Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  As she rode, Midnight was having similar thoughts. However, she was determined not to apologize first. Kelemvor was the one who had deliberately prolonged the argument back at High Horn. In addition, the magic-user thought she was right about Cyric. It was true that their old friend was self-serving and mercenary, but Kelemvor had been more so, and he had found redemption. It was unfair to deny that same redemption to Cyric, and Midnight would not give up on her friend so quickly.

  Finally, dusk came. Sneakabout led the group off the path, stopping in a forested area near a cliff. The cliff overlooked the portion of the valley they had already climbed, so the heroes could watch their trail until night fell completely.

  When Midnight crept up to the cliff’s edge, her heart sank with disappointment. The grove of trees where they had camped last night was still visible.

  As soon as he had unpacked and tethered the ponies, Adon took the tablet and disappeared into the forest. The cleric was disgusted with the petty argument between Midnight and Kelemvor and just wanted to be alone tonight. Sneakabout also went into woods, but only to see if he could forage something for dinner.

  Night was already falling when Midnight spread out her sleeping roll. Left alone with Kelemvor and nothing to do, she decided to make tomorrow a more pleasant day. After digging through the cloaks, spare weapons, and miscellaneous supplies Deverell’s quartermaster had given them, she finally found a sack of corn tash. The magic-user removed a handful of biscuits and offered one to Kelemvor.

  The warrior accepted it with a grunt.

  “Adon’s right,” Midnight said. “We can’t let our emotions interfere with our quest.”

  “Have no fear,” Kelemvor grumbled. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Midnight threw her tash to the ground. “Why are—”

  “Cyric,” he interrupted.

  She puffed in exasperation. “Cyric won’t harm us. We might even persuade him to our cause, if you wouldn’t allow your mistrust to color your judgment”

  “Cyric has earned my mistrust,” Kelemvor said evenly. “And it’s your judgment that’s colored.” Realizing further discussion would lead to another argument, the warrior abruptly left and went to his bedroll. Angered by the rude manner in which Kelemvor had ended the conversation, Midnight walked over to the cliff and sat down to brood.

  Twenty minutes later, Sneakabout startled her when he suddenly appeared at her side. She had not heard the halfling approach.

  “Everyone went to bed early tonight, I see,” he said, opening a sack and offering a handful of berries to Midnight. “I guess I picked too many of these.”

  Deep in the forest, Sneakabout heard a faint snap. Midnight showed no sign of hearing it, so he decided to investigate later. “I’ll stand watch tonight,” the halfling offered. “I can’t sleep anyway.”

  Midnight nodded, taking a handful of raspberries from the sack. She had long been aware of the halfling’s insomnia. She suspected it was related to the magic sword that had been stolen from him in Black Oaks. Whenever the magic-user questioned him about the sword, however, the halfling always changed the subject, and she had given up trying to learn more about it. Instead, she asked, “Did you see Adon?”

  Sneakabout nodded. “I don’t understand why you and Kelemvor take orders from him.”

  “At the moment, he’s wiser than Kelemvor or I.”

  “He’s a fool.”

  Another faint snap came from the forest, and this time Midnight also heard it. “I’ll go and see what that is,” the halfling whispered, rising. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  As Sneakabout faded into the woods north of camp, Midnight remained seated. She continued to watch the spot where the halfling had entered the forest.

  A minute later, the magic-user heard a familiar voice at her back. “Your companions are getting shorter, Midnight.”

  The mage spun around to face the speaker. He wore a hooded, dark cloak, but his hawkish nose was still visible.

  “Cyric!” Midnight hissed.

  The thief smiled. His band of Zhentilar was sneaking through the woods on foot, encircling the camp. While he waited for his lieutenant to position the men, Cyric had been watching Midnight and the halfling. Hoping to convince the magic-user to come with him willingly, the thief wanted one last chance to speak with Midnight alone.

  “Aye,” Cyric replied. “You didn’t think I’d be easy to lose, did you?”

  “What are you doing here?” Midnight demanded, standing.

  The smile dropped from the thief’s face and he crossed his arms. “I’ve come to talk some sense into you.”

