Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  "Nay! My eyes must deceive me! Surely it is not Kelemvor the Mighty come to grace this poor inn with his magnificent presence!"

  Kelemvor rose, sword at the fore, and looked for the laughing face of the mercenary, Thurbrand. And Kelemvor saw that he was not alone. Two square tables had been pushed together to accommodate Thurbrand's party, which consisted of seven men and three women, none of whom would ever be confused with a regular patron of the Pride of Arabel without a heady amount of imagination. The men had the look of combat veterans, despite their apparent youth. One man, an albino, reached for his dagger. Thurbrand gestured for the albino to remain at ease. A beautiful woman with short, blond hair sat beside Thurbrand, riveted to the mercenary's every word and gesture. A girl with short, brown hair sat at the other end of the table, keeping to herself, eyeing Kelemvor suspiciously.

  Kelemvor stared into the all too familiar emerald eyes of Thurbrand and found them as deceptive and hypnotizing as they always had been to him. Kelemvor grimaced.

  "And here I thought the dogs were kept to the kennel," Kelemvor spat out. "The keeper must surely be chastised!"

  Thurbrand shook his head and smiled as he regarded his companions. The look he gave them made it clear they were not to interfere, no matter what might occur. "Kelemvor!" he said, as if uttering the name was a trial in itself. "Surely the gods could not be so cruel!"

  Kelemvor glared at the onlookers from the other tables and one by one they averted their unwelcome stares. "You're getting old," Kelemvor said, his volume greatly reduced.

  Thurbrand was just past thirty summers, scarcely older than Kelemvor himself, and yet the ravishes of age had truly begun to prey upon the fighter. Thurbrand's hair, golden and fine, had gone to thinning, and was worn unusually long in an effort to cover huge patches of bald scalp. Thurbrand was obviously self-conscious about this, and he constantly patted his hair and cajoled it with fingers to keep it in place over the bald spots.

  Lines had formed on Thurbrand's forehead and around his eyes since Kelemvor had seen him last, and the manner in which he held himself, even when seated, suggested the slouch of a fatted businessman, not the conditioned posture of the finely honed warrior Kelemvor had shared a few wild adventures with in years past, before a disagreement — the subject of which was long forgotten by either man — had caused them to part ways. Still, Thurbrand's face was red from too much sun, and his arms were as well-defined and powerful as Kelemvor's.

  "Old? Thurbrand of the Stonelands, old? Gaze into your own mirror once in a while, you lumbering wreck. And has no one told you that civilized men do not draw weapons unless they have a use for them?"

  "I pity the man who mistakes either of us for civilized," Kelemvor said, and sheathed his sword.

  "Kel." Thurbrand said. "You'll shatter the frail bonds of my ruse. I'm a regular guest in this establishment. A respected agent of arms and experienced talent to wield them. Speaking of that, I may have a little job that you — "

  "Enough!" Kelemvor said.

  Thurbrand shook his head in a mockery of despair. "Ah, well. At least you know where to find me."

  "I wouldn't know that unless I had eyes in the back of my head," Kelemvor said, and turned his back on Thurbrand.

  Kelemvor found a new chair waiting, and spied a serving boy darting into the kitchen with the pieces of the shattered chair tucked beneath his arms. Midnight sat confidently between Cyric and Adon. Caitlan sat in silence, her gaze riveted to the magic-user's pendant, which now rested outside Midnight's cloak. The girl looked as if she might faint. Her skin was while and her hands were trembling.

  "We were discussing the proper route, and the proper share of the booty for someone of my expertise," Midnight said confidently, and Kelemvor felt every hair on his body prickle. "My suggestion is — "

  "Get up," Kelemvor said simply.

  "You need me," Midnight said incredulously as she reluctantly complied.

  "Aye," Kelemvor said. "Just as I need my throat cut in my sleep. Begone!"

  Suddenly Caitlan stood up, her mouth moving as if she were about to cry out. She clutched at her throat and fell across the table.

  Kelemvor looked down at the girl with panic in his eyes. "My reward," he whispered. When he looked up, he realized the others were waiting for him to tell them what to do. "Adon!" Kelemvor said harshly. "Don't just stand there. You're a cleric. See what ails the child and heal her!"

