“Goddess!” Midnight cried, but even as she spoke the word, the mage knew this time that Mystra was dead. Then she remembered that Elminster had been knocked into the rift. When she looked up, Adon was at the rift’s edge, staring into the mist that was pouring from it, his arms in front of him as if the cleric were reaching out for someone inside the mist.
“Elminster,” she said slowly. Then Midnight saw a blur of motion inside the rift. The mist parted for only a moment, and she saw the old sage locked in a desperate battle to seal the rift that he had opened.
Midnight ran to Adon’s side. The cleric was holding his hands out in front of him, as he would if he were casting a spell. “Please, Sune,” he said softly, and tears started to run down his cheeks.
Elminster didn’t seem to see Midnight and Adon as they stood at the edge of the rift. He was too busy moving his hands in complex patterns and chanting long incantations. Then, the old sage screamed, and a dark violet light poured from the rift. Midnight prepared a spell, but as she raised her hands to throw it, there was a flash, and Elminster and the rift were gone. The temple started to shake, and Midnight fell to her knees.
Adon dragged her to her feet and pulled her forward. She felt the warm air and sunlight rush at her face as they passed through the blinding blue-white lightning that filled the corridor. When they got outside, Midnight looked to the sky and gasped as she saw the massive flames that engulfed the Celestial Stairway blazing into the heavens. For an instant, the charred, black fragments of the stairway itself were visible to her, its aspects frozen in a dizzying array of images. In places she saw the myriad hands she had glimpsed once before; they were trembling and clutching at the air. Then the stairway was gone, and she could only see the flames.
Midnight and Adon fell to the ground and behind them an ear-splitting sound erupted as the walls of the temple splintered, and the wings of the turrets crashed to the ground.
All of Shadowdale trembled as the Temple of Lathander exploded.
To the east of the explosion, there was a moment when almost all fighting on the road near Krag Pool stopped; a moment in which the combatants had stared at the sky in stunned silence. The fires seemed to cascade down from the heavens, cutting through the sky to engulf the area near Lathander’s temple.
Kelemvor stared at the flames in shock. His first thought was to abandon his post and ride to Midnight’s side, but he knew that Elminster had to be alive. He was legendary for his powers, and he could protect Midnight better than a fighter ever could. Besides, Kelemvor knew he couldn’t leave his men without a leader. Midnight’s fate was in her own hands, just as she had desired.
The respite caused by the explosion lasted no more than a few seconds, then the fighting resumed. Bane’s forces were clearly exhausted, and the loss of their key commanders from the battlefield had reduced the ranks of the Zhentilar to an undisciplined rabble fighting for their lives. Bane had not returned, Sememmon was wounded and unconscious, and Knightsbridge was dead. Most importantly, the defenders of Shadowdale showed no sign of buckling before the dwindling, but still superior numbers of Bane’s army.
Commander Bishop stood beside Kelemvor. “They come from all directions,” Bishop said, barely able to catch his breath. “By the gods, this is a young man’s game!”
“It’s a sad and gruesome game, then,” Kelemvor said as he guarded the Bishop’s back and they slowly moved forward through the pockets of carnage. Bodies were everywhere. The dead numbered in the thousands, and the fighting had become more desperate than ever. Kelemvor heard one of the Zhentilar call out for Lord Bane. Others responded that he had fled.
“Did you hear that?” Kelemvor said, but Bishop was already busy with a swordswoman who matched his every blow and showed no sign of the exhaustion that had overtaken the dalesman.
Before Kelemvor could turn and help Bishop, another Zhentish horseman rode at him, slicing down with his sword. Kelemvor dragged the soldier off his horse and ran him through. Pulling himself onto the ebon mount, Kelemvor held out his hand to Bishop, who had just killed the swordswoman. The commander reached up, then cried out as an arrow pierced his leg. He faltered and Kelemvor grabbed his hand and dragged him to the mount.
Another arrow sailed past them, and Kelemvor kicked the horse into motion. They found a small contingent of dalesmen fighting for their lives against the Zhentilar, and Kelemvor forced the horse to charge into the skirmish.
Kelemvor and Bishop waded into the sea of dark armor, their blades cutting a wide arc in the forces of the Zhentilar. But their efforts weren’t enough to even the odds. They were dragged down from opposite sides of the horse, and forced to fight on foot. Then, there was a mad chant from the west, and another troop of ebon-armored riders burst into the battle. But they were not Zhentilar; they wore the symbol of the white horse upon their helmets.
The Riders of Mistledale.
Kelemvor let out a wild scream and gutted the Zhentilar he was fighting. The Riders were the best cavalry in the Dales. Though they only numbered twenty men, they were each a match for five Zhentish soldiers.
Another dalesman let out a cheer and pointed to the west again. “Look there!”
Kelemvor saw another group of fighters, who could only be the Knights of Myth Drannor, charging down the road. They were leading the majority of Shadowdale’s defenders from the town, Lord Mourngrym in their lead.
Before another hour was up, Bane’s army started to retreat. The presence of the Riders of Mistledale and the Knights of Myth Drannor had broken the resolve of most of the Zhentilar. Nearly all of the soldiers from Bane’s army that managed to break through the gray stone barricade had been killed by the defenders in town. The dalesmen at the bridge had driven off Fzoul and his troops. The Zhentish riders who had attacked from the north had been killed or forced to retreat. Now, the Zhentish forces in the east were running, too.
