Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  “No!” Kelemvor said, standing.

  “The decision is hers,” Durnan said. He sat slumped in a chair behind his desk, a mug of ale in his hand. “In Waterdeep, no man speaks for a woman unless she asks him to.”

  “You’ll take her over my dead body,” Kelemvor snapped, putting himself between Midnight and the others. “Or not at all.”

  Midnight opened her eyes and reached for the fighter’s hand. “Kel, they’re right. I must go on.”

  “But look at you!” the warrior protested, kneeling at her side. “You’re exhausted!”

  “I’ll be fine after I rest.”

  “You can hardly stand,” Kelemvor said, running his hand over her dry hair. “How can you fight Myrkul?”

  Elminster laid a wrinkled hand on Kelemvor’s shoulder. “Because she must—or the whole world might perish.”

  Kelemvor dropped his head and stared at the floor. Finally, he looked at Elminster and said, “Can you explain this to me? Why must Midnight draw Myrkul out? Why do we need the other tablet?”

  Blackstaff snapped, “Elminster doesn’t need to explain himself to the likes of—”

  The ancient sage raised a hand to silence the bearded wizard. “He has a right to know,” Elminster said.

  “While ye and thy friends have labored to retrieve the tablets, this is what I have learned.” The sage motioned at the air above the table. “Out of the mists at the beginning of time there came a will who called itself Ao. Ao wished to create an order.” Elminster flicked his fingers and a golden scale hung in the air. “He balanced the forces of chaos and order, spending the first eons of his life cataloguing and setting them into opposition.”

  Dozens of lumps of coal appeared and settled onto the scale’s dishes. “By the time he completed his task, the universe had grown too vast and intricate for even Ao to watch over.” The scale wobbled and spilled the coal.

  “So Ao created the gods.” The chunks of coal compressed into glittering diamonds, each with the symbol of a god etched upon it. “To preserve the order, he assigned each god certain duties and powers.” The diamonds returned to the dishes and the scales again hung balanced.

  “Unfortunately, so he would not need to watch over them constantly, Ao created the gods with free wills. But with free will came ambition and greed, and the gods were soon struggling to increase their power at each other’s expense.”

  The diamonds started moving from one dish to another, again unbalancing the scales. “Ao could not stop the struggle without eliminating the gods’ free will, so he began to oversee the transfer of powers and duties.” In an even stream, the diamonds began moving from one dish to another. The scales steadied.

  “And he created the Tablets of Fate to reflect the powers and duties of each god. Now the gods could exercise their ambition, yet the tablets would allow Ao to be sure the Balance was always maintained. But Myrkul and Bane were more concerned with their own aspirations than the Balance.”

  Two dark-colored diamonds left the dishes and circled the scales in crazy, erratic patterns. “So they took the tablets and hid them away, intending to steal as much power as possible during the confusion that followed.”

  All the diamonds bounced out of the dishes and whirled about the room. The scales spun and jerked wildly, until at last they overturned and crashed to the table. “In anger, Ao cast all the gods from the Planes, sparing only Helm. To the God of Guardians, Ao assigned the task of keeping the other gods out of the Planes.

  “Without the gods to exercise their powers and perform their duties, the Realms began slipping into chaos.” The diamonds rained down on the table. “Unless we recover the tablets and return them,” Elminster concluded, “the Realms will perish.” A bright flash filled the room, then the scales and the diamonds disappeared in wisps of smoke.

  Kelemvor could not argue with Elminster’s conclusion. Somebody had to return the tablets. But he still did not see why it had to be Midnight.

  Before the fighter could voice his thoughts, though, Durnan set his mug aside and spoke. “It seems everybody—gods and mortals alike—should want the same thing: to return the tablets to Ao. I shudder to say this, and I only bring it up to be sure you’ve considered the possibility, but would it matter if Myrkul returned the tablets?”

  “Very much!” Midnight snapped, rising to her feet. Durnan’s suggestion appalled her. She had not endured Bhaal’s touch, watched Adon die, and braved the Realm of the Dead in order to let the Lord of Decay prevail. “Ao will look favorably upon whoever returns the tablets. Allowing Myrkul that privilege would be worse for the Realms than not returning the tablets at all. Can you imagine a world where the Lord of Decay is favored?”

  “Besides,” Kelemvor added, “if Myrkul stole the tablets in the first place, I doubt he would return them now.”

  “True,” Blackstaff concurred, surprised to find himself in agreement with the warrior. “He’d be afraid Ao would punish him for his theft.”

  “We have no choice,” Elminster said, laying both hands on the tablet. “We must recover the other tablet from Myrkul.”

  “But why does Midnight have to do it?” Kelemvor asked. He looked from Elminster to Blackstaff. “Why can’t you two do it? After all, you’re supposed to be great mages.”

  “We are,” Blackstaff said defensively. “But not great enough to kill Myrkul.”

  “Kill Myrkul! You’re mad!” Kelemvor yelled.

  “No,” Blackstaff replied, meeting the warrior’s heated gaze with a calm demeanor. “Midnight can do it. Shortly before the Arrival, I lost much of my control over magic, as did all mages. But, unlike clerics, our powers did not fade at the moment of the fall or perish entirely. We could see no reason for this. So, while Elminster was investigating what had happened to the gods, I was trying to find out what had happened to magic.”

  “What did you find out?” Durnan asked, for the first time sitting up straight.

  “He discovered that I was in contact with Mystra just before Ao banished the gods,” Midnight said. “She gave part of her power to me.”

  “Correct,” Blackstaff replied. “Somehow, Mystra learned of Ao’s anger before he exiled the gods. Perhaps Helm warned her, for it’s rumored that they were lovers. Be that as it may, Mystra entrusted part of her powers to Midnight, intending to recover that part when she entered our world.”

