Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  Helm stood his ground. "Do not force me to harm you, Mystra. I am still a god. You are not."

  Mystra froze. "Not a god, you say? I will prove you wrong!"

  Helm lowered his eyes, then looked back to her. "So be it."

  Mystra called upon all the energy she had gathered as she advanced upon the God of Guardians. She shuddered with power as she prepared her first spell.

  On the ground below, Midnight watched as the gods moved toward one another. Helm reached out even as Mystra loosed bolts of fire against him. Helm recoiled from the magic and gritted his teeth as the tiny white fires seared his skin. The guardian swung a fist in Mystra's direction and the goddess moved back to avoid the blow, nearly falling from the stairway in the process.

  Helm advanced forward. He was not armed in any way, yet flames seemed to leap from his hands as he moved toward the goddess. Mystra knew instinctively that she must not allow his hands to touch her. She moved back, and primal magic cleaved the air around the guardian. Mystra attempted to summon Bigby's Crushing Hand, but the spell went awry and a countless number of razor-sharp claws sailed toward Helm. The guardian shrugged them off without effort.

  Helm's hand came down in an arc, and Mystra fell an incredible pain pierce the core of her being as his fingers ripped across her chest. A spray of blood reached into the air, painting tiny flickering sparks of magic a deep crimson and forcing them out of existence.

  Mystra felt her blood turn cold as Helm's hand grazed her shoulder. In retaliation, the Goddess of Magic released a spell meant to attack Helm's psyche, exploiting his fears and forcing him to bow before her as he quaked in terror. The guardian gritted his teeth and struck again, ignoring Mystra's attack. The guardian's greatest fear had been to fail Ao. As he had already confronted this fear, there was nothing left to frighten him.

  Mystra realized she had lost even as Helm's hand moved across her midsection, opening a gash in her flesh that released a torrent of bluish white fires along with a splatter of blood. Then the goddess felt a cold breeze beside her neck as Helm came within inches of taking her throat.

  Cyric stood and watched as the gods attempted to slay one another, fascinated by the spectacle. He felt a rush of excitement every time Helm delivered a blow. The sight of a god's blood falling from the sky filled him with an inexplicable bliss.

  Mystra avoided another of Helm's thrusts and delivered an advanced spell of binding, causing shackles formed from primal magic to descend on the guardian. Helm shrugged them off without effort, but Mystra used the momentary distraction to stumble past the guardian. It was difficult to concentrate beyond the incredible agonies her body had endured, but she clawed her way up the stairway, her mind reeling as the gateway rose up before her and the true majesty of the Planes presented itself. For an instant, the goddess caught a glimpse of the beauty and perfection of her home in Nirvana.

  All this was mine, Mystra thought. She reached the summit, her legs trembling beneath her. Then the Goddess of Magic grabbed for the gate, and a hand grasped her arm, spinning her around. There was a look of sadness in Helm's eyes.

  "Farewell, goddess," Helm said.

  Then he drove his hand through her chest.

  Midnight looked at the sky and wondered if she was going mad. Kelemvor was beside her, barking commands at Adon to help Cyric with the horses and their supplies.

  Midnight had watched as Helm had been stunned for a moment, and Mystra crawled up past him, then rose to her feet. The goddess spread her arms wide, and the chaos of the arcane bolts of magic and the nebulous forms the elements of the air had been molded into suddenly revealed a gateway in the form of a huge fist. Then Helm was upon Mystra, turning her to face his wrath.

  "No!" Midnight screamed, and both Kelemvor and Adon looked to the sky just in time to see Helm run Mystra through with his hand.

  Mystra's head was thrown back in unknowable agony as her essence fled from her avatar and her fragile human flesh exploded. Midnight felt an intense heat rush toward her, as if a searing, invisible wall of energy was approaching. The bluish white fires that had set the grass ablaze with their gentle magics now became black flames that scoured the earth and left the soil barren in their wake. The devastation began in the area directly below the goddess, and branched out in every direction.

