Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  Midnight smiled and nodded. "You've earned the chance to rest, Cyric. You have also earned my gratitude."

  The magic-user heard noises from the other side of the campsite, where Kelemvor and Adon were still taking an inventory of Mystra's gifts. Adon had promised to keep Kelemvor honest, which met with a laugh and a powerful slap on the back from the fighter.

  Midnight and Cyric continued their conversations about far-away lands, exchanging knowledge of customs, rituals, and languages. They discussed their past adventures, though Midnight spoke more on this subject than Cyric.

  "Mystra," he said at last. "Your goddess…"

  Midnight wiped her dagger clean and returned it to its sheath. "What of her?"

  Cyric seemed surprised by Midnight's response. "She's dead, isn't she?"

  "Perhaps," Midnight said. She thought about it for a moment, then went back to the small pit Cyric helped her dig to bury their refuse. "I'm not a child, not like poor Adon. I am saddened by Mystra's passing, but there are other gods to give thanks to, should the need arise."

  "You don't need to hold back with me — "

  Midnight stood up. "Finish this," the magic-user said as she gestured to the pit and walked off. Cyric watched her back as she left, then turned to the job before him. He remembered looking up at the warring gods and the childish glee that filled him as their blood was spilled. Ashamed of his reaction to Mystra's death, Cyric then turned his thoughts aside and concentrated on cleaning up.

  Down the path, away from the campfire and Cyric, Midnight felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the thin mountain air. There's no point in grieving over Caitlan's and Mystra's passing, Midnight thought. She silently cursed Cyric for mentioning the goddess and scolded herself. There was no malice in the man that she could judge, only a lifetime of hardship that made him uncomfortable with any form of communication except the exact science of words.

  Kelemvor, on the other hand, was Cyric's opposite in this regard. His actions and his unspoken declarations excited Midnight. Only when he tried to hide his feelings behind his curtain of ill-conceived and ill-timed banter did he assume the appearance of an infuriating lummox, betraying his many strengths. Perhaps they had a future together.

  Only time would tell.

  She approached Kelemvor and Adon, and the two were still bickering.

  "We split it up equal!" Kelemvor snarled.

  "But this is equal! You, me, Midnight, Cyric, and Sune, without whom — "

  "You're not going to start about Sune again!"

  "But — "

  "Four ways," Midnight said coolly, and both men turned. "Do what you like with your share, Adon. Give it to your church if you will."

  Adon's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't being greedy…"

  Kelemvor seemed ready to question this.

  "Perhaps you need some rest," Midnight said, and the young cleric nodded.

  "Aye, perhaps this is so."

  Adon walked away, the flickering light of his torch showing him the trail that led to the campfire beyond. Sliding on one of the rocks, then righting himself, Adon mumbled something else about Sune and was gone.

  "How do you feel?" Midnight asked. "Were the tender mercies of this woman's cooking to your fancy?"

  "Shall I speak plainly?" Kelemvor said.

  Midnight smiled. "Perhaps not."

  "Then I feel fit to carve a kingdom from these rocks."

  She nodded. "I feel that way myself." She motioned to the riches before them. "Shall we?"

  "Aye. It's always a pleasure to work with a keen mind and a level head when it comes to such matters."

  Midnight stared at him, but he did not take his gaze from the treasure. Before them the gold lay in piles on the stump of a huge tree. There were rubies, bits of jewelry, and a single, strange artifact that Midnight bent low to examine. She cried out in joy, picked up the magical item, and grinned at Kelemvor.

  "We will be splitting this five ways it seems!"

  Kelemvor sat back, "What do you mean?"

  "This is a harp of Myth Drannor. Elminster is a known collector of these. If all else fails, we may use it to gain his audience."

  Kelemvor thought about it. "But what's it worth?"

  Midnight refused to be discouraged. "We won't know until someone makes an offer, now will we?"

  "Oh. Aye, good thinking."

  "Each of the harps is said to possess magical properties," Midnight said as she handled the object. The harp was aged, although it had once been a thing of shining beauty. The finely wrought ivory and gold inlays had been realized by a true artisan, and the dark red wood reflected the fire from the torches as if it still retained its original polish. Midnight plucked at the strings without skill, and the sound that issued forth was a strange, discordant flow of reverberating notes that grew louder and caused Kelemvor's armor to shake as if an unseen force was attacking him.

