Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  "What sorcery is this?" Kelemvor said to Zehla.

  "I don't know," the old woman said.

  "Then why did you stop me?" Kelemvor said, worried that the girl might still prove to be a danger.

  Zehla's brow wrinkled. "In case you have forgotten, blood has never been spilled in my establishment. While I'm alive, it never will be. Besides, she's just a child."

  Kelemvor frowned and listened as Caitlan spoke again.

  "The minister of defense approached you and a man named Cyric. You were newly arrived in town and the sole survivors of a failed attempt to retrieve an artifact known as the Ring of Winter. The traitor was feared to be in the employ of those plotting the economic collapse of Arabel through the sabotage of trade routes, and the overall discrediting of Arabel as a vital city in the Realms.

  "With the help of Cyric and one other, you found the traitor, but he made good his escape and now the city is blanketed in fear and distrust. For this you blame yourself. Now you toil as a common guardsman, allowing your talent for adventure to languish unfulfilled."

  The stone ceased to glow, and it now looked like a common garden stone. Caitlan caught her breath.

  Kelemvor thought of the ice creature that stood guard over the Ring of Winter. He did nothing as the creature literally froze the blood of his companions, their screams ending abruptly as ice filled their throats. Their deaths had purchased the time Kelemvor and Cyric needed to escape. It had been Kelemvor who had first learned of the ring, and organized the party to retrieve the object, although he had deferred leadership to another.

  "My 'talent' for adventure," Kelemvor said with contempt. "Men have died because of my so-called talent. Good men."

  "Men die every day, Kelemvor. Is it not preferable to die with your pockets lined with gold — or at least in that pursuit?"

  Kelemvor leaned back in his chair. "You are a magic-user? This is how you see into my innermost thoughts?"

  Caitlan shook her head. "I am no magic-user. This stone… this gem was a gift. It was the only bit of magic I possessed. Now it is spent. I am defenseless and at your mercy, good Kelemvor. I apologize for my actions, but I had to know that you were an honorable man."

  The fighter replaced his sword and took his seat. "Your food is getting cold," he said.

  Caitlan ignored the food, although her hunger was apparent. "I am here to make you an offer, Kelemvor. An offer of adventure and danger, of riches beyond belief and excitement such as you have craved these many weeks. Would you like to hear what I propose?"

  "What else do you know about me?" Kelemvor said. "What else did your gem tell you?"

  "What else is there to know?" Caitlan said.

  "You did not answer my question."

  "You did not answer mine."

  Kelemvor smiled. "Tell me of your quest."

  Adon smiled fearlessly, despite the presence of the four armed guards who surrounded him and led him through the great citadel of Arabel. They passed all the sights that Adon had familiarized himself with during his last visit to the citadel — the opulent halls filled with activity, the gaily colored glass windows through which precious light had filtered, warming his face. The splendor of the citadel was a shocking contrast to the squalor Adon had witnessed in the streets. The cleric ran his hand over his face, as if fearful that the filth he was thinking about had somehow rubbed off, marring his pristine appearance.

  Sune Firehair, the goddess he had been a faithful cleric to for most of his young life, had blessed him with what he considered the smoothest, most fair skin of any in the Realms. He had been accused of vanity from time to time, and he shrugged off such accusations. Those who did not worship Sune could not be expected to understand that, although he gave thanks regularly, he was in charge of the care and keeping of the precious gifts the goddess had granted him. He had fought to preserve her good name and reputation, and never suffered so much as a scratch to mar his features. And in this he knew he was blessed.

  Now that the gods had come to the Realms, Adon felt it was merely a matter of time before he crossed paths with Sune. Had he learned her whereabouts, he would have already gone off in search of her. As it was, Arabel, with its constant flow of merchants all heavily equipped with wagging tongues and unquenchable thirsts, was the best place to wait until more information came his way.