  Midnight attempted to summon a wall of force to protect her comrades. Streaks of light began to swirl around the group of adventurers, and in moments they were surrounded by a prismatic sphere. Despite the whirlwind of colors that made up the walls of the protective globe, the adventurers were able to catch glimpses of the chaos that reigned around them.

  The horizon seemed to blur and the earth and sky became one as huge black glass pillars formed from the air and rooted themselves to the ground in a wide circle around the adventurers and the Celestial Stairway, similar to the colonnade where they'd spent the night. The clouds turned black as the pillars rose up to greet them and beautiful gossamer beams of soft pastel-colored light broke from between the black clouds. The beams swept back and forth, searing the surface of the earth and creating fissures big enough to swallow a man.

  Rivers of flaming blood filled the cracks in the ground, and the heat that radiated from the boiling rivers of blood was terrible. The black columns were shattered by the beams, and immense pieces of debris crashed to the ground as the beams lost their form and became wisps that sliced through the air, destroying all they touched.

  Castle Kilgrave fell before the onslaught, its walls exploding like chalk. The massive towers at each corner collapsed inward and the walls connecting them sank into rubble.

  In the sky, Helm stood at the apex of the disaster, his body a silhouette against the blinding light of the sun behind him. Midnight saw Helm bring down his hand once more, cleaving a swirling mass that hung in the air before him.

  Was this Mystra's essence? Midnight wondered.

  The bluish white fires that escaped Helm's hands wove themselves into an intricate design, similar to Midnight's vision of the magical weave in her illusion. Then a shaft of brilliant light erupted from the center of the weave and penetrated the protective sphere where Midnight and her companions huddled. Against the pure white tapestry of her perceptions. Midnight saw an even brighter light, in the shape of a woman, moving toward her.

  "Goddess!" she cried.

  I was wrong. Other gods may attempt what I have tried… The Realms may be destroyed. There is another Celestial Stairway in Shadowdale. If Bane lives, he will try to take control of it. You must go there, warn Elminster. Then find the Tablets of Fate and end this madness!

  Suddenly an object fell from the sky and passed through the protective sphere. Midnight reached out, and the pendant fell directly into her grasp. Then the light from the weave seemed to pass through the magic-user, as if drawn by the blue-white pendant. Every nerve in Midnight's body rebelled as white-hot fires coursed through her and the last words of the goddess burned into her brain.

  Take the pendant to Elminster… Elminster will help you.

  "Help me?" Midnight cried. "Help me to do what!?"

  An image of the Tablets of Fate burned itself into Midnight's memory. Formed from clay, the ancient tablets were less than two feet high, small enough to be carried and easily concealed from prying eyes. Runes were carved into them, reporting the names and duties of all the gods. Each rune sparkled with a blue-white glow.

  The image of the tablets vanished as the shaft of light withdrew into the weave, taking Mystra's shimmering form with it.

  "Goddess," Midnight whispered. "Don't leave me." There was no reply, but through the prismatic sphere, Midnight could see the magical weave disappear. Then the chaos stopped around them, and the heroes saw Helm stand before his gate, cross his arms, and disappear. It was as if he was never there at all.

  VIII

  Not Always Human

  Tempus Blackthorne cleared the main chamber of Bane's new temple in Zhentil Keep whenever his Black Lord was not in attendance. Blackthorne
was responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operations of the Dark Temple, and he had personally supervised the construction of the second, smaller chamber to the rear of the temple. Then, once the workers had completed the room, the mage had slain them as well. "No one must know," Bane had said, and Blackthorne would give his life to protect the secrets of Bane's "Chamber of Meditation." In truth, it was a filthy place, but it served its purpose well.

  Bane had been careful to hide certain facts from his worshipers; the Black Lord feared that if they knew about his human limitations, his need for sleep and nutrients, their worship might not be so fervent and their willingness to sacrifice themselves to his cause might be impaired. So Bane had Blackthorne bring all his food and drink to him through a secret tunnel, and whenever the Black Lord had to sleep, he did so in the chamber's small bed, with his emissary on guard by his side.

