“Aye. I expected as much.”
Thurbrand ran his hand over his bald head. “I’ll go back to Arabel and tell Myrmeen Lhal what I’ve seen. I’m certain she’ll drop the charges.”
“Charges? I thought we were wanted for questioning!”
Thurbrand shrugged. “I didn’t want to alarm you,” he said. “Perhaps I should just tell her you’re all dead. Would you prefer that?”
“Do as you will. But that’s not what I came here to talk to you about.” Kelemvor looked at Thurbrand’s sword, now laying in the corner. “You blame yourself for what happened in Spiderhaunt Woods.”
“It doesn’t matter, Kel. It’s over. The blood of my entire company is on my hands. Can you wash it away with your consoling words?” Thurbrand stood, walked to the corner, and picked up his sword. “I might as well have killed them myself.” The bald man swung the sword halfheartedly in the air, as if to chase his thoughts away. “Besides,” he said quietly, “there are many more deaths than theirs on my conscience. You know that.”
Kelemvor said nothing.
Thurbrand grimaced. “I still see the faces of the men who died in my stead—in our stead, so many years ago, Kel. I still hear their screams.” Thurbrand paused and looked up at Kelemvor. “Do you?”
“Sometimes,” Kelemvor said. “We chose to survive, Thurbrand, and that’s a difficult decision to live with. But what happened to our friends has nothing to do with the Company of Dawn. The company had no choice but to follow us into the woods. If they’d stayed on the plain, they’d all have died with no chance to fight back.”
Thurbrand turned his back on Kelemvor. “Why are you so concerned about this?”
Kelemvor leaned against the door and sighed. “There was a girl—about the same as Gillian was—who started with us on our journey. Her name was Caitlan.”
Thurbrand turned to look at Kelemvor, but the fighter was staring off into space, reliving Caitlan’s death.
“She insisted on coming with us, and she died when I was supposed to be protecting her.”
“And you feel that you’re to blame,” Thurbrand said.
Kelemvor let out a deep sigh. “I merely thought you might like to talk about the company.”
“Gillian,” Thurbrand said after a moment. “She seemed rather young to be an adventurer, didn’t she?”
Kelemvor shook his head. “I’ve seen younger on the road.”
Thurbrand closed his eyes. “She was filled with enthusiasm. Her youth … gave me back some of my own. I wanted—no, I needed her around. I was certain I could protect her.”
A long silence hung over the room as both fighters thought about companions, some long dead, some dead only a few days. “It was her choice to come with you,” Kelemvor said at last and turned to leave.
“And it’s my choice to get out of Shadowdale before I end up dead, too,” Thurbrand said softly. “I’ll be away from here by highsun.”
Kelemvor left the room without saying anything.
* * * * *
Hawksguard smiled and shook his head in disbelief. “What do you mean this is not a good time?’ I haven’t led these good people to Elminster’s tower just to have them turned away.”
“I’m sorry you bothered. You’ll have to come back later. Elminster is conducting an experiment. You know how little it takes to arouse his anger if he is interrupted in such moments. Now I suggest you people move on, unless you wish to find yourselves transformed into horseflies, or receive some similar, unpleasant fate.”
Lhaeo attempted to shut the door only to find an unusual doorjamb blocking the way. Hawksguard winced as the heavy door pressed against his foot with greater force than Elminster’s scribe could ever apply. More of the sage’s enchantments, he thought, then forced the door back a bit.
“Look here,” Hawksguard said as Kelemvor appeared at his side and shoved at the front door with him. “I have an unhappy liege. If I have an unhappy liege, then you have an unhappy liege. And if we have an unhappy liege, then—”
Suddenly the door swung open wide, and Lhaeo moved out of its way. Hawksguard and Kelemvor were both tossed forward and fell in a tangle at the scribe’s feet.
“Oh, let them in, lest he begin the sordid tale of woe all over again!” a familiar voice called out.