  "MID — "

  Suddenly each and every tiny clasp that held it in place popped open, and Kelemvor's armor fell to the ground.

  "— NIGHT."

  Kelemvor sat, covered in nothing but a chain mail tunic, his armor spread around him in a heap. Midnight's mouth was open wide as she worked her jaws soundlessly, then she fell over in a fit of laughter.

  "See here!" Kelemvor frowned.

  "Please!" Midnight said, discouragingly.

  "No, I meant…" The fighter looked down at the armor and sighed.

  Midnight sat up and took a deep breath. "This must be Methild's Harp. It is, as I remember, known to part all webs, open all locks, break all bonds… all of that."

  "I see," Kelemvor said, his mild agitation giving way to Midnight's infectious grin. "Perhaps now is the time for the reward we discussed. What say you?"

  Midnight stood up and backed off. "I think not," she said, her heart suddenly pounding like a trip hammer.

  Midnight turned around. She heard Kelemvor stand and felt his hand touch her shoulder. The mage bit her lip as she stared at the torch in front of them. His other hand gently encircled her waist and she trembled, fighting her own desire.

  "We're only talking about a kiss," he said. "One kiss. Where is the harm in that?"

  The mage leaned back into Kelemvor's arms. He brushed the hair away from her neck as he blew gently upon her tingling flesh and tightened his hold around her waist. Midnight's hand covered his.

  "You promised you would tell me…," she said.

  "Tell you what?"

  "You were stricken in the castle. You made me swear to give you a reward to carry on. It made no sense."

  "It made sense," Kelemvor said, slipping away behind her. "But some things must be kept secret."

  Midnight turned. "Why? Tell me that much, at least."

  Kelemvor was backing into the shadows. "Perhaps I should release you from your pledge. The consequences would be suffered only by me. You do not need to concern yourself. Perhaps it would be — "

  Midnight didn't know if it was a trick of the light, or if Kelemvor's flesh really was turning darker, his skin seeming to ripple beneath the mail.

  "— better," the fighter said, his voice low and guttural. Kelemvor's entire body began to quake, and it seemed as if he were about to double over in pain.

  "No!"

  Midnight ran toward him, placed her hands on either side of his face, and brought her lips to his. His eyebrows had seemed thicker, his hair wild and dark, as if the gray were vanishing, and his piercing green eyes were like emerald flames. As they kissed, his body seemed to relax and he pulled away, as if he were about to speak.

  She studied his face. It was as she had always remembered it. "Don't talk," she said. "We need not talk."

  She kissed him again, and this time he took control of the kiss, his iron grip pressing her to him.

  Unnoticed by either Kelemvor or Midnight, Cyric approached soundlessly. He watched as they kissed again and Kelemvor lifted the mage from her feet. Midnight had her arms around the fighter's neck as he gently lowered her to
a bed of gold pieces. She began to laugh and tug at the clasps of her clothing.

  Cyric retraced his steps, his head hung low, a slow tide of anger rising within him as the laughter of the couple followed him, taunting him even as he made his way to the campfire and ordered Adon to go to sleep.

  "I will take the watch," Cyric said and stared at the flames.

  After his watch, Cyric lay down to get some rest, but he dreamed he was once again in the back alleys of Zhentil Keep. This time he was only a child, and a faceless couple led him through the streets, taking offers from passers-by as they attempted to auction him off to anyone with enough money.

  Cyric woke with a start, and when he tried to remember the dream, he could not. He lay awake for a few moments, thinking that there was a time when his dreams had been his only form of escape. But that was a long time ago, and for now, he was safe. He rolled over and fell into a deep, restful slumber.

  Adon paced nervously, anxious to leave the wilderness. Midnight suggested he use the time to give thanks to Sune.

  The cleric stopped, wide-eyed, muttered "of course," and found a spot to make a small shrine. Midnight and Kelemvor did not speak. They simply lay against a great black boulder, their arms around one another, watching the flames of a fire they had started. Midnight leaned close and kissed the fighter. The gesture seemed uncomfortable and strange, although only a few hours before it had seemed perfectly natural.

