by Troy Denning
But Kelemvor and Adon had been looking toward the ball of light when it had burst. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing but white.
“I’m blind!” Kelemvor cried.
To his left, Adon groaned. “I—I can’t see anything either!”
“Then be quiet!” Midnight said. “Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
The magic-user did not need to worry. Bhaal was thinking about other things. It had never occurred to him that, upon slipping her bonds, Midnight would not flee immediately. Now he had to recapture her or the woman would know that he had let her escape. If that happened, she might figure out what he and Myrkul really wanted from her. The fallen god walked toward Midnight.
“Stay where you are,” Midnight warned.
Bhaal snickered. “Why? You don’t have the power to kill me—yet.”
Before Kelemvor’s eyes, the white faded to gray. Perhaps his blindness was temporary.
“We’ve got to do something,” Adon whispered. His vision had returned enough so that he could vaguely see a shape advancing toward Midnight.
“What?” Kelemvor responded.
“Attack. Perhaps Midnight—”
“We can’t. I’m still blind!”
Adon fell silent, knowing Kelemvor was right. Unable to see clearly, they would only get in the way.
As the Lord of Murder walked toward the mage, Cyric began to stir. The thief was surprised he was still alive, for Bhaal’s blows had felt like hammer strikes. He ached from head to toe, and the simple act of breathing sent waves of agony through his torso. Still, Cyric knew that if he did not act, he would lose his chance to capture Midnight and the Tablet of Fate.
He retrieved his sword. “You’ve tasted Bhaal’s blood,” he whispered. “If you want more, help me.”
Yes, more, the sword responded. I’ll help you. The words came to mind in a sultry female voice.
The sword’s hilt warmed in his hand and Cyric felt vigor and strength flow back into his body. He rose to his knees, then stood and stumbled after the Lord of Murder.
Bhaal stopped moving forward. “Surrender, Midnight.” As an afterthought, he added, “And give me the tablet.”
“No,” Midnight replied, stepping away.
“You have no choice,” Bhaal said, gesturing at Kelemvor’s prone form.
Midnight summoned the incantation for another lightning bolt, then pointed at Bhaal. “I have plenty of choices. Most of them involve killing you.”
The Lord of Murder studied the woman, uncomfortably, knowing she might be able to carry out her threat. “Destroying my avatar will kill your friends—and possibly you, too,” the god said. “You know that.”
Midnight frowned, remembering the immense power that Torm and Bane’s destruction had unleashed outside Tantras. And Mystra’s death had leveled a castle in Cormyr. This time, at least, Bhaal was telling the truth. She could not kill him without destroying her friends.
Then she saw Cyric creeping up behind Bhaal, his sword poised to strike. The thief’s body looked battered beyond recognition. Midnight found it incredible that Cyric could still move, much less move as silently as he did.
“You have no choice,” the Lord of Murder repeated.
Before Bhaal could notice she was looking elsewhere, Midnight returned her attention to the god’s face.
“I’ll destroy you anyway,” she said. “What do I have to lose?”
Cyric was only two steps away from Bhaal. Midnight let the lightning bolt drop from her mind, then called the incantation for a teleportation spell. The mage knew that her plan was born of desperation, for she could not remember the last time her magic had worked properly. But if it worked at all, the results would be better than surrendering to Bhaal—or dying in the explosion if Cyric’s attack was successful.
Bhaal twisted Deverell’s torn lips into a smile. “If you do as I ask, your friends will live.”
Cyric’s boot scraped a rock. The avatar’s face betrayed alarm and he whirled. The thief brought his red blade down and plunged it deep into Bhaal’s breast.
“You fool!” the Lord of Murder screamed.
The blade’s color deepened to vibrant burgundy, and the fallen god howled in rage. His roar was as loud as thunder and as eerie as the wail of a ghost.
“At least I killed a god before I died,” Cyric said triumphantly through clenched teeth. At the same time, the raven-haired mage uttered the words to her incantation.
Bhaal’s scream ended and his body exploded. Then the earth dropped away beneath Midnight and her allies.