Midnight felt flushed with awe at the sound of Elminster’s voice. She heard the sound of footsteps on rickety stairs growing louder. Then, a white-bearded sage appeared at the foot of the steps and fixed Midnight with his gaze. The number of lines surrounding his eyes seemed to double as he squinted, as if he doubted his senses.
“What? Ye again! I thought I had seen the last of ye in the Stonelands!” Elminster said. “Mourngrym sent word that someone with a message of importance would visit me. That’s supposed to be ye?”
Cyric helped Kelemvor to his feet. Adon stood back and watched.
Midnight refused to allow her anger to get the better of her. “I carry the last words of Mystra, Goddess of Magic, as well as a symbol of her trust; it is an item she told me to give to you, along with her message.”
Elminster frowned. “Why didn’t ye tell me this when we first met?”
“I tried!” Midnight said.
“Obviously, ye didn’t try hard enough,” Elminster said as he turned back to the stairs and motioned for her to follow. “I don’t suppose ye would consider leaving that troublesome entourage with Lhaeo while ye relate this vitally important information?”
Midnight drew a deep breath. “I don’t suppose I would,” she said. “They have seen what I have seen, and more.”
The sage cocked his head to the side as he climbed the stairs. “Very well,” he said. “But if they touch anything, they do so at their own risk.”
“There are dangerous objects here?” Midnight said as she climbed the winding staircase behind the sage.
“Aye,” Elminster said as he looked over his shoulder. “And I am the most dangerous of them all.”
Then the sage of Shadowdale looked away and did not speak again until the heroes had left the stairs and entered his chamber.
Midnight was certain something would fall on her if she dared another step into the sanctum of the wizened sage. There was a window directly ahead, and the beams of sunlight that pierced the air beside her revealed a small army of dust particles floating in the air. There were parchments and scrolls, ancient texts and magical artifacts strewn about the modest quarters of the sage.
“Now,” Elminster said. “Give me the details of thy involvement with the goddess Mystra. Then tell me her exact message, word for word.”
Midnight related all that she had seen, starting with her brush with death on the road to Arabel and her salvation by Mystra, and finishing with the seeming destruction of the goddess at the hands of Helm.
“Hand me the pendant,” Elminster said.
Midnight pulled the pendant over her head and gave it to the sage. Elminster passed the pendant over a beautiful glass orb that glowed with an amber cast and waited a moment. When nothing happened, the sage brought the pendant even closer to the orb, touching the cold metal of the star against the sphere, while holding the item as far from his body as possible. The globe had been designed to shatter if any powerful object was brought within its range, but nothing happened as the pendant touched it.
Elminster’s eyes narrowed as he looked up. “Worthless,” he said and dropped the pendant to the floor.
“There is no magic within this trinket.” Elminster kicked the pendant across the floor. It landed in the corner and a cloud of dust rose. “Ye’ve been given my time and my patience,” Elminster said. “Neither is to be trifled with, especially not in these trying times for the Dales.”
“But there is powerful magic in the pendant!” Midnight said. “I’ve seen it. We all have!”
And soon the stories began to flow from both Cyric and Kelemvor. Elminster looked to Hawksguard wearily.
“That’s all,” Elminster said finally. “Ye may leave now, a
nd rest assured that the protection of the Dales lays in the hands of those who think better than to waste the precious time of its defenders with tall tales and fantasies that ye cannot even substantiate.”
Midnight stood, staring in shock at the old sage.
“Come on,” Kelemvor said. “We’ve done all that we can here.”
“Aye,” Elminster said. “Begone!”
Suddenly the pendant shot from the corner and hung in the air beside the old sage. Elminster’s gaze fixed on Midnight once more. She felt a cold wave of panic pass through her mind.
“A minor display of your magic does not interest me,” Elminster said in a low and measured voice. “In fact, these days it’s rather dangerous.”
The pendant started to spin in the air. Sharp streaks of lightning played across its surface and began to radiate out from the star.
“What’s this, then?” Elminster said.
There was a blinding flash of light, and a cocoon of blue-white lightning formed around the old sage, cutting him off from view. Something that looked like an amber whirlwind erupted within the cocoon, searing its edges. Seconds later, the cocoon dissolved in a puff of smoke and the amber streaks of light vanished.
