which Fzoul was second in command—and the reformation of the Black Network under the strict authority of Bane himself. Naturally Fzoul requested to be considered for the position of leader of these forces, but the decision would be Bane’s alone, Fzoul cried, and Bane’s wisdom was beyond criticism.
The Black Lord smiled. There was nothing like a good war to motivate humans. They would march on Shadowdale, Bane leading the troops personally. In the frenzy of battle, Bane would slip away and dispatch the troublesome Elminster. In the meantime, assassins would be sent to intercept Mystra’s magic-user before she could deliver the pendant to the sage of Shadowdale. Another group would be sent to occupy the tiresome Knights of Myth Drannor. Satisfied with the plans, Bane went back to his secret chamber in the rear of the temple.
That night the God of Strife did not dream, and that was good.
Whenever the bald man attempted to sleep, his dreams would inevitably return to the same shocking nightmare. He would wake almost the instant it began, but then he would see that his dream only reflected reality: his nightmare was only a memory of the widespread destruction he and his men had faced on their journey from Arabel to the place where Castle Kilgrave had once stood.
And somehow the bald man knew that he was now camped near the place that had been the eye of whatever supernatural storm had taken place. The effects had reached almost as far as Arabel, then stopped. The denizens of the walled city were relieved that their home had been spared, although one only had to look from the watchtowers to view the startlingly altered landscape and see how close the city had come to destruction.
The goddess Tymora had suffered an agonizing attack the day the sky had been filled with the odd lights from the north. Then the goddess had gone into a deep shock from which she had not yet risen when the bald man and his Company of Dawn left the walled city in pursuit of Kelemvor and his accomplices. Constant vigils had been held by Tymora’s followers, but the goddess merely sat upon her throne, unresponsive to their calls, staring at something beyond the limited range of human senses.
Dismissing the nightmares and memories, the bald man attempted to get back to sleep. In the morning he and his men would set out from the untouched place of beauty they had found, a lovely colonnade that once may have been a shrine to the gods. The cool, sparkling water of the glorious pool had served to refresh his men, but they had not washed away the memories of the vast destruction they had witnessed.
Although he was not a worshiper, the bald man uttered a small prayer to Shar, Goddess of Forgetfulness. Just as it seemed his prayer might be rewarded, a scream sounded in the night. The bald man sprang into action.
“There!” one of his men shouted, pointing at the fair-haired fighter who had been lifted from the ground by his neck. The flesh of the man’s assailant appeared to be white as chalk, the moonlight casting an unearthly glow upon the headless creature.
“The statues,” another man called. “They live!”
The bald man heard the soft crush of earth behind him and turned to face the statue of two lovers, still connected, the stone flesh of the man’s hand and arm bonded to the woman’s back. The stone lovers moved as one as they surged forward with a speed the bald man was not prepared for.
There were screams in the night.
* * * * *
The mountains of Gnoll Pass were visible behind Kelemvor and his companions, but the riders did not look back at them very often. If they had, they would have seen the mountains shimmer against the soft blue of the sky, as if the brave peaks held the consistency of little more than illusion.
The decision to follow the road north and travel on to Tilverton instead of braving the open countryside had been a unanimous one. Even Kelemvor raised no objection to the change in plans, despite his hurry to ride on to Shadowdale a
nd put this job behind him. Before the packhorses died and their food and supplies turned to dust he might have argued, but it was clear now that they had to stop and get new supplies before crossing through the Shadow Gap and moving on to Shadowdale.
Kelemvor and Adon still shared a horse, as did Midnight and Cyric, through most of the journey. After the lack of supplies, this seemed to be the biggest annoyance for the heroes, and soon the tempers of the mounts and their riders were flaring regularly.
The heroes were at the end of a long day in the pale gray expanses of the treacherous Stonelands when they spotted travelers a quarter mile off the road. One moment the area appeared flat and safe, an inviting alternative to the plodding, twisting road before them. But upon approach, the carefully disguised ridges and falls of this area became apparent.
