Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  Blackthorne screamed and held out one partially transformed arm to his god. “Help me,” was all the mage had time to say before he imploded in a shower of black sparks. Where Blackthorne had stood only a moment before, a small black gem dropped to the floor next to his breastplate and shattered.

  Bane watched in complete shock. “The spell,” he said absently as he stumbled back into the shadows near the entrance to his private chamber.

  The guards who rushed into the room didn’t see their god as he stood in the shadows. They looked down at the tattered remains of Tempus Blackthorne and shook their heads.

  “I suppose that had to happen sooner or later,” one of the guards said.

  “Aye,” the other guard said. “Any idiot knows that magic is unstable.”

  Bane rushed forward and killed both guards before they even knew he was there. Then Bane turned and stripped off his bloodied armor. A moment later, he was sitting upon his throne, staring at Blackthorne’s ruined breastplate on the floor.

  I will not grieve, the god decided coolly. Blackthorne was merely a human. A pawn. His loss is regrettable, but he can be replaced.

  Then Bane thought of his endless talks with Blackthorne. He remembered the strange emotions that coursed through him when he had realized that Blackthorne had saved him, and aided in his recovery.

  The Black Lord looked at his hands and noticed he was trembling. Then the God of Strife screamed a cry of grief, loud and long. All over Bane’s Dark Temple, people covered their ears and shivered at the sound of the Black Lord’s pain.

  When his scream ended, the God of Strife looked down through tear-clouded eyes and saw a figure standing before his throne.

  “Blackthorne?” Bane said, his voice harsh and rasping.

  “No, Lord Bane.”

  Bane wiped his eyes and looked down at the red-haired man who stood before him. “Fzoul,” he said. “All is well.”

  “Milord, there are dead men surrounding you in the temple—”

  Bane raised his taloned hand.

  The red-haired man hung his head. “Yes, milord.” Then Fzoul picked up his god’s scattered armor and helped Bane to his feet.

  “All is in readiness,” Fzoul said as the Black Lord finally put on his bloody armor again. “When shall we begin to prepare for the battle?”

  A fire crackled in the eyes of the Black Lord and Fzoul stepped back from the angry god. Then Bane’s lips curled back in a frightful grimace. There was fire behind the God of Strife’s pointed teeth, too, as his eyes narrowed and he said, “Now.”

  The time for eveningfeast had passed, but the travelers walked on, determined to reach Shadowdale before the night was through. The spell that had spirited them from certain death in Spiderhaunt Woods had deposited the adventurers almost two days’ journey ahead on their route.

  Midnight, Kelemvor, and Thurbrand walked together, as did Cyric and the other surviving members of the Company of Dawn, Isaac and Vogt. Adon walked alone, thinking of everything he had lost.

  “They died bravely,” Kelemvor said to Thurbrand at one point.

  “That is little comfort,” Thurbrand said, memories of the last quest he had shared with Kelemvor edging into his thoughts. It had been many years ago, but the results had been much the same: Thurbrand and Kelemvor had lived. Everyone else had died.

  Cyric had a confused, haggard look as he walked through the dale. It was as if he’d been forced to confront some great truth, and the knowledge had left him weak and trembling. When he spoke, it was in a soft, almost quavering voice.

  Adon, on the other hand, didn’t speak at all. There was nothing for him to do as he walked, nothing to fill his head but his own unwelcome thoughts. And as he walked on through the night, the cleric’s relentless fears drove him down into a white-faced, trembling shadow of the man he’d once been.

  But not all of the adventurers were grim-faced and mournful as they walked toward Shadowdale. Midnight and Kelemvor behaved as if the worst was behind them. They laughed and exchanged taunts as they had earlier in their journey. Every time they smiled or laughed, though, one of their companions would frown at them, as if they were interrupting a funeral with their mirth.

  Eventually, however, most of the heroes relaxed as they trekked through the countryside south of Shadowdale. The green, flowing hills and rich, soft earth of the dale’s outlying districts were wondrous to behold. Even the air was sweet, and the harsh winds that had plagued the heroes ever since they entered the Stonelands became light breezes that caressed the travelers, enticing them to walk ever faster in their pursuit of sanctuary.