  Several sticks snapped in the trees north of camp. Midnight frowned, glancing toward the forest. “If Kelemvor sees you, he’ll cut—”

  “Let him. It’s time we had this out.”

  As if on cue, Kelemvor roared, “Cyric! You won’t escape this time.” The fighter rushed out of the night, sword firmly in hand.

  Midnight stepped in front of Cyric. “Hold your sword, Kel! He came to talk.”

  Kelemvor slowed his charge and tried to circle around the raven-haired mage. The thief stood perfectly still, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Outside camp, a surprised yell arose. A moment later, Adon screamed, “Wake up! We’re surrounded!” He ran out of the forest, waving his mace. The saddlebags with the tablet were slung over his shoulder.

  Cyric drew his sword.

  Ignoring Adon’s tardy warning, Midnight said, “Kelemvor, Cyric, lay down your weapons!” She looked from one to the other.

  Both men scorned her plea. Hefting his mace, Adon came to Kelemvor’s side.

  “You were foolish to come here,” the cleric said, glaring at Cyric. “But you won’t live long enough to make the same mistake again.”

  “No!” Midnight objected. “He came to talk!”

  “If that’s what he said, he’s lying,” Adon snarled. “His men are sneaking toward us right now.”

  Cyric waved his rose-colored short sword. “If that’s how you want it, old friends,” he hissed, “that’s how it will be.” His voice cracked with a sharp command: “Dalzhel!”

  The sound of snapping sticks echoed from the edge of the forest. Kelemvor and Adon looked over their shoulders. A hundred yards away, a dozen shadows were emerging from the woods.

  Kelemvor looked from the shadows to Cyric. “You’ll die with us, you know.”

  “No one’s going to die tonight,” Midnight said, stepping toward the fighter.

  The warrior snorted and roughly pushed her out of his way. “Somebody will.”

  “Stop!” Midnight ordered sharply, but her command went unheeded.

  Kelemvor lifted his sword and charged. Hefting his mace, Adon followed.

  Cyric met Kelemvor’s charge first, ducking under the swing. He came up standing behind the warrior, but Adon arrived in the same moment. The cleric leveled his mace in a blow vicious enough to smash a giant’s skull.

  Cyric’s short sword flashed and blocked Adon’s stroke, stopping the mace in midair. The cleric’s whole body trembled, then he stumbled back a step, shaking his head in disbelief. The thief swept his feet at Adon’s ankles, taking him by surprise and dropping him to the ground.

  Cyric swung at Adon. Kelemvor deflected the red blade, though, then slashed at the thief’s head. Cyric ducked, and the warrior stepped forward again, slicing down toward his opponent’s throat.

  Midnight cried out. The fight had broken out so quickly that she’d been unable to prevent it. Now she felt helpless to stop it. To the north, the mage saw one of the shadows point his sword at the fight. His followers began to run toward camp. Sneakabout still had not returned, and the magic-user hoped he had not perished at the hands of the men coming from the forest.

  Midnight knew those men had to be stopped. She decided to risk creating a magical wall of fire ahead of them. Given the current instability of magic and the recent changes in her relationship to the weave, she didn�
��t know if the spell would work properly. Still, if Cyric’s men reached the fight, all was lost. The magic-user reached into her robe and withdrew a few pinches of phosphorus to serve as a material component.

  The proper gestures and words for creating a wall of fire came to Midnight’s mind. To her surprise, there was no indication as to what she should do with the phosphorus.

  While Midnight prepared to cast her spell, Cyric blocked Kelemvor’s slash. Their blades clanged loudly, but the block held. As Kelemvor’s eyes widened in surprise, Cyric brought his sword down and lunged for the warrior’s unprotected chest.

  Kelemvor barely managed to save himself by kicking the thief squarely in the stomach and knocking him toward the cliff. Cyric landed flat on his back six feet away.

  Meanwhile, Cyric’s men had closed to seventy yards. Midnight sprinkled the phosphorous in a semicircle around her body, then called upon her magic to create a wall of fire.

  The white granules simply fell to the ground.

  An instant later, a loud pop sounded in front of the charging Zhentilar. Tendrils of glowing yellow smoke sprang out of the ground between them and Midnight. The tendrils began to wave in the breeze, as if they were corn stalks. Dalzhel and the others slowed their advance, uncertain of what to make of Midnight’s strange magic.