  Piled up in the corners of this room were arcane texts that Bane had spent every available moment pouring over. Upon a nearby table lay a collection of sharp, tiny blades that looked like the tools of a sculptor. Bane had used these to perform horrible experiments upon the flesh of a handful of his followers, staring for hours at a time at the flow of blood he had caused, listening intently to the cries of agony from the weaker of his subjects. Blackthorne knew these studies were important to his lord, but he did not know why. Still, Bane was his god, and Blackthorne knew enough not to question the motives of a deity. After a time. Bane had grown tired of the experiments, as if they had not yielded the results he had desired. But the blades had been left in plain sight, a reminder that he had not yet found the answers he sought.

  When Bane occupied Castle Kilgrave, the chamber had been empty, but now a swirling vortex came into being, and the Black Lord fell from the rip in space to the hard floor, his breathing shallow, tears dripping from his eyes. He attempted to remember even the simplest of spells, something to levitate his shattered form from the floor to the hard mattress of the bed that sat just out of reach, but his efforts were futile. Then Blackthorne appeared out of the vortex and dragged Bane toward the bed. The emissary grunted as he lifted the Black Lord's avatar and placed him on the bed.

  "There, my lord. You will rest. You will heal."

  Bane was comforted by the voice of his faithful emissary. Blackthorne had saved him. He had seen Bane weakened, near the point of death, and still he came. It made no sense to the Black Lord. Had their positions been reversed, he would have allowed the emissary to perish rather than put himself at risk.

  Perhaps he feels indebted to me for the life of his friend, Knightsbridge, Bane thought. That must be the reason for his service. Now that he's paid the debt, though, I suppose I'll have to watch my back with him.

  Bane saw a pool of his blood on the floor: crimson, with amber streaks floating through it. Though one of his lungs was ruptured and he should not have tried to speak, the god gasped as he reached out and touched the scarlet pool.

  "My blood," Bane cried. "My blood!"

  "You will be well, lord," Blackthorne said. "You can grant healing magics to your clerics. Use those same magics to heal yourself."

  Bane did as Blackthorne urged, but he knew that the healing process would be slow and painful. He tried to take his mind from the discomfort by concentrating on the memories of his rescue from Castle Kilgrave. Blackthorne's magic had been strong enough to bring the mage to the castle, and to teleport Bane and himself away. But they had only escaped as far as the colonnade beyond the castle.

  Bane had watched as Mystra took the pendant from the dark-haired magic-user. Then, an instant later, the Goddess of Magic was challenging Helm, both gods standing upon a Celestial Stairway.

  The Tablets of Fate! Helm asked for the tablets!

  Bane watched in complete horror as Helm destroyed the Goddess of Magic. He witnessed the last vestige of Mystra's essence approach the magic-user and heard the warning of the goddess as the pendant was returned to the dark-haired human. Incredible magics had been released during Mystra's battle with Helm, and Bane had seized upon them to finish the task Blackthorne had started, and gated them back to Zhentil Keep.

  Bane laughed when he thought that he never would have used the stairway in Shadowdale as part of his plans had it not been for Mystra's warning. If she had accepted her fate quietly, the events she was so worried about might never have been set into motion. So as Bane lay upon his bed, seeking to recover from the grievous injuries inflicted on him by Mystra; he began to make plans, until finally, he settled into a deep, healing trance.

  The sky was a deep lavender, with streaks of royal blue and gold. The clouds were still black, reflecting the dead, charred earth below them, and the huge pillars had become trees with wilting stone branches that snaked across the ground for miles. The mantle of the earth was slick as glass in places, torn apart and filled with debris in others. The red rivers were cooling, becoming solid. Ice no longer fell from above.

  The walls of the prismatic sphere that enshrouded the adventurers and their mounts vanished as Midnight rescinded the spell. Touching the blue-white star pendant that once again hung from her neck, Midnight found that there were no signs of the powers that had once resided in the item. Now it was merely a symbol of the strange, apocalyptic encounter between Midnight and her goddess.

  Midnight climbed upon her horse and surveyed the shattered countryside. "Mystra asked me to go to Shadowdale to contact Elminster the sage. I don't expect any of you to go along, but if you're coming, we're leaving right now."