  It was very late when they reached the bridge that spanned the Ashaba and led into Shadowdale. The tiny, sparkling lights they had seen in the distance now revealed themselves to be glowing fires set at the far end of the bridge. Guards armed with crossbows and wearing bright silver armor walked back and forth on the bridge and warmed their hands by the fires from time to time.

  Kelemvor and Midnight walked beside Thurbrand as the party approached the bridge. As they got close to the river, however, something moved in the bushes. The heroes turned and reached for their weapons, but stood still when they saw six carefully aimed crossbows sticking from the bushes on both sides of the bridge. The steel-tipped arrows gleamed in the moonlight.

  Thurbrand frowned. “I believe this is where we hold and state our business.” He turned to the men who crawled out of the bushes. “Isn’t that so?”

  “A fair beginning,” one of them said.

  “I am Thurbrand of Arabel, leader of the Company of Dawn. We have come to gain audience with Mourngrym on matters most pressing.”

  The guards shifted nervously and whispered to each other. “What matters?” a guard said after a moment.

  Midnight’s face got red, and she moved closer to the guard. “On matters pertaining to the safety of the Realms!” she cried. “Is that not urgent enough?”

  “All well and good to say, but are you able to prove it?” The guard moved toward Thurbrand and held out his hand. “Your charter?”

  “Certainly,” Thurbrand said and handed the guard a rolled up parchment. “Signed by Myrmeen Lhal.”

  The guard examined the parchment.

  “We have suffered many casualties in Spiderhaunt Woods,” Thurbrand said.

  “These are your survivors? What are their names?” The guard said.

  Thurbrand turned to the two actual survivors of his company. “Vogt and Isaac,” Thurbrand said.

  Kelemvor and Midnight exchanged glances.

  “And the others?” The guard said.

  Thurbrand pointed at Midnight. “She is Gillian. The rest are Bohaim, Zelanz, and Welch.”

  The guard passed the charter back to Thurbrand. “Very well, you may pass,” he said, then backed away. The guards all disappeared into the shadows once more.

  The travelers crossed the bridge carefully, and when they reached the other shore, Thurbrand looked to Kelemvor.

  “Quite an interesting place already,” Thurbrand said.

  An armed contingent, patrolling by the bridge, stopped when they saw the adventurers, and the ritual of questions, answers, and documentation was repeated. This time the soldiers “offered” to escort the tired travelers to the Twisted Tower, despite Midnight’s anxious cries about Elminster.

  “Protocol,” Cyric whispered. “Think of your last meeting with the mage. Would it not go easier if the path were laid down for you by the local lord?”

  Midnight said nothing.

  As they approached the Twisted Tower, Cyric noted that the small shops and houses that lined the path seemed deserted. However, there were lights in the distance, and the sounds of activity from a few streets over. A wagon loaded with bales of hay moved across the road. Another wagon, filled with livestock, came behind it. Soldiers escorted both wagons.

  “If they are moving livestock at this time of night,” Cyric said to Midnight, “they are probably preparing the town for war. I fear your warning from My
stra about Bane’s plans comes too late.”

  As they got closer to the Twisted Tower, the heroes could see that torches lined the stone walls of the square, squat building. The torches were patterned oddly, though, and they followed the odd curvatures of the tower as they spiraled up one side of the building, vanished, then reappeared higher and higher until the lights gave way to shadowy mist that even the unusually bright moon could not penetrate.

  More guards waited at the entrance to the tower. The guards spoke for moment with the heroes’ armed escort. Then one guard, probably a captain of the watch, whistled long and loud. As the heroes and the guards waited for whatever or whoever it was that the captain had summoned, Adon turned and started to wander off down the street. A guard rushed to intercept the cleric, then steered him back with the others. Adon sullenly complied.

  A young man dressed in the livery of a herald appeared at the door. He was still bleary eyed with sleep, but he listened to the guardsman as politely as he could, hiding his yawns behind a ruffled sleeve when possible.