  Oblivious to the misfired spell, Kelemvor, Adon, and Cyric continued to fight. The thief scrambled to his feet. Adon did likewise.

  The cleric and Kelemvor advanced cautiously. Cyric backed away, buying time to plot a strategy. The cliff dropped away a mere ten feet beyond his back.

  Then Kelemvor noticed a shadow creeping up behind the hawk-nosed thief. It stood about as high as a man’s waist, and could only belong to a halfling.

  “Your swordsmanship has improved,” Kelemvor observed, trying to keep Cyric’s attention focused on him. “Or is it that blade you now carry?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Cyric responded.

  Kelemvor nodded to Adon. They charged from opposite directions. Cyric stepped away, then heard a soft patter at his back.

  Sneakabout sprang just as the thief turned. Back on the Tun Plain, the halfling had dared to hope he could forget the sword. But one sight of the weapon had rekindled his desire to recover it.

  Cyric stepped aside, catching Sneakabout’s arm in his free hand and hurling the halfling at Adon. An instant later, the thief had to defend himself against Kelemvor, and barely managed to stop a powerful slash.

  But Kelemvor was not finished. He kicked Cyric in the ribs, knocking him three steps backward. The thief now stood at the edge of the cliff, bent over and gasping.

  Kelemvor kicked again, this time knocking Cyric off his feet. The thief landed with his sword arm twisted awkwardly beneath his body, balanced precariously on the cliff. A scream of pain and rage escaped his lips.

  Upon hearing his commander’s scream, Dalzhel swore he would allow the smoke to delay him no longer. He ran into the writhing mass of yellow tendrils. When the wisps did not hurt him, the burly lieutenant waved his men forward.

  As the Zhentilar approached, Kelemvor stepped forward to finish Cyric.

  In a forceful voice, Midnight yelled, “Stop, Kelemvor!”

  Kelemvor responded without looking away from Cyric. “No.” He pointed the tip of his sword at the thief’s throat.

  Adon and Sneakabout picked themselves up, then noticed the approaching Zhentilar. The cleric quickly retrieved the saddlebags with the tablet, while Sneakabout disappeared into the shadows.

  “If you kill him,” Midnight cried, “we die too.”

  Without looking away from Cyric, Kelemvor said, “We’re not going to die alone.”

  “We don’t have to die at all,” Adon yelled, turning to face the approaching company, who were now only thirty yards away. To them, he yelled, “Stop, or Cyric’s dead!” The cleric pointed at Cyric, who still lay beneath Kelemvor’s blade.

  Dalzhel’s first instinct was to charge the scarred man. But upon seeing his commander’s predicament, he halted and motioned for his subordinates to do likewise. “Milord?” asked the burly lieutenant.

  For the first time, Cyric dared to move. He slowly pulled his sword arm from beneath his body. “Wait there.”

  Kelemvor frowned. “Now what are we going to do?” the warrior asked Adon. “Zhentil Keep sent Cyric for the tablet. He’s not going to give up.”

  Cyric laughed bitterly. “You’re mistaken. They’re no longer my masters. I want the tablet for my own reasons.”

  “To satisfy your lust for power,” Kelemvor snapped.

  Cyric ignored him. “I have twenty men. Let us join forces. We all want to return the tablets to the Planes.”

  Adon snorted. “You’d slit our throats while we slept.”

  “Can you look into men’s hearts, Adon?” Midnight demanded. “Are you a paladin that you can tell when a man is being untrue?”

  The cleric didn’t reply.

  “Then how do you know what he intends?” Midnight was relieved that her friends had to hear Cyric out.

  After a long pause, Kelemvor answered Midnight’s question with his own. “How do you know what he intends?”

  “I don’t,” Midnight admitted. “But he was our friend. He deserves our trust until he abuses it.”

  Kelemvor snorted. “He’s done that already.”

  A maniacal gleam sparkling in his eye, Sneakabout returned to the group with a long rope. He began anchoring one end to a boulder at the cliff’s edge.