  The heroes woke Cyric at the first light of morning and led their horses from the mountain. By highsun they had established a healthy pace, although their morning repast — taken from the pouch — left each the gift of a bitter taste and an upset stomach.

  The road was damaged in places, and huge silver fish with sharp teeth leaped from one of the lava pits the adventurers encountered. At times the sun appeared to be in the wrong position, and the heroes feared they were traveling in circles again, but they went on, and soon the skies returned to normal.

  As they made their way across the twisted land, the adventurers encountered many strange things. Huge boulders, carved to resemble the faces of frogs by the bizarre forces that had been unleashed during Mystra's fight with Helm, alternately cursed and praised the travelers, then told them risque jokes that they laughed at, but did not slow down for.

  Farther down the road, a war seemed to be in progress between opposing hills, as boulders and bits of rock were tossed back and forth, striking thunderous blows. The hostilities ceased as the travelers approached and resumed once they had passed. As the party moved farther from the site of Mystra's death, the strange occurrences became less and less, and the heroes relaxed just a bit.

  They stopped and made camp for the night in a clearing at the foot of a huge mountain that seemed unaffected by the chaos Mystra's passing had brought about. Cyric was shocked to find the self-replenishing pouch of food and drink completely empty. When he reached inside, he felt the pull of something cold and damp that licked at his hand until he withdrew it in haste and tossed the pouch away.

  They were forced to rely on the separate food that was left, but the heroes felt confident these would be enough for the long journey ahead. When Midnight and Cyric prepared the meal, however, the meat seemed to be spoiling, the breads becoming stale, and the fruits gone to rotting. They ate what they could and drank heavily of the mead and ale. But that, too, seemed to have lost its taste, going down more like bitter water than nectar.

  Cyric was very quiet. Only when a topic that truly fascinated him arose did he bring his opinions to bear, and then he was vehement in his assertions. Then Cyric would lapse into one of his meditative silences, staring at the flames of the campfire as night wrapped itself around the weary travelers.

  That night, Midnight went to Kelemvor, and he took her in his arms without uttering a word. Afterward, she watched him as he slept, excited by the quiet rhythms of his body. Midnight smiled; there was such strength and ferocity in his movements when they touched, such wonderful passion, that she wondered why she doubted her feelings for the man. She was amazed that he had never married, one of the few facts she was able to draw from him as they lay side by side just before sleep took hold of the fighter.

  Midnight quietly dressed and made her way to Adon, who had taken first watch. She found the cleric trying to hold a small mirror between his bare feet, moving the angle slightly as he plucked at any unseemly facial hairs with one of Cyric's daggers. Then he tended to his hair, running a silver comb through it as he quietly counted off one hundred strokes. Midnight relieved him of the watch, and he carefully made his bunk, then settled into a deep sleep with a contented smile. Once during her watch, Midnight heard Adon whisper, "No, my dear, of course I'm not shocked," then the voice faded.

  When Midnight attempted to rouse Kelemvor to relieve her of the watch, the fighter swatted at her playfully and attempted to drag her back to his bed. "Tend to your duty," she told him as he rose, stretching his arms wide. He turned, grinned, then walked away before he could say something that would have caused Midnight to stone him on the spot.

  Just before morning, Kelemvor became hungry. The packhorses had been roped nearby, and he decided not to wait until morningfeast. He left the campfire and made his way to the horses and supplies. Even in the dim light of dawn, he could see that the horses were dead. Beyond the packhorses, the mounts that had been provided by Mystra for Cyric and Adon were on their sides, trembling.

  Kelemvor called out to the others, bringing them to his side in moments. Cyric fetched a torch, lighting it in the flames of the campfire. They found no reason for the condition of the animals. There were no marks upon the beasts, nor tracks that would indicate a wild animal or saboteur in their midst.

  When they checked their provisions, the heroes found that their food had become completely foul. The meats bubbled with green, cancerous growths. Strange, black insects crawled from the fruits. The breads were stale and moldy. The ales and meads had evaporated. Only the water they had taken from the colonnade outside Castle Kilgrave was unaffected.