  The herald led Kelemvor, Thurbrand, and the others through a long corridor, and soon they stood before a heavy wooden door with three separate locking systems. Cyric casually studied the locks as Kelemvor grumbled impatiently. Finally the door was opened and the herald, a tall, lean man with salty brown hair and a thick mustache and beard, turned to address the travelers.

  “Lord Mourngrym will see you in here,” he said simply. Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the poorly lit interior of the room. As he had feared, it was some type of cell with bare floors and chains hanging from the walls. The fighter’s eyes became slits as he turned to the herald.

  “We desire an audience with Lord Mourngrym, not the rats of Shadowdale. If he cannot see us tonight, then we will return in the morning.”

  The herald did not flinch. “Please wait inside,” he said.

  Midnight brushed past Kelemvor and entered the chamber. The moment she crossed the threshold, there was a rippling in the shadows and she disappeared.

  “No!” Kelemvor shouted, and leaped through the door after her, only to find himself in the throne room of the Twisted Tower.

  Torches had been lit within the throne room, and Midnight could see that the finely crafted plasterwork on the otherwise bare walls spoke of many battles and paid homage to those who had died in the service of the dale. Red velvet curtains covered the one wall devoid of plasterwork. The curtains rested behind the two black marble thrones that stood across the room from the entrance. In all, the hall was large enough to entertain visiting emissaries, but it wasn’t huge and overly ornate like the halls of Arabel’s palace.

  At the far end of the chamber stood an older man whose physique did not reveal his advancing years. His build was similar to Kelemvor’s, but the heavy lines marking his face revealed him to be at least twenty years older than the fighter. He was dressed in shining silver armor and a jewel-encrusted sword hung at his side. The man looked up from a long planning table that was strewn with maps and smiled warmly at the heroes as they entered the hall.

  There was a noise at the outer wall of the chamber, a thump followed by a curse. “And I say he did move the bloody door!” A series of taps were heard, then a hand emerged from the seemingly solid wall, fingers extended tentatively. A face followed, then vanished. “I want an envoy sent to Elminster come first light. I will not be held captive by his magic!” Silence. “No, I am not just being cranky!” A sigh. “Yes, Shaerl. I will be up shortly, my wife.”

  A figure emerged from the wall just as the rest of the adventurers, accompanied by two guards, appeared behind Kelemvor and Midnight. The figure turned, looked at his guests, and froze. He was extremely handsome, with thick black hair, deep azure eyes, and a square-set jaw. His clothing was a glaring testament to the lateness of the hour. He wore a frock that revealed his bare arms, hairy bare legs, and bare feet ending in nervously twitching toes. His arms were thick and strong, his muscles well-tended. A crimson band encircled his right upper arm. He cut a glance to the older warrior, who merely shrugged.

  “I wasn’t expecting guests,” the black-haired man said. Then he straightened up, cleared his throat, and flashed a smile. He approached the travelers. “I am Mourngrym, lord of this place. How can I help you?”

  Kelemvor was about to speak, but a guard leaned toward the fighter, his axe held in a threatening manner. Mourngrym scratched the side of his face as he motioned for the travelers to hold for but a moment, then he took the guard aside.

  “Good Yarbro,” Mourngrym said. “Do you remember our little discussion concerning the down side of over-zealous behavior?”

  Yarbro swallowed. “But, milord, they have the look of vagrants! They have no gold, no supplies, they walked into town, and their only form of identification is a charter which is almost certainly stolen!”

  “And how was it that my men found you on the outskirts of Myth Drannor all of two winters ago?”

  “That’s different,” Yarbro said.

  Mourngrym sighed. “We will talk again.”

  Yarbro nodded, then turned to leave the chamber with the other guard. Kelemvor was relieved to see the guards go. It would have been difficult explaining why they had given the guards names other than their own to gain access to the tower, and they might have been forced to keep the adopted names so as not to arouse suspicion.