A flickering ocher flame. A candle stuck in a bottle in the center of a wooden table, its wood, gray and cracked and as dry as tinder. A flimsy, unpadded chair in a dark, wet room hidden in the sewers of Waterdeep.
This was what his glory had come to.
Ao would pay, Myrkul swore. The Lord of the Dead did not enjoy modesty in accommodation, he did not enjoy hiding from mortals, and he most certainly did not enjoy being confined to the Realms. For all these indignities, Ao—and Helm—would pay.
But he had to be careful. The Lord of the Dead had seen what came of carelessness. Tantras had been a disaster, and it had only been through his foresight that Myrkul had not suffered the same fate as Bane. He was in the realm of mortals now. In a certain sense he was mortal, for now he could perish—as Bane and Mystra and Torm had perished.
Imagine, the Ruler of the Dead dying. The thought would have made Myrkul laugh, had it not been so unnerving.
No, it would not do to go meeting rivals head-to-head. He had to remain hidden, where enemies could not find him, where they had no reason to suspect his presence. He had to work through agents, to plot out intricate plans and alternate contingencies, as he had concerning Midnight and the Tablets of Fate.
It would have been a simple matter to kill the dark-haired magic-user and take the tablet she held. The Lord of the Dead had agents and priests all over the land, and no one could survive the unrelenting series of attacks he could bring to bear. But then his followers would have had to deliver the tablet to him in Waterdeep, and none were as capable a deliveryperson as Midnight.
Of course, Myrkul had no intention of letting the woman keep the tablet. He would not feel secure until both Tablets of Fate were in his hands. Indirectly, that was why he had not ordered the magic-user’s death. He needed her to go to Bone Castle and recover the second tablet, too.
The Lord of the Dead had plans within plans, and they all depended on the woman. Bhaal had simply wanted to capture Midnight’s entire company, then use her friends as hostages to force her to recover the second tablet. But so far, Midnight had displayed an alarming fortitude, and Myrkul believed she would easily thwart such crude methods of persuasion. It was wiser to trick her into doing his will, to make her think that retrieving the second tablet was her idea. To accomplish this, Bhaal had captured her, then let her “trick” him into revealing the second tablet’s hiding place.
Even this plan had a weakness, and the Lord of the Dead was not blind to it. Once the woman had both tablets, she could easily return them to Helm. To prevent that, Myrkul had instructed Bhaal to let her escape near Dragonspear Castle once she knew about the castle’s hidden entrance to the Realm of the Dead.
At Dragonspear, Myrkul had prepared a trap to recover the first tablet. This trap would also force Midnight to go to the Realm of the Dead to recover the tablet in Bone Castle. Of course, no strategy could foresee every eventuality. That was why Myrkul made a habit of contacting Bhaal to confirm that everything was proceeding according to plan.
The Lord of the Dead concentrated on the candlelight. The flame wavered and flared. Myrkul waited, expecting it to coalesce itself into the ugly, bloated head of Bhaal’s avatar.
But the flame remained a flame.
Myrkul tried once more to work his variation of a commune spell, and again the flame remained a flame. The Lord of the Dead considered the possibility that magical chaos had caused his spell to fail, but re
jected the idea. If the failure had been due to chaos, the magic would likely have misfired somehow. His spell had simply failed to go off.
That could only mean Bhaal had perished. The avatar had been destroyed and the Lord of Murder’s essence had been dispersed through the Realms and the Planes. The thought distressed Myrkul, and not only because it reminded him of his own mortality. Of all the gods, perhaps he and Bhaal had been the closest. Bhaal presided over the process of death and killing, while Myrkul had dominion over those already dead. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. One could hardly exist without the other.
Myrkul allowed himself a moment of distress for his fellow god’s passing, then turned his thoughts back to his plans. The last time they had communed, Bhaal had reported that the woman knew about the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. Therefore, she would be going toward Dragonspear Castle. His plan remained unchanged, save that the woman would arrive at the castle unescorted. He could still spring his surprise and separate her from the first tablet.