  Kelemvor searched through the pouches containing their gold and treasures and let out a cry as he found nothing but yellow and black ash. The harp of Myth Drannor had been rotted through, and it broke apart as Midnight tried to pick it up. She found a bag that had once contained diamonds. Now it held only their dust. The mage set it aside for use as spell components.

  "No," Kelemvor said softly, pulling away from Midnight's comforting hand as she attempted to console him. He glared at her. "Now all we have is your miserable quest!"

  "Kel, don't — "

  "It's all been for nothing!" he screamed as he turned his back on the magic-user.

  Adon moved forward. "What will we eat?"

  Kelemvor looked over his shoulder. His eyes and teeth seemed unusually bright, as if they were catching the first rays of sun and holding them. His skin seemed darker. "I'll find something," Kelemvor said. "I'll be the provider for us all."

  Cyric offered to help, but Kelemvor waved him away as he ran toward the mountains. "At least take the bow!" Cyric called, but Kelemvor ignored him, becoming a dark blur against the shadow-filled foothills.

  "'The gods giveth, the gods taketh away,'" Adon said philosophically, shrugging.

  Cyric let out a bitter little laugh. "Your gods — "

  Midnight raised her hand, and Cyric didn't finish his sentence. "Take what you will from your mounts," the mage said. "Then we should make them as comfortable as possible until the end."

  "Is there nothing we can do?" Adon said, taking pity on the suffering animals.

  "There is one thing," Cyric said, and drew his blade.

  Midnight exhaled a ragged breath and nodded. Cyric offered to wait until after Midnight and Adon were out of view of the dying mounts, but they each agreed to remain and offer some degree of comfort and compassion to the animals as Cyric mercifully ended their pain.

  Hours passed, and Kelemvor did not return. Finally, Adon volunteered to look for the fighter.


  Adon found deep shadows and tiny, unseen creatures that made odd sounds. The cleric wondered if Kelemvor had been injured, or if perhaps he had deserted them. The fighter would have taken his mount, Adon reminded himself, though the thought brought little comfort as the cleric allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.

  Something scampered by his boot, and Adon was pleasantly surprised to see a soft, gray squirrel suddenly stop, look at him, then bolt as the cleric crouched down to look into its deep, blue eyes. He moved through a thicket of trees, forcing branches away carefully so that his face would not be scratched. As he climbed higher, Adon found a clearly marked trail before him.

  Kelemvor had come this way.

  Adon was congratulating himself for finding the trail when he stumbled over Kelemvor's breastplate. The armor was covered with blood. Adon cautiously untied his war hammer from his belt.

  Farther up the trail, the cleric found the rest of Kelemvor's armor, bloody like the breastplate. He considered Kelemvor's fighting prowess, and wondered what manner of beast could have brought the fighter down.

  There was movement in the trees. Adon caught a glimpse of black fur and snarling teeth, and he bit back a call for help, afraid he would reveal his position. The cleric remained still for a few minutes, then heard a roar from behind him.

  Adon didn't bother to look back as he ran, following the trail of broken branches and disturbed patches of earth, and he didn't look down long enough to realize that the tracks leading away from the armor had begun as the imprints of human feet and become the pawprints of some huge animal.

  The cleric didn't know how far he had run when he broke through a web of branches and the earth suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling through the air. An instant later his body made a splash as he plunged into water.

  Rising to the surface of the water, Adon shook the mire from his hair and surveyed the area. A swamp? he thought. Here? This is madness!

  Madness or no, the fact remained that Adon found himself paddling to the marshy shore of a beautiful, ghostly land, lit by a soft, bluish white glow. The sunlight was absorbed by elegant strands of Spanish moss that hung from the tall black cypress trees and glowed to reveal the wiry intricacies of its design. The moss seemed to be straining as it reached downward, an occasional strand gently touching the surface of the swamp. Huge lotus pads floated toward Adon, and as he climbed to the shore, he saw a beautiful butterfly with orange and silver wings burst from its cocoon before his eyes. A lone heron started as it watched Adon approach, then fled, making tiny splashing sounds as its feet broke the water.