  The older warrior stood at Mourngrym’s side. A look passed between Kelemvor and the old man as Yarbro brushed past the fighter on his way out. They both grinned. “This is Mayheir Hawksguard, acting captain of arms.”

  Thurbrand winced. “Acting captain of arms? What happened to the old one?”

  “I would rather not discuss that until I understand your purpose for being here,” Mourngrym said as he turned away. “What happened to the lot of you?”

  All but Adon surged forward, and six versions of what they had witnessed erupted simultaneously. Mourngrym rubbed his tired eyes and glanced at Hawksguard.

  “Enough!” Hawksguard shouted, and there was silence in the chamber.

  “You there,” Mourngrym said to the sullen, scar-faced man. “I would hear your version of the tale.”

  Adon stepped forward, then told all he knew of the events that plagued the Realms in the least amount of words possible. Mourngrym leaned against his throne and frowned.

  “You might have noticed a few of the precautions that have already been put into effect around here,” Mourngrym said. “It is feared that Shadowdale will be under siege in a matter of days.” Mourngrym looked to Thurbrand. “To answer your earlier questions, the old captain of arms infiltrated Zhentil Keep and nearly died getting us this information. He is in his quarters, recovering from his injuries.

  “Hawksguard will lead your delegation to Elminster after morningfeast. Tonight you are my guests.” Mourngrym yawned. “Now if you will excuse us, I believe there were other reasons I was woken from the tender embrace of sorely needed sleep. We will speak further come morning.”

  Each of the adventurers were then led to private chambers, where steaming baths and soft beds lay in wait. Midnight went out to get some air, and after walking around near the tower, she returned to her room to study her spells. But as she opened her door, she heard a a slight splash. Someone was in her room, waiting for her to return.

  She thrust open the door and flashed her lantern into the bedroom. There was a startled yelp as the lantern illuminated a large man leaping out of the room’s bathtub. He ran for his clothes and weapons, which lay in a heap nearby.

  “By the gods,” Kelemvor muttered as he saw who the intruder was. “Midnight.”

  Kelemvor shook himself off like a cat, then picked up a towel. He gingerly dried his chest, where the cut he received fighting the white spider had healed, but was still slightly tender. Midnight set her lantern on a small table across from the bed. She held open her arms. “Come here, Kel. I’ll help you with that.”

  Even in the dimly lit room, she could see his grin.

>   In the other chambers of the Twisted Tower, the night did not pass so peacefully. Cyric was haunted by nightmarish visions of Brion’s death, which played over and over in his head as he slept. A number of times Cyric cried out and woke up, sweating. And each time he went back to sleep, the nightmare returned.

  In another room, Adon stood at the window and looked out on the rooftops of Shadowdale. All around the town, he saw the spires of temples, although he could not discern what gods they were a tribute to. Come morning, when a rather plain serving girl named Neena knocked on his door, he was still standing at the window. She entered and lay down the clothes he had given the servants for cleaning.

  “Morningfeast is due to commence shortly, good sir,” she said.

  Adon ignored the girl. Brushing the bangs out of her eye, she touched Adon’s shoulder then drew back as he spun on her, his hands set to deliver a killing blow. When he saw it was only a servant, he faltered and stood silently. Neena looked at the cleric’s face, then turned away respectfully.

  To Adon’s failing heart, the gesture was worse than any physical blow.

  “Leave me,” he said, then he prepared himself for morningfeast.

  Kelemvor was standing across the hall from Adon’s door as Neena left. He heard the cleric dismiss her and shook his head. Adon won’t be healed inside from that scar for a long time, the fighter thought as he turned to knock on Thurbrand’s door.

  “They’re about to serve morningfeast,” Kelemvor said when Thurbrand finally opened the door.

  “I’ve already been informed,” the bald man said. “You may leave now.”

  Kelemvor pushed past the fighter and shut the door behind him. “We should talk … about you and your men.”

  “Men die,” Thurbrand said and sat down on the bed. “Those are the fortunes of war.” The bald man kicked his sword across the room and looked up at Kelemvor. “I’m leaving, Kel. Vogt and Isaac are coming with me.”