“Perhaps we should talk further,” Elminster said to Midnight as he snatched the pendant from the air.
Hawksguard moved forward.
“A word, great sage,” he said, respectfully.
“Is it one that immediately comes to mind or must I guess?” the sage muttered. Hawksguard stopped for a moment, then laughed heartily. Elminster looked to the ceiling. “What? Can’t ye see I’m busy?”
Hawksguard drew himself to attention. “Elminster, Lord Mourngrym would have a word or two with you about the defenses you have cluttered the Twisted Tower with.”
“Would he now?” Elminster said. “Where is he? Show him in.”
The muscles in Hawksguard’s face twitched. “He’s not here.”
“That does present a problem, does it not?”
Hawksguard’s face was turning red. “He sent me to fetch you, good sir.”
“Fetch!? Am I a dog, then! And after all the help I’ve given that man!”
“Good Elminster, you turn my words against me!”
The sage thought about it for a moment. “I suppose I do at that. But I cannot leave here today. There are elements at work that I must watch carefully.” Elminster gestured at Hawksguard. “Come close,” he said. “I have a message for our liege.”
The edges of Hawksguard’s mouth twitched as he approached. “You’re not going to tattoo it on my flesh, are you?”
“Of course not,” Elminster said.
“Or change me into some unearthly beast, then set me to the winds that I may repeat the message to all I may find until I am at last brought before Lord Mourngrym?”
Elminster rubbed at his forehead and cursed. “Where did I get this reputation?” he said absently. Hawksguard was about to answer, but the mage’s wrinkled finger pierced the air before him, entreating him for silence. Elminster gazed into Hawksguard’s eyes.
“Tell him that I am terribly busy preparing the mystical defense of his kingdom. The wards I have placed in the Twisted Tower are for his own good, and he should accept them as such.”
Hawksguard was sweating in his armor. “That is all?”
Elminster nodded. “The three of ye, come forward.”
Kelemvor, Cyric, and Adon carefully navigated the length of the room.
“Each of ye has witnessed sights that very few will ever know. Where do ye stand on the defense of the Dales?”
The trio stood in place. Kelemvor looked to Midnight, who averted her eyes.
“Are ye deaf? Are you with the dale or not?”
Adon moved forward. “I wish to fight,” he said. Elminster looked at the young cleric, intrigued.
“Do ye, now?”
Kelemvor looked to Midnight. Her gaze told him that she had no intention of leaving, even though she had fulfilled her agreement with the goddess. Anger coursed through him. He did not want to stay, but he could not bring himself to leave Midnight behind. “We’ve come this far. Bane tried to kill us all. I will fight if there is a reward in it for me,” the fighter said at last.
“Ye will be rewarded,” Elminster said coldly.
A cold hand clutched Cyric’s heart as the silence in the small room grew to epic proportions. Midnight looked up at him. There was something in her eyes. Cyric throught of Tilverton, of how close they had become on their journey.
“I will fight,” he said. Midnight looked away. “I have nothing better to do anyway.”
Elminster glared at Cyric, then turned away. “All of ye have faced the gods and survived. Ye have seen their weaknesses first hand, as well as their strengths. That will be important in this battle. Those who fight must know that the enemy can be conquered, that even the gods may die.”
Adon flinched.
Elminster spoke softly now. “Ye see, there are forces greater than man or god, just as there are worlds within, and worlds without.…”
* * * * *
It was just after highsun that Hawksguard, Kelemvor, and Cyric left Elminster. Adon wanted to go with them, but even Kelemvor agreed that the cleric was in no condition for combat. Cyric had been amused by Adon’s desire to spill blood, but he kept his amusement to himself. He knew that the cleric could not be trusted in a battle such as the one they faced; Adon seemed to care less and less for his own survival, and he would be the last man any soldier would want guarding his back.