  Adon shook his head and held his hands open at his sides. "I cannot. With the gods in the Realms, our spells do not function unless we're near them. Surely you know this."

  Kelemvor swore with disgust when he saw that Caitlan was shivering, despite the warmth of the room. "Then get a blanket or something to keep her warm."

  Midnight moved forward. "My cloak," she said, and reached for the clasp by her throat.

  Kelemvor looked up sharply. "You are not a part of this."

  A serving girl appeared with a spare tablecloth. "I overheard," she said as she helped Kelemvor wrap the girl in the tablecloth, then backed away as the fighter hefted the unconscious girl in his arms.

  Kelemvor looked into the faces of his companions. "Go with the magic-user or come with me," he said simply. Adon and Cyric looked at one another, then at Kelemvor. They didn't even look at Midnight.

  "As you wish," the magic-user said coldly. Kelemvor and his companions filed past her, and she watched as Adon held open the door for the others, then made his own exit.

  Midnight turned, almost colliding with a serving girl whose slight form was capped with an uneasy smile. The girl played nervously with her apron. "Say your peace," Midnight snapped.

  "Your bill, milady."

  Midnight looked over to her original table, where the meal she had ordered had long since became cold. It hardly mattered. She had lost her appetite. Midnight followed the girl to the bar and paid the innkeeper.

  "Are there any rooms available?" Midnight said.

  The innkeeper handed Midnight her change. "No, milady. We are full up. Perhaps the Scarlet Spear? It is nearby…"

  Midnight took the directions from the man and gave him a gold piece for his trouble. Before the man could even put words to his surprise at such an extravagant tip, Midnight was already halfway to the door.

  As Midnight passed through the doors of the inn and greeted the biting chill of the thin night air, a dark figure rose up from a purposefully neglected table. There was little, it seemed, a fistful of gold could not purchase in Arabel — the right to sit undisturbed in a poorly lit corner of an inn the very least of what was available. The blackened pits of the stranger's eyes seemed aflame with images of the adventurers. He grinned from ear to ear, then merged with the shadows and was gone before anyone was aware he had ever arrived.

  Caitlan was slung over Kelemvor's horse as he rode through the night, Cyric and Adon riding close behind. Soon, they arrived at the Hungry Man Inn, and Cyric helped Kelemvor as he lowered the girl to Adon's waiting arms. The fighter leaped from his mount and ran for the door to the inn without bothering to tether his horse.

  "Should we follow?" Adon said.

  "Give him a moment," Cyric said, and soon Kelemvor emerged from the inn, barking orders to take the girl around back.

  They were met at the rear entrance by an old woman who carried a lantern and gestured frantically for them to get inside. Kelemvor seemed subdued in the woman's presence.

  "Zehla, this is Cyric, a fellow guardsman, and Adon of Sune," Kelemvor said.

  The old woman shook her head. "Time enough for pleasantries later. Follow me."

  Moments later they stood by Zehla's side, in a room she had always reserved for emergencies, watching the fever-plagued motions of Caitlan Moonsong. As beads of sweat formed on the girl's brow, Zehla wiped her forehead with a wet towel.

  "She's ill, possibly dying, Kel," Zehla said, her wizened features and the lines of her face speaking volumes on her authority on pain and suffering.

  Kelemvor realized Caitlan had become consci
ous: she was trying to say something. He bent low that he might hear her words.

  "Save her." The girl's voice was weak and ragged. "Save my mistress."

  "Rest," Kelemvor said simply, brushing the girl's hair from her eyes. Then Caitlan suddenly grabbed his massive hand with an iron grip that made the fighter flinch.

  "She can cure you," Caitlan said, then her muscles relaxed as she sank back on the bed.

  "Zehla!" Kelemvor cried, but the old woman was already there. Kelemvor looked to the others. If they heard the girl's promise, they gave no sign. His secret was safe.

  "She's alive," Zehla pronounced. "For now."

  The old woman turned to Cyric and Adon, and asked them to leave the room so that she and Kelemvor might speak privately. Both men looked to Kelemvor for confirmation, but he was staring down at the girl, lost in his own concerns. They left without further prompting, and Zehla closed the door behind them.