  Dalzhel watched the halfling carefully, ready to charge.

  “What are you doing?” Midnight asked.

  “I’ll hold him hostage while you three climb down the rope,” Sneakabout replied. “You’ll be long gone before his men ride back around the cliff.”

  “What about you?” Adon asked.

  The halfling shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

  In reality, Sneakabout already had a plan in mind. He intended to kill Cyric, then recover his stolen property. With luck, he could slide down the rope a short distance, then climb onto the cliff before the rope was cut. The plan was risky, but it was the only way to both save his friends and get the sword back.

  Cyric frowned at the halfling’s resourcefulness. “I know when I’m defeated,” the thief lied, hoping to stall and looking at Midnight. “If you let me go, I’ll take my men and never bother you again.”

  “He’s lying!” Sneakabout yelped, finishing his knot.

  “No doubt,” Adon said, “but at least we’ll live through the night.”

  “I still want to kill him,” Kelemvor said, pressing the tip of his sword against Cyric’s throat. “Can’t you stop his men with a spell, Midnight?”

  “No!” the raven-haired mage exclaimed. “I won’t even try.”

  Kelemvor sighed in frustration. Still holding his sword to the thief’s throat, he said, “Then you live, Cyric … for now. Stand up.”

  Cyric carefully stood, acutely aware that Kelemvor could kill him with a mere twitch.

  “Your command, milord?” Dalzhel asked.

  “Tell him to go down the trail to the bottom of the cliff,” Kelemvor ordered, never taking his eyes off the thief.

  Cyric hesitated before obeying. “How do I know you’ll release me?”

  “My promise is better than yours,” Kelemvor spat. “You know that. After they’re gone, you can climb down the rope. Now tell them.”

  Cyric hesitated for a long moment. He had no doubt the warrior would do as promised. But, after coming so close to capturing Midnight and the tablet, the thief could not bear to let them escape.

  Kelemvor pushed gently against his sword and the tip drew blood. “I don’t know how much longer I can resist the temptation,” the fighter warned. “Send them away!”

  Cyric had no choice and he knew it. Kelemvor could kill him in an instant. “Do as he says, Dalzhel,” the thief ordered.

  Dalzhel nodded and sheathed his sword. But before leaving, he addressed Kelemvor. �
�If you do not release him unharmed, we will be back.”

  The burly lieutenant turned and led the others away.

  A few minutes later, Adon walked to the edge of the forest and peered into the darkness. “I think they’re gone.”

  “Good,” Sneakabout said. “Kill him now.”

  Kelemvor shook his head. “I won’t betray my word,” he rumbled. Then, never taking his sword from Cyric’s throat, the warrior steered his prisoner to the rope. “If I ever see—”

  “You won’t have the chance,” Cyric yelled.

  Without sheathing his short sword, the thief ran the rope around his thigh and over his shoulder. Then he began picking his way down the face of the cliff, using his free hand to feed the rope through the makeshift rappelling harness. Cyric’s sword arm remained free to hold his weapon.

  “Don’t make me regret saving you,” Midnight called.

  The thief simply grunted and continued down the cliff.

  As he watched Cyric go, a groan of disappointment escaped Sneakabout’s lips. Overwhelming despair overcame him, and the halfling knew that he could not let his sword go. Drawing his dagger, Sneakabout grabbed the rope and wrapped his legs around it, then disappeared down the cliff after Cyric.

  The halfling’s action surprised everyone and it was a moment before they reacted. By the time they peered over the cliff’s edge, Sneakabout was no more than a dark form moving down the rope.

  When Cyric felt the rope jerk, his first thought was that Kelemvor had cut it. But when the thief didn’t fall, he knew that something else was happening. Cyric looked up and saw the halfling sliding down the rope.

  “I want my sword!” Sneakabout screamed.

  “Come and get it,” Cyric called. He stopped descending and braced himself.

  A moment later, the halfling reached him and lunged. Cyric easily blocked the attack and sent the halfling’s dagger flying into the night.

  The lack of a weapon did not deter Sneakabout. He slid farther down, landing atop Cyric’s shoulders. Holding the rope with one hand, the halfling clawed at Cyric’s sword arm with the other.