  Kelemvor dropped the sack of gold he was loading onto his horse, "What?" he screamed. "And when did the goddess tell you this? We never heard it."

  "I expect you to understand least of all, Kel, but I have to go." Midnight turned to Adon. "Are you coming?"

  The cleric looked from the magic-user to Kelemvor to Cyric, but no one said a word. Adon mounted his horse and moved to Midnight's side. "You are truly blessed to be given a mission like this. Thank you for asking me to aid you. I will most certainly accompany you."

  Cyric laughed as he finished packing the party's supplies and grabbed the reigns of the packhorses. "There isn't much left for me here. I might as well go with you. Coming, Kel?"

  Kelemvor stood by his horse, his mouth hanging open with shock. "You're all going off to follow a fever dream," he said. "You're making a terrible mistake!"

  "Follow us if you will," Midnight said, then turned from Kelemvor and rode off, Adon and Cyric trailing behind her.

  The way was treacherous and unpredictable, and by the time the trio had begun to make headway on their journey toward the mountains in the far distance, the unmistakable sound of Kelemvor's mount approaching grew louder, until the fighter caught up to Midnight. No one spoke for a mile or so.

  "We haven't even split our shares of the booty," Kelemvor said at last.

  "I see," Midnight said, a slight smile playing across her face. "Quite so. I am in your debt."

  "Aye," Kelemvor said as he reminded her of her words in the castle. "That you are."

  As they made their way across the nightmarish landscape left in the wake of Mystra's destruction, the heroes saw that the devastation grew worse. The roads were gone, and huge craters filled with smoking black tar barred their path, forcing them to double back and circle around to pass some areas. But by nightfall, the mountains came into view, and they made camp overlooking Gnoll Pass.

  A caravan of merchants with wagons loaded with wares appeared on the road below the adventurers' camp. The caravan was heavily guarded, and when Adon sprang from cover and attempted to warn the travelers of what lay ahead, he was met with a volley of arrows. The cleric leaped to the ground.

  The caravan passed, and soon faded from view. Adon returned to the campsite only to find a roaring fire and Midnight preparing something that appeared to be meat, but smelled quite awful. She seemed intent on the task before her, ordering Kelemvor to turn the meats at certain times as she sliced vegetables with her dagger.

  The meal was no
t turning out well, and it seemed that the party would go hungry that night when Cyric held up a small pouch he had found with Mystra's gifts and motioned for quiet. He reached into the bag and pulled out entire loaves of sweetbread, armloads of dried meats, tankards of ale, blocks of cheese, and more. And yet the pouch seemed empty at all times, even as more food was taken from it.

  "We won't hunger or thirst again!" Kelemvor said as he drank his fill of the mead before him.

  Later, as they ate a meal taken from the pouch, Kelemvor felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. The food was dreadful, and he seriously questioned the wisdom of eating any food taken from a magical source during this time of instability in the art. The heroes finished their meal without conversation, but the looks on their faces conveyed their thoughts quite well. Then Midnight broke the silence in the camp with a wish that Adon's healing spells would return at the earliest opportunity to settle their upset stomachs. The comment met with a hearty round of approval from both Kelemvor and Cyric.

  As the meal was ended, Kelemvor and Adon stopped to examine the gifts that Mystra had given them, while across the camp, Midnight was helping Cyric clean up after their meal.

  "Will you ride all the way to Shadowdale with me?" the magic-user asked Cyric as they gathered the leftovers.

  Cyric hesitated.

  "We have supplies, healthy mounts, and enough gold to make us wealthy for the rest of our lives," Midnight said. "Why not come along?"

  Cyric struggled with his words. "I was born in Zhentil Keep, and when I left, I vowed never to return. Shadowdale is far too close for my liking." He paused and looked at the magic-user. "Still, my path seems to lead in that direction, no matter how much I desire it to be otherwise."

  "I wouldn't want you to do something you didn't want to," Midnight said. "The decision is your own."

  Cyric let out a deep breath. "Then I will go. Perhaps from Shadowdale I'll buy a boat and travel the Ashaba River for a time. It would be peaceful, I think."