  "My reward," Kelemvor said, gesturing at the girl. "If she dies, I will be cheated of my reward."

  Zehla moved toward him. "Is that your only concern?"

  Kelemvor looked away from the girl and turned his back on the old woman.

  "Riches can be counted in more than gold, good Kel. There are people who help others simply for the pleasure it gives them to do so, and the knowledge that they have made a difference in the world. Hired arms are cheap and plentiful in comparison. You would do well to think on this."

  "You think I don't know that? I think of that every day! But, remember, I'm no wide-eyed youth, no child for you to lecture. I have no choice but to follow the path that's been laid out for me."

  Zehla went to him, touching his arm. "But why, Kel? Can you not tell me why?"

  Kelemvor's shoulders fell as the anger that had raced through him evaporated. "I cannot."

  Zehla shook her head and walked past the fighter. She then moved a chair out of the way, and pulled at a floorboard that came away in her hands without effort, revealing a small box that had been hidden in the tiny space. Zehla pulled out the box, then used the bed as support as she dragged herself to her feet.

  "Help me," Zehla said as she set the box beside Caitlan. Kelemvor hesitated. Zehla's features turned cold. "Come, we must protect your investment."

  Kelemvor moved forward, watching as Zehla opened the box and a series of multi-colored flasks were exposed. "Healing potions," Kelemvor said.

  "Of course. That's why you came here, instead of taking her to one of the temples, isn't it?"

  "Aye," Kelemvor said. "Clerical magic can't be trusted. I told Adon to cure her earlier, without thinking, as if it were still the time before Arrival. Of course, he couldn't. I feared the worshipers of Tymora would turn her away, as she was not one of their own, or force us to bring her back in the morning. By then she might have died."

  "Having her drink this might be just as deadly as not treating her at all," Zehla said as she held up a vial. "All magic is unstable."

  Kelemvor sighed and looked down at Caitlan, who was still shivering. "But we really have no choice, do we?"

  Zehla took the lid off the flask and raised the girl's head. Kelemvor assisted her and they coaxed the unconscious girl to drink.

  "So you came to me for my healing potions."

  "I knew that if you didn't have the potions, you'd know where to get them," Kelemvor said. "The black market, if necessary. These items go at a premium." The flask was empty and Kelemvor allowed Caitlan's head to sink into the soft pillows. "Now what?"

  "Now we wait," Zehla said. "Unless we've poisoned her, it will probably be morning before we see any results."

  "If the potion works, will she be fit to ride with us?" Kelemvor said anxiously.

  "She will live," Zehla said. "We will see about the rest."

  Kelemvor reached for his gold, but Zehla stayed his hand.

  "Unlike you, Kel, I need no reward other than the knowledge I have saved a life." Zehla motioned to the opened box. A half dozen flasks lay untouched. "Put those away," she said, and left the room.

  Kelemvor stood for long moments, staring at the girl and the flasks, Zehla's words weighing heavily upon him. When the fighter finally emerged from Caitlan's room, he found Cyric and Adon waiting for him.

  Zehla had already informed them of Caitlan's improving condition, and they wished to discuss their next move. Kelemvor, however, was in no mood for discussion. He left the inn, his comrades in tow, and waited until they had taken to their mounts and were well away from the inn before he let loose a string of orders that surprised Cyric and quelled some of the former thief's earlier doubts about Kelemvor's abilities.

  "The boy you mentioned earlier, Cyric. The one you saw at the inn, with the girl: the one whose father is a guardsman. Pay the boy a visit and convince him to serve as a distraction at highsun tomorrow, when his father is guarding the north gate. If he objects, threaten to expose his liaisons with the girl. And tell him to maintain his silence after we're gone, as you have friends in the city who will expose him in your absence. Do this under the cover of night, then get some rest and gather your belongings. We will meet at the Hungry Man at first light.

  "Adon, I want you to visit a man named Gelzunduth. I'll give you directions. Cyric and I will need false identifications that will hold up under scrutiny. That fat old buzzard is a master at creating bogus documents. We will also need a false charter." Kelemvor threw a bag of gold pieces to Adon. "That should more than cover your expenses. With your innocent face, you should have no problem convincing that pig to go along. If he refuses, come to my room at the Hungry Man. If I'm not there, wait for me, and I'll go back there with you. I've a debt to settle with that man, anyway."