But Myrkul was far from happy. If she had defeated Bhaal, Midnight possessed the power to counter his trap and take the first tablet with her into the Realm of the Dead. Then, if she succeeded at Bone Castle, she would have both tablets. After returning to the Realms, it would be a simple matter to find a Celestial Stairway and present them to Helm.
If that happened, Myrkul would be defeated.
He and Bane were the ones who had stolen the Tablets of Fate. By now, Ao had surely discovered that, and Myrkul doubted there would be a reward if he returned what he had stolen in the first place. Though the Lord of the Dead had not revealed this to Bhaal, he had no use for either of the tablets. His sole purpose for recovering them was to be sure that no one ever returned them to the Planes, for Myrkul suspected the overlord of the gods would destroy him as soon as the tablets were recovered.
But the Lord of the Dead knew that preventing the return of the tablets was a temporary solution. Sooner or later, Ao would grow tired of waiting and deal out his punishment anyway. If Myrkul wanted to survive, he had to strike first. And that was why, through another complicated series of plots, the Lord of the Dead had arranged for Midnight to recover the second tablet.
After stealing the Tablets of Fate, Myrkul and Bane had each taken one and hidden it away. Bane had placed his in Tantras. Myrkul had hidden his tablet in Bone Castle, in the heart of the Realm of the Dead. To prevent anybody from stealing the artifact, the Lord Myrkul had placed a trap on it.
The minute Midnight took the second tablet out of the Realm of the Dead, she would release the realm’s denizens and all the spirits of the dead. When that happened, Myrkul intended to be waiting. He would kill Midnight and take the second tablet from her. Then, utilizing the same methods he used to power Bane’s avatar in Tantras, he would harness the souls of the dead—this time for his own avatar.
After that, he would be prepared to meet Ao. Myrkul was far from certain that even given the energy of millions of souls, he would prevail. Above all, the Lord of the Dead hated to reveal himself to his enemies. Still, this desperate plan was his only chance to turn defeat into victory.
But, if Midnight took her tablet to the Realm of the Dead, Myrkul’s plan would grow even more dangerous. When she returned to the Realms with both tablets, it would prove difficult to find her in the confusion accompanying the emergence of his denizens. The mage would be able to slip away and take the tablets to Helm.
The safest plan, Myrkul knew, was to make sure she did not take the first tablet into the Realm of the Dead with her. He would have to take extra precautions at Dragonspear Castle to insure the mage lost the tablet she had recovered in Tantras.
The sword remained in his hand. Cyric knew that and no more. His thoughts drifted aimlessly through the fog that had become his mind.
He felt as though he had been beaten to death.
Fists. Fists as hard as stone. Bhaal, beating him senseless, smashing his jaw and ribs and nose, finally stopping and leaving the job undone. Then Cyric remembered rising to his feet, despite his serious injuries, and stabbing the Lord of Murder.
That had been his undoing. The avatar had turned white and flashed into oblivion. Cyric wondered where he himself was now. Probably the Realm of the Dead, he thought for an instant.
No, he was alive. His head hurt too much, and the agony in his ribs came only when he breathed. He felt as though he had been trampled.
The hawk-nosed man opened his eyes and found it was dark. He lay face down in snow, apparently in the middle of a road. Around him, three figures were rising to their feet.
“Where are we?” Adon asked, studying the snow-covered fields on both sides of the road. His vision had completely recovered.
“Farther up the road to Waterdeep, I hope,” Midnight answered wearily. “That’s where I was trying to take us, anyway.” Her limbs felt heavy with fatigue. Her last incantation had been taxing on her body.
“How’d we get here?” Kelemvor muttered, rubbing his eyes. His vision had partially returned, but the fighter still saw spots of light dancing across the snowy landscape.
“I teleported us,” the mage replied. “Don’t ask me to explain how.”
Cyric decided to remain motionless. He was outnumbered three-to-one and doubted that he could have moved even if he tried. With the return of full consciousness, his pain had grown worse.
Kelemvor chuckled, a bit nervously. “It’s good to see you again!” he said, hugging Midnight. Back at Boareskyr Bridge, their initial greeting had been too hurried for his liking. “I can hardly believe you’re alive!”