The travelers seemed to have journeyed from the road in an attempt to cut time from their trip, but instead blundered into a gap in the land’s surface. Their wagon had been overturned, their horses crushed beneath the weight of the cart. There were bodies lying on the flat, gray lands beside the wagon, and the sobs of a woman were carried by the wind to the ears of the adventurers. Adon was the first to badger Kelemvor as the fighter turned away from the sight.
“There is nothing we can do. The authorities in Tilverton can send someone.” Kelemvor said.
“We can’t just leave them,” Midnight said, shocked at Kelemvor’s attitude.
Kelemvor shook his head. “I can.”
“That should surprise me,” Midnight said. “Yet somehow it doesn’t. Does everything have a price for you, Kel?”
Kelemvor glared at the dark-haired magic-user.
“We can’t turn our backs on them,” Adon said frantically. “Some may be injured and require the attentions of a cleric.”
“What good can you do them?” Cyric said sharply. “You can’t even heal.”
Adon looked down. “I’m aware of that.”
Midnight turned to Kelemvor. “What do you say, Kel?”
Kelemvor’s eyes were cold. “There is nothing to say. If you wish to indulge in such foolishness, you’ll do so without me!” He looked at Midnight. “Unless of course, you wish to order me to go.”
Midnight looked away from the fighter and turned to Cyric, who shared her horse. The thief nodded and they galloped off in the direction of the fallen travelers.
Adon’s pleas fell on deaf ears, until at last Kelemvor leaped from the mount and waved the cleric on.
“Go if you must” Kelemvor said. “I’ll wait here.”
Adon looked at the angry fighter, a mixture of pity and confusion in his eyes.
“Go, I said!” Kelemvor shouted and slapped the horse, sending it into a frantic race to catch up with Midnight and Cyric.
Midnight’s horse covered the distance quickly, but the sobbing woman did not seem to take notice of the approaching riders. As Cyric and Midnight got close to her, they saw that the blood on her pale blue skirt had turned an ugly brown. The woman’s bare legs were deeply tanned, and her hands, even as they moved across the body of a fallen man, seemed hard and calloused. Her hair was blond and thickly matted to her face. She cradled the man to her breast, rocking him gently.
“Are you hurt?” Midnight said as she climbed down from her mount and approached the woman. The magic-user realized that the woman before her was younger than she first believed. In fact, she seemed barely old enough to deserve the honor of the wedding ring that graced her hand.
The man had been dressed in tight leather trousers, and the soles of his boots were nearly worn out. He wore a pale blue ruffled shirt, which was covered with a brownish red stain. The magic-user saw no weapons near the dead man.
Even as Adon caught up with the others, Cyric realized there was no wedding ring on the hand of the dead man.
“Turn back!” the thief screamed, and six men suddenly burst from the gray sands surrounding the heroes. The dead man grinned, gave his “wife” a quick kiss, and reached for a broadsword that had been half-buried in the darkened sands beneath him. The woman withdrew a pair of daggers from under her legs. She gracefully leaped to her feet and settled into a slight crouch as she joined the others who moved about their prey in an ever-tightening circle.
Standing by the road, Kelemvor cursed as he saw the trap sprung. Midnight’s conditions say I must defend them, the fighter realized, and he rushed toward the figures in the distance. Just as his sword was leaving its sheath, though, something rushed past the fighter’s ear. There was a cold breeze, and the object passed with a hiss. Kelemvor saw a steel-tipped arrow sail by him and end its flight in the sands.
Behind him, Kelemvor heard the sound of men shouting. He focused past their angry voices and concentrated on the tiny sound of bowstrings being drawn tight, then released. The fighter turned and fell to his knees, his sword flashing as it cut through two of the three arrows that would have surely brought him down.
Kelemvor faced three archers who had risen from the filthy sands at the other side of the road. Already they were notching another round of arrows. The sound of steel striking steel rang out in the distance behind him, and Kelemvor knew that Midnight, Cyric, and Adon were fighting for their lives, too.
“We have nothing!” Kelemvor shouted as the archers loosed their volley, and he rolled to avoid the missiles. The sight of a single arrow passing just over his face revealed the hopelessness of the situation to the fighter. No matter where he turned, one of the three archers would eventually anticipate his movements. His armor offered little protection against the archers’ longbows, and the added vulnerability of his unprotected head presented a target the highly skilled bowmen already sought.