  Of course, in the Temple of Sune, there had been some dissension. Two clerics had left the temple under questionable circumstances. Others were distraught over what they claimed was the abandonment of Sune — a fact heralded by the silence of the goddess to their prayers. Of course, since the time of Arrival, only the clerics of Tymora had successfully achieved clerical magic, and that was attributed to the proximity of their god-made-flesh. And it seemed that if a cleric was more than a mile from his god, his spells did not function.

  Naturally, healing potions or magical objects that copied the effects of healing magic were now sold at a premium, though they, too, were untrustworthy. Local alchemists were forced to hire private guards to protect their wares and their person.

  Adon had adjusted better than most to the chaos in the Realms. He knew that all things concerning the gods occurred for a reason. A true follower should have the patience and good sense to wait for enlightenment, rather than allow his imagination to run rampant. Adon's faith was unwavering, and for that he had been rewarded. The fact that the fair Myrmeen Lhal, ruler of Arabel, had requested his presence, was proof that he was blessed.

  Life was good.

  The group passed through a corridor that Adon was unfamiliar with and he attempted to pause as they passed a mirror, but the guards nudged him on. Somewhat annoyed, he complied.

  One of the guards was a woman with dark skin and almost black eyes. It pleased Adon that women had been allowed into the ranks so easily. "Find a city ruled by a woman and you will find true equality and fairness throughout the land," had been his motto. He smiled to the guardswoman, and knew that his choice of the city of Arabel as his new home had truly been a wise one.

  "What honor am I to be awarded for my part in bringing down the foul villain Knightsbridge? Have no fear, if you tell, I'll say nothing and seem completely surprised. But the suspense is almost more than I can bear!"

  One of the guards snickered, but that was the only response Adon received. The cleric's recompense for his work for the city had been slight, and he had petitioned the minister of defense on the matter. Now Myrmeen Lhal had personally intervened, and Adon could guess why.

  Adon's role in bringing down the conspiracy was to seduce the mistress of one of the suspected conspirators, a woman who was rumored to talk in her sleep. Adon performed admirably, but his reward was almost a week in the company of guardsmen, watching the movements of two mercenaries the minister of defense had recruited for the Knightsbridge matter.

  The battle with the traitor, when it finally occurred, was brief and startlingly without conclusion. Knightsbridge had escaped, although Adon himself had discovered the whereabouts of the conspirator's war room and a personal ledger that held information that could only be interpreted as the key points of the conspirator's attack against Arabel.

  Adon turned from his memories back to the present. They were traveling downward, ever downward, to a dirty, dusty section of the fortress that Adon had heard of, yet never visited before.

  "You're quite certain our lady requested to meet me here, and not, perhaps, in the royal chambers?"

  The guards remained silent.

  Light had suddenly become a precious commodity, and the cleric heard the sound of scurrying rats from somewhere down the hallway. Behind them he heard the sound of massive doors swinging shut. The echo was deafening in the midst of the corridor's silence.

  The guards had taken flaming torches from the walls, and the heat from the torch behind Adon was making him uncomfortable.

  The only sounds now were the footfalls of the group as they plunged ahead. And though the broad shoulders of the guard before him blocked Adon's v
iew of what lay ahead, he had a fair idea.

  A dungeon! Adon shouted in the relative safety of his own head. These buffoons have led me to a dungeon!

  Then Adon felt the hands of the guards on him, and before he could react, he was thrown forward. His lean yet muscular body absorbed most of the fall as he rolled and sprang into a fighting position just in time to hear a steel door swing shut. The lessons Adon had suffered through on the art of self defense would have come in handy had he realized the situation earlier.

  He cursed himself for surrendering his war hammer so easily and, just for a moment, cursed his own vanity that had clouded his reason. These rogues were loyal to Knightsbridge! The cleric was sure that his compatriots, Kelemvor and Cyric, would soon be joining him.

  We were fools, Adon thought. How could we have believed the threat to be over simply because one man had been driven off?

  There was no light in the room, as Adon dusted off his fine clothing. He had worn his favorite silks and carried a handkerchief laced with gold — in case the lady became overwhelmed with tears when he accepted her proposal and became royal consort. His boots were shined, and even the tiniest glint of light reflected off them, despite the filth he had been forced to walk through.