  Adon seemed confused. "Neither of you stay at the barracks, with the other guards?"

  Kelemvor looked to Cyric.

  "Part of our reward for bringing down the traitor," Cyric said. "The independence was welcome."

  Adon frowned. "False documents? That's hardly legal."

  Kelemvor pulled up the reigns and brought his mount to an abrupt halt. He glared at Adon. "You can't heal. You can't throw spells. You're adequate in a fight. Buying false documents shouldn't be too much to ask, all things considered."

  Adon hung his head and took the directions Kelemvor offered, then rode off toward Gelzunduth's house.

  "What will you do?" Cyric asked.

  Kelemvor almost laughed. "Try to find a competent magic-user who's not a woman."

  The Fighter rode off into the night, leaving Cyric to pursue his own task, and ponder his own questions.

  The streets of Arabel were deserted, and Midnight wondered briefly if a curfew had been in effect. She had wandered from the course the serving girl at the Pride of Arabel had laid out for her, and soon found herself lost. Midnight knew that this was for the better, as it gave her time to calm down before she found herself in the company of others at the Scarlet Spear.

  Midnight touched the pendant — Mystra's trust — as she thought of the blue flame dragon that had materialized at the Pride of Arabel. She had tried to throw a simple spell of levitation to impress Kelemvor, but somehow the spell had been altered. And though Midnight had remained visibly calm, and claimed credit for the dragon as if it was what she had intended to create, she had been terrified.

  The magic-user touched the pendant once more. Perhaps it had something to do with the dragon. Then again, perhaps it was only the unstable nature of magic that caused the dragon to appear.

  Unable to decide the real source of the misfired spell, Midnight turned her attention to finding the Scarlet Spear.

  Then, in the street ahead of her, Midnight saw a horse, and a man called out to her. It was Thurbrand, the mercenary who had challenged Kelemvor at the inn.

  "Fair daffodil!"

  "I am known as Midnight," she said as the man approached. There was no one else on the street. The name he called her brought a slight tinge of amusement to Midnight, despite the cries of her better nature to beware the smiling man before
her.

  "I am no one's 'fair daffodil.'"

  "Then there is no justice in this world," Thurbrand said, his green eyes picking up the light from the brilliant moon overhead.

  "What do you want, Dragon Eyes?"

  "Ah, I see Kelemvor's tender mercies have not left you unscarred," Thurbrand said softly. "He has that effect on many who wish to embrace his friendship. He has suffered much, Lady Midnight, and he inflicts that suffering on all those around him."

  "Just 'Midnight,'" the magic-user said as she felt a sudden chill and pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders.

  Thurbrand smiled and brushed a strand of hair that had revealed a bare spot back in place. "Come, I offer a place to rest for the night, and company who will appreciate one as lovely and capable as yourself."

  Thurbrand turned and walked in the direction of his horse. "Perhaps we can discuss business as well."

  Either Midnight's eyes deceived her, or the horse Thurbrand walked toward was adorned with a blood-red mane; a horse that was the very image of the one she had been separated from outside the city of Arabel. Heart racing, Midnight watched as Thurbrand stopped and looked over his shoulder. Midnight sauntered to his side, smiling as a plan began to form in her mind. Perhaps Thurbrand would be able to assist Midnight in proving to that overbearing fool Kelemvor that she was not a woman to he trifled with, although Thurbrand himself would not have cared for the direction her thoughts had taken.

  "More specifically, the business that scoundrel Kelemvor did not have the sense to employ you for. There is much I would like to know."

  Midnight frowned and cast a forget spell upon Thurbrand. There was a soft, blue-white flash at the base of his skull and Thurbrand cocked his head in annoyance, swatting at the back of his neck. "Damn bugs," he said sharply. "Now, what were we talking about?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Strange," Thurbrand said as he mounted the ebony stallion, then looked to Midnight who held out her hand. Midnight leaped, sinking her boot into the fighter's hand, almost dragging him off the mount as she settled comfortably on it herself.