The archers scrambled forward, crossing the road. They dug in at new, closer positions. Then they tried a new tactic: rotating their assault. In moments Kelemvor faced a constant volley of arrows as the third archer released his arrow even as the first took aim.
Across the field of stone and sand, by the overturned wagon, the fighting had become desperate. Midnight caught a glimpse of a crossbow trained on Cyric’s back. Her first thought was to throw a spell to save the thief, but there was no time to cast and there was no way of knowing if her spell would fail or succeed. She dropped to a crouch, sending one of her daggers into the throat of the assailant. The steel bolt went wild as it was loosed and flew harmlessly over Cyric’s head.
Unaware of the attempt made against him by the man with the crossbow, Cyric fought on against the leader of the brigands. His hand axe had proven to be an awkward defense against his opponent’s broadsword, so the thief feinted to the left to draw the man in close, hoping to disarm him. But the swordsman wasn’t taken in by the ruse, and his blade came within inches of Cyric’s throat. The thief rolled and drew first blood as his axe bit deeply into the brigand’s ankle, nearly severing his foot. The swordsman fell, his blade thrust out to gut Cyric, but the dark, lean man rolled out of the way of the blade and brought his axe up with all his strength. The brigand made no sound as the axe was buried in his throat.
Cyric removed his bloodied axe from the swordsman, and a sharp, biting pain flushed through his system as one of the blades of the brigand’s “wife” hit home.
At the periphery of the circle formed around Midnight and Cyric, Adon was dragged from Kelemvor’s mount. His war hammer broke free of the bonds that held it at his side and fell to the ground as Adon fell beside it. He snatched up the weapon as a filthy boot moved to cover his hand. Adon grasped the boot and pulled hard. A moment later the owner of the boot fell to the ground, and Adon clubbed him with the hammer. Then Adon sprang forward, barely avoiding a knife thrust that would have relieved him of a portion of his beautiful, well-combed hair, as well as his scalp. Adon clubbed that attacker, too.
Adon heard movement behind him. He turned and saw a filthy man running toward him with a short sword aimed at his heart. Before the cleric even had time to react, the body of another of the brigands crashed into the man with the short sword, kn
ocking him to the ground. Adon looked up and saw Midnight engaged in a hand-to-hand duel with a burly fighter. The man brought his knee up into Midnight’s stomach and clasped his steel-gloved hands together as he brought them high over his head, preparing to crack open the skull of the magic-user with his mighty fists.
Adon remembered his long hours of study, got a running start, and delivered a blow to the small of the man’s back that shattered his spine instantly. The brigand fell back, eyes wide, and Adon stepped out of the way. He helped Midnight to her feet, and she stared at him in disbelief.
“A follower of Sune must be trained to protect the gifts his goddess gave so freely!” Adon said and smiled.
Midnight almost laughed, then shoved the cleric out of the way as she released a spell that caused a new assailant to stop dead in his tracks, dropping his weapons. He shook as if something horrible were growing within him, then his eyes rolled back in his head as his flesh darkened and became stone. A single tear ran from his eye.
Midnight froze. It was a child she had struck down, no more than fifteen summers in age. She had only meant to erect a shield to ward off the blow he was about to deliver. How could she have turned him to stone?
The statue exploded, sending bits of dark stone in every direction.
Close enough to hear the explosion, Cyric fell away from the wild-eyed girl as she thrust at him again and again. He felt a warm flow of blood dripping down to his legs from the wound at his side, and the pain became worse as he moved. He fell over the corpse of the swordsman, the soft blue ruffled shirt now stained a bright crimson. The girl’s slashes moved closer to his chest, so Cyric took his chance and grabbed the girl’s wrist with one hand, her throat with the other.
Only a child, the thief thought, and her free hand raked across his unprotected face, her nails biting into his flesh. Cyric twisted the hand with the dagger until he heard the sound of bones snapping, and pushed the girl away, forcing her against the hard ground. Her skull made a high, cracking sound, and her eyes suddenly glazed over as the fight went out of them. A tiny trickle of blood swam from her mouth, cascading down the length of her neck until it touched the top of her breast.
Shadowdale Page 19