“Why should that surprise you?” Midnight asked, returning his hug warmly.
Assuming a stern tone, Adon grumbled, “After the way you ran off—”
“It’s a good thing I did,” Midnight interrupted, freeing herself from Kelemvor. She could not believe how quickly the cleric’s condescending manner had set her nerves on edge. “Or you’d both be dead!”
“We’d be dead?” Adon exclaimed, stepping backward in frustration. “Bhaal didn’t—”
Before the cleric finished, he tripped over Cyric and crashed to the ground. Only Adon’s scream of astonishment kept the wounded thief’s muffled groan from being heard. Cyric kept his eyes closed and did not move. His only hope was to convince his rivals that he was harmless.
Kelemvor came over and casually kicked Cyric’s body. “Look what’s lying here in the road like a dungheap!” the warrior growled. He felt the pulse in Cyric’s neck. “And he’s alive!”
The thief made sure he had a solid grip on his sword.
“Cyric!” Adon hissed, standing and turning to Midnight. “Why’d you bring him?”
“Believe me, it wasn’t intentional,” Midnight snapped, frowning at the thief’s immobile body. “Besides, I thought you were working with him.”
“We were,” Kelemvor said. His sword scraped free of its scabbard. “But we’re finished with that now.”
Cyric peeked out of a half-opened eye, trying to find the strength to lift his sword.
Adon stepped between Kelemvor’s blade and Cyric’s body. “We can’t kill him in cold blood.”
“What?” the warrior demanded. “Ten minutes ago, you wouldn’t let me fight Bhaal with him.” He tried to step around the cleric.
“At that time, he was dangerous to us,” Adon said, shuffling to keep himself between the warrior’s sword and the motionless thief. “That’s not true any longer.”
“I saw him slay a drowning halfling and torture another,” Midnight objected, pointing an accusing finger at Cyric’s head.
“We can’t kill him while he’s helpless,” Adon insisted. He looked past Kelemvor and addressed the magic-user.
Midnight, however, was not easily convinced. “Cyric deserves to die.”
“It’s not our right to judge our fellows,” Adon said softly, still holding off the fighter. “Any more than it was the right of the Harpers to condemn you and I to death.”
Kele
mvor frowned at that memory, then sheathed his weapon. During the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster had disappeared. The locals had leaped to the conclusion that someone had murdered the sage, then falsely accused Adon and Midnight of the crime. Had Cyric not broken them out of jail, the pair would have been executed.
“This is different,” Midnight insisted. “He betrayed us, and he played me for a fool.” She reached for Kelemvor’s sword.
The warrior placed a restraining hand on his hilt. “No,” he said. “Adon’s right.”
“If we kill him,” Adon said, waving a hand at Cyric’s helpless form. “We’re murderers—just like he is. Do you want that?”
Midnight pondered that for a moment, then jerked her hand away from the sword. “Leave him, then. He’ll die anyway.” She turned and started up the road.
Kelemvor looked to Adon for instruction.
“We shouldn’t kill a helpless man,” the cleric said. “But we don’t have to help him, either. He can’t do us any more harm. He’s lost his men and if we hurry, we’ll put some miles between us before he wakes up.” He started after Midnight. “Let’s hurry, before she disappears again.”
They caught Midnight quickly, then Kelemvor asked, “Where are we going?”
Midnight paused.
Though just barely, she was still within Cyric’s earshot. Had she looked at the thief, she might have noticed him turning his head to hear her answer.
“I’m going to Dragonspear Castle,” the raven-haired mage said, her hands on her hips.
“Then we’re all going to Dragonspear Castle,” Adon noted calmly. “Are Kelemvor and I going to have to split the watch to keep you from sneaking off, Midnight?”
“The gods themselves are against me,” the magic-user warned, looking from the cleric to Kelemvor, then back again. “You’ll be risking your lives.”
“We’d be risking more by leaving you alone,” Adon retorted, a smile growing on his face.
Kelemvor caught Midnight’s elbow and turned her so he could look straight into her eyes. “Gods or no gods,” he said firmly, “I’m with you, Midnight.”