At the barricades leading to Shadowdale, Kelemvor and Bishop met up with Mourngrym and two of the Knights.
“They are retreating!” Mourngrym cried out. “We’ve won!”
Kelemvor could not believe the words so easily. Many of the Zhentilar would stay and fight until their last breath had been taken from them. The skirmishes had led into the forest, and small fires burned there already, threatening to grow out of control. If nothing else, Shadowdale had lost far too many men to deal with even a small forest fire well.
Kelemvor looked around the battlefield, but didn’t see any of his friends. “Lord Mourngrym, where are Cyric and Hawksguard?”
Mourngrym’s triumphant expression vanished. “They are at the crossroads,” the dalelord said softly. “Cyric is fine, save for a few scratches. Hawksguard.…”
Kelemvor looked into the eyes of the lord of Shadowdale.
“It was Bane,” Mourngrym said at last. “He had me within his grasp and Hawksguard saved me.”
Kelemvor turned and spurred the horse into a gallop as he rode to the crossroads. The fighter passed Cyric and a handful of his men as they rode into the woods to chase down retreating Zhentish soldiers, but he didn’t even hear Cyric’s cries of greeting.
When Kelemvor finally reached the center of Shadowdale, he found the dead being carted away and the injured being tended where they fell. He saw Hawksguard almost immediately, layed out with the other officers.
Kelemvor made his way to the side of the older warrior. Hawksguard was not dead, but there could be no doubt that he would not survive the day. Bane’s taloned hands had cut deeply into his chest, and it was a miracle that he was not dead already. Kelemvor took Hawksguard’s hand and looked into his eyes.
“They’ll pay for this,” Kelemvor growled. “I will hunt them down and slay them all!”
Hawksguard grasped Kelemvor’s arm, smiled weakly, and shook his head. “Don’t be melodramatic,” he said. “This life … is too short.…”
“This isn’t fair,” Kelemvor said.
Hawksguard coughed, and a deep spasm shook his body. “Closer,” Hawksgu
ard said. “Something you must know.”
His voice had become a whisper.
“Important,” Hawksguard said.
Kelemvor leaned close.
And Hawksguard told him a joke.
Kelemvor felt his lower lip tremble, but finally, he laughed. Hawksguard had driven out the thoughts of death and blood that Kelemvor felt welling up inside of him by reminding him of something he had almost lost:
Hope.
* * * * *
The Battle of Shadowdale was over. Bane’s forces had retreated into the forest, although many found only a fiery death instead of the escape they hoped for. The blaze was spreading, but there was little the tired dalesmen could do to contain the fire.
Sharantyr, a ranger with the Knights of Myth Drannor, rode to the Temple of Lathander, along with the Harper bard Storm Silverhand, to investigate the explosion and fire there, and to check on Elminster and the two strangers to Shadowdale he had with him.
As they approached, Sharantyr and Storm saw Midnight and Adon stumble from the wreckage of the temple. Then a fireball erupted from within the ruins and shot into the air. Sharantyr had to leap from her mount and drag Storm to the ground to prevent her from riding into the inferno.
“Elminster,” Storm cried, her gaze fixed on the destruction. A bubble of blue-white energy enshrouded the cleric and the mage who had escaped, and the Knights watched as a wall of debris was vaporized when it hit the shield. Finally, when the earth settled and all that remained of the Temple of Lathander was a shattered ruin, the Knights ran to the strangers, who lay untouched by the destruction.
After seeing if the cleric and mage were alive, Storm ran past into the temple. Within the flaming ruins, navigating past the debris-filled antechamber, Storm forced a fallen support beam out of her way and entered what was left of the main room of worship. The silver-haired bard felt her heart beat faster as she searched through the wreckage for some sign that Elminster had survived. At the far side of the room, she found fragments of his ancient spell books and even tattered pieces of his robe.
Blood and bits of bone were splattered on the walls that still stood in the temple.
Storm screamed from the depths of her heart. Her rage consumed her and she ran from the flaming temple to face the strangers.
When the silver-haired bard got outside, she saw that Sharantyr was talking to the cleric and mage who had fled from the temple. The ranger was about to question the dark-haired woman when Storm appeared before them, sword in hand.
“Elminster,” she said, her voice low and tinged with hatred. “Elminster is dead. Murdered.”
Storm lunged forward, and Sharantyr had to hold her back and disarm her before she could let Storm go again. Then, a great shadow passed over the temple, and the air grew thin and cold. In seconds, the perfect blue of the sky became a steel-gray, and storm clouds converged at the head of the blazing Celestial Stairway. A huge eye appeared at the apex of the clouds, and a single tear left the eye as it blinked and vanished. The tear became a flood of unnatural rain that burst from the heavens, drenching the entire dale. Bluish white wisps of smoke rose from the stairway as the flames that had destroyed it were extinguished, and far from the temple, in the forest near Krag Pool, the fires died away beneath the torrents of rain.
Storm Silverhand had seemed to calm as the wall of rain fell, but then she saw the face of the young, scarred cleric.
“He was—he was at the Temple of Tymora,” the bard whispered, breathlessly. “He was there right after the murders!”
Sharantyr moved forward, and this time she had her sword drawn. “I am Sharantyr of the Knights of Myth Drannor,” she said. “It is my solemn duty to place you both under arrest for the murder of Elminster the Sage.…”
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