Halfway to the Twisted Tower, Cyric started to question his own reasons for aiding the defense of the town. There was nothing for him here, except perhaps a quick death. If that were all he desired, there were easier ways to find it. A stroll down the streets of Zhentil Keep in the middle of the night was sure to reward him with such a fate. Or perhaps he wished to test his mettle against the god who attempted to slay him once already.
We four faced a god and survived—even without Mystra’s assistance, Cyric thought. Imagine if we were successful in slaying a god! Our names would be sung in ballads that minstrels would recite for hundreds of years.
Elminster’s words haunted Cyric even as they approached the Twisted Towers and sat waiting for Lord Mourngrym to make his appearance. Without the presence of the gods in the Planes, magical and physical laws were breaking down. All of the Realms might fall. What then might rise from the ashes? Cyric thought. And who would be the gods of that dark future?
Mourngrym appeared, and Hawksguard recited Elminster’s words. Kelemvor and Cyric pledged their assistance, and by nightfall they had been given their parts to play in the battle. Kelemvor would be stationed with Hawksguard and the majority of Mourngrym’s forces at the eastern border, where Bane’s troops were expected to attack. Cyric was called to help defend the bridge at the Ashaba and to assist the refugees leaving via the river to seek sanctuary in Mistledale. Archers were already taking up positions in the forest between Voonlar and Shadowdale and traps were being laid for Bane’s troops.
And though Mourngrym believed he had organized his forces in the most efficient way to counter the larger Zhentish army, the dalelord was concerned about Elminster’s place in the battle to come.
“I suppose Elminster still believes the true battle will take place at the Temple of Lathander,” Mourngrym said ruefully. “We need his help at the borders! By Tymora we’ve got to talk some sense into that man!”
“We would be the first to ever do so, I’m afraid,” Hawksguard said, smiling broadly.
Mourngrym laughed. “Perhaps you’re right. Elminster has always stood in defense of the Dales. But to catch just a glimmer of the man’s reasoning before he chose to reveal it would be a prize I would cherish for the rest of my life!”
Both Kelemvor and Hawksguard broke into braying laughter at the dalelord’s comments. Cyric just shook his head. At least Kelemvor wasn’t being morose anymore. In fact, the fighter’s camaraderie with Hawksguard almos
t made him pleasant to be around.
But Cyric wasn’t much in the mood for the fighters’ jokes, so he left the throne room quietly. The halls of the Twisted Tower rang with activity as the thief made his way back to his room to prepare for eveningfeast.
After he changed his clothes, the thief turned to leave his room. As he walked toward the door, his boot slid across a slick patch of wood on the floor. He regained his balance, then looked down. Had one of the clumsy cows they called ‘serving girls’ in the tower made a mess she was too dainty to clean up? Cyric wondered. There, in the center of the room, was a stain that looked like blood.
Cyric’s fingers trembled as he reached down and touched the red stain. He smeared his finger in the liquid, then touched his finger to his tongue, just to see what the liquid was.
Something exploded in his skull, and Cyric felt his body fall backward into the far wall, then land on the bed. He was dimly aware of the damage he had caused to the wall and to himself, but his perceptions swam in a fantastic haze of sights and sounds. The thief was finding it hard to tell his delusions from reality.
He was only certain that someone else was entering the room, closing the door, and locking it.
And before he passed out, Cyric realized that the man was laughing.
The next thing the thief was aware of was an odd taste in his mouth, like bitter almonds. His throat was dry, and sweat poured into his eyes. The sound of his own breathing came to him: raspy and without steady rhythm. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. Sight and sound returned suddenly, and he found himself lying upon his bed. A gray-haired man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Cyric.
“Don’t try to move yet,” the man said. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
Cyric attempted to speak, but his throat was raw and he began to cough, which only caused a greater pain.
“Settle back,” the man said. Cyric felt as if something were pressing him back against the bed. “We have much to discuss. You won’t be able to raise your voice above a whisper, but don’t worry. My senses are quite acute.”
“Marek,” Cyric croaked. The voice was unmistakable. “It can’t be! You were arrested in Arabel.”
Shadowdale Page 28