  "I'm a fool," Adon said to the darkness.

  "So I'm told," a woman's voice answered behind him. "But we all have our weak points." Then Adon heard the striking of flint and a torch was lit, revealing the bearer of the light, a beautiful dark-haired woman.

  Myrmeen Lhal.

  Her eyes caught the reflection of the flames, and the flickers of fire seemed to dance just to celebrate her beauty. She wore a dark cloak, parted at the waist, and Adon stared at the fullness of her proud bosom that heaved in its chain mail dress.

  Adon opened his arms and walked forward to his love, a warrior woman who had the courage and the wisdom to control a kingdom.

  Life was better than good.

  "Stand your ground unless you relish the idea of leaving here as naught but a stuck pig."

  Adon held his ground. "Milady, I — "

  "Do me the honor," Myrmeen said angrily, "of limiting your answers to 'yes, milady' or 'no, milady.'"

  The ruler of Arabel moved forward and the cleric felt the cold tip of a blade pressed against his stomach.

  "Yes, milady," Adon said, then was silent.

  Myrmeen moved back and studied his face. "You are fair," she said, though she was in truth being kind. The cleric's mouth was a trifle large, his nose a shade from perfect, and his jaw was far too angular to be considered particularly pleasing. Still, there was a boyish, mischievous quality that lurked behind his far too innocent to be believed eyes, and a soul that sought adventure, both in service to his goddess and to many of the fair ladies of Arabel — if rumors were to be believed.

  Adon allowed himself a smile that quickly vanished as the knife point found a new home somewhat lower. "A fair face, coupled with a healthy, serviceable body…"

  Serviceable? Adon began to wonder.

  "And an ego the size of my kingdom!"

  Adon drew back as Myrmeen shouted at him, her torch held dangerously close to his face. The cleric felt sweat form on his brow.

  "Is this not so?"

  The cleric swallowed. "Yes, milady."

  "And was it not you who spent all of yestereve bragging that you would bed me before this month was out?"

  Adon stayed silent.

  "No matter. I already know it to be so. Now listen here, foolish man. When and if I choose to take a lover is my business and mine alone! It has been, and shall ever be!"

  Adon wondered if his eyebrows were being singed.

  "I received word from Lord Tessaril Winter of Eveningstar about you even before I allowed you residence in Arabel. I even considered your talents valuable in the gathering of information through private intrigues, and at that you have proven yourself useful."

  The cleric thought of Tessaril Winter's milky white shoulders and her soft, perfumed neck, and prepared himself to die.

  "But when you turn your vile imaginings against Myrmeen of Arabel there can be only one fit punishment!"

  Adon closed his eyes and awaited the worst.

  "Exile," she said. "By highsun tomorrow you are to be gone from my city. Do not force me to send my guards after you. Their tender mercies would not leave you with reason to give thanks."

  Adon opened his eyes just in time to see Myrmeen's back as she carried herself from the cell in the most regal, haughty display of contempt Adon had ever seen. He admired her grace as she signaled and two guards fell in beside her, the remaining pair advancing on Adon. He admired her great courage, wisdom, and forgiveness at giving him the option of leaving the walled city instead of simply ordering the guards to slit his throat.

  However, as the two guards approached him, forcing him deeper into the cell instead of allowing him to take his leave of it, his admiration dimmed just a bit. He knew that whatever mischief they planned, he dared not fight back. Even if he defeated the two guards in this dungeon, there was little chance he would make it to the gates of the city, let alone beyond them. Even if he did, he would be a fugitive, not an exile, and his actions would bring disgrace and possible retribution upon the church.

  "Please don't mar my face!" he cried and the guards began to laugh.

  "This way," one of them said as they grabbed Adon's arm and dragged him from the cell.

  Cyric made his way back to his room at the Night Wolf Inn with a weariness in his soul. Although he had made the decision that his days of thieving were long behind him, he continued to think like a thief, to move and act like a thief. Only in the heat of battle, when his full concentration was needed to ensure his survival, was he able to resist the pull of his former life.

  Even now, with evening closing in, Cyric took the dimly lit back stairs to his room, and only a truly keen observer would be able to detect any sounds made by the short-haired, lean shadow of a man who gracefully moved forward to the second floor landing.

  Recent events had been distressing. He had come to Arabel to begin anew, and yet it had become necessary to utilize his skills as a thief to uncover the evidence against Knightsbridge. Now his days were spent enacting the simple duties of a guardsman, the mindless tedium a relentlessly depressing recompense for his troubles. The bounty originally promised by Evon Stralana had been halved because of Knightsbridge's escape.

  Stralana had approached Cyric and Kelemvor because they were outsiders, newly arrived in town and probably unknown to the traitors. Although Cyric had no real intention of joining the guardsmen of Arabel, Stralana made this a stipulation. Stralana insisted on the authenticity of a signed contract to prove that Cyric was a guardsman and to allay the suspicions of their quarry, who was believed to have infiltrated the guard. Yet the contract Cyric had signed as part of his subterfuge turned out to be binding. And when the crisis struck, Stralana held Cyric to the terms of the contract. Arabel needed all the guards they could muster.

  Many of the city's defenses, once made strong by magic, were no longer trustworthy, and the city had gone so far as to draft civilians into temporary duty. Cyric believed in a good axe or knife, the strength of his arm, and the strength of his wits and skills to get him out of trouble. Those who relied solely on the power of magic had become rare in recent weeks.

  The presence of the "gods" in the Realms was also distressing to Cyric. On a dare from Kelemvor, his fellow unfortunate in the Knightsbridge fiasco, Cyric had visited the ruined Temple of Tymora, and paid the price to bask in the presence of Arabel's newly seated resident deity. Although Cyric had promised himself to view this event with an open, optimistic eye, the "goddess" saw right through him.

  "You do not believe in me," Tymora said, her tone devoid of feeling.

  "I believe in the evidence of my senses," Cyric said bluntly. "If you are a goddess, what need do you have of my gold?"

  The goddess regarded him in an aloof manner, then looked away and raised one o
f her finely manicured hands to indicate the audience was ended. Cyric picked the pockets of three of Tymora's clerics on the way out and gave the money to a mission for the poor that afternoon.

  Most disturbing of all to Cyric, there were hundreds of signs that not all was right in the Realms. And Cyric had witnessed his share of odd events since the night of Arrival.

  One night he was summoned to a feasthall named the Gentle Smile, where he was forced to protect a cleric of Lathander who was on his way back to Tantras. The cleric had innocently attempted a spell to purify a rancid piece of meat he had been served, and although the spell had no effect, mass hysteria had broken out amongst the other diners who feared that the cleric had somehow poisoned all the food in the hall with his "unblessed magic."

  One afternoon, at an outdoor marketplace, two magic-users became entangled in an argument that led to a battle in which magic was loosed. By the look of surprise on the faces of both mages, their spells had not acted in the manner that had been expected — one of the magic-users was carried off by an invisible servant, and the other watched helplessly as a blanket of webs fell from the sky, encompassing the length of the market. The strong, sticky strands attached themselves to everyone and everything in sight. Almost all of the merchandise in the marketplace was ruined, and because the webs were highly flammable, Cyric and his fellow guardsmen spent the better part of two days hacking away at the unusually strong webs in an effort to free the innocents who had been trapped.

  Cyric broke from his reverie as he rounded a corridor. A young couple started as he surprised them. They fumbled with the key to their room and Cyric passed them by, recognizing the young man as the son of a guardsman who spoke endlessly of the trials his son put him through. The girl with the young man must have been the "harlot" the boy's father had forbidden him to see.

  Cyric pretended he hadn't recognized the boy, although he had registered the waves of fear that emanated from the young man. Cyric envied their strong feelings. Nothing in his life had stirred his emotions, for better or worse, in quite some time.