  Midnight sighed, “Unfortunately, Bane captured the Lady of Mysteries when she arrived. Kelemvor, Adon, and I had to rescue her.” Midnight left out Cyric’s name, for she did not care to remember she had called the thief a friend. “While captive, Mystra learned that Bane and Myrkul had stolen the tablets. She tried to return to the Planes to tell Ao, but Helm destroyed her when she tried to fight past him. Her last act was to invest her powers in me so that I could recover the tablets.”

  “And that’s why Midnight must be the one who confronts Myrkul,” Blackstaff said, laying a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “She’s the only one who can defeat him.”

  Kelemvor did not bother to object. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, the warrior saw that Midnight was the one who had to confront the Lord of the Dead.

  But he still disliked the idea of using her as bait. She would have a better chance of surviving if they attacked Myrkul, instead of allowing the Lord of the Dead to surprise them. “If we must fight Old Lord Skull,” he said, “then let us do it on our terms, not his. Maybe we can catch him unprepared.”

  “Carry the battle to his ground?” Blackstaff asked.

  Kelemvor nodded.

  “I approve,” Elminster said, smiling. “Myrkul will not expect it. The survivor from Ylarell’s patrol shall lead us to his lair.”

  “If that’s what Kelemvor thinks is wise, then that’s what I’ll do,” Midnight told them, smiling at the warrior. “But first, I must rest.”

  “Then I suggest we go to my tower and see if we can’t dispel the magic on this,” Blackstaff said, picking up the tablet. “If we intend to surprise Myrkul, we
can’t have his wards detailing our moves for him.” He led the way out of the Yawning Portal.

  As they stepped into the street, Midnight paused to look at the sky. It was a sickly green instead of blue, and the sun was purple instead of yellow, but she did not care. After enduring the white sky of the Fugue Plain and the drab gray of Myrkul’s city, she was just glad to have a sun and sky over her head.

  Then she noticed a ribbon of scintillating colors descending from the heavens to the summit of Mount Waterdeep. It was too distant for her to see details, but she suspected it was a Celestial Stairway.

  “Don’t stare,” Elminster whispered. “Most people cannot see it. They will think ye’ve gone daft.”

  “I don’t care,” Midnight said. Still, she tore her gaze from the stairway and followed him down the street.

  They had not taken more than a dozen steps before flapping wings startled Kelemvor. The fighter spun around and came nose to beak with a crow on Blackstaff’s shoulder. The bird’s left leg had been neatly splinted.

  The crow screeched in alarm and pecked at Kelemvor, who barely managed to raise an arm and save his eye.

  “Leave me alone, dung-eater!” Kelemvor flailed and came away with a handful of feathers.

  The crow squawked, then fluttered to Blackstaff’s other shoulder. Peering nervously around the wizard’s head, the crow croaked what sounded like a sentence.

  “Do you know this avian messenger?” Blackstaff asked Kelemvor.

  “As well as any man can know the worm that would eat his corpse,” Kelemvor responded, glaring at the bird.

  “Crow apologizes,” Blackstaff said.

  When Kelemvor made no move to accept the apology, the bird squawked twice more.

  “He says you’d have done the same thing if you were hungry.”

  “I don’t eat crows,” Kelemvor replied. “And I don’t talk to them, either.” He turned away and started for Blackstaff’s tower.

  Fifteen feet below Kelemvor, in the dark sewer under Rainrun Street, Myrkul suddenly stopped moving. Behind him, twelve zombies also halted, though fetid water continued to slosh around their legs.

  “The tablet’s in the street, my friends,” the Lord of the Dead whispered, as if the zombies actually cared what he was saying. None of his worshipers were with him. Over the past few weeks, the Lord of the Dead had sacrificed his entire Waterdeep sect to provide energy for his magic.

  Myrkul stared at the ceiling of the dark passage and absent-mindedly touched the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The saddlebags contained one of the Tablets of Fate—the one his zombies had stolen at Dragonspear Castle.

  An hour and a half ago, via the locate object spell he had placed on it, Myrkul had sensed that Midnight had brought the other one to Waterdeep. Immediately, he had set out after the mage, intending to recover the tablet before assuming leadership of the host of denizens he expected to besiege the city at any moment.

  But things had not proceeded according to plan. It had taken him far longer than expected to lead his zombies through the labyrinth of Waterdeep’s sewers. Now that he had finally arrived, the tablet was being moved. His original intention had been to attack while the tablet was inside a building, where the battle would not be observed by the city watch.

  He did not think it would be wise to alter his plan and attack in the streets. Already, he had destroyed one patrol, and the watch commanders would soon grow curious about what had happened to it. Tangling with another did not seem smart, at least not until his denizens gave the commanders something else to worry about.

  Unfortunately, something was wrong. The denizens should have arrived right on the heels of the woman. But it was evident that she had spoiled his plan and prevented his subjects—and all the spirits of the dead—from following her to Waterdeep.

  Just then, Myrkul sensed that the tablet was moving again. “Let’s see where they are taking this tablet,” he said to nobody in particular. “Then we will decide what to do.” The Lord of the Dead turned and started sloshing back the way he had come.

  A hundred feet down the tunnel, Cyric heard the zombies reverse direction and cursed under his breath. He had been in the absolute darkness and stinking water of the tunnels for half a day, following the zombies and their master. His nerves were beginning to feel the effect of close call after close call.

  Once, right after he’d entered the sewers, he had come close to stealing the tablet. The zombies had attacked a watch patrol. By the light of the patrol’s torches, the thief had seen the tablet slip into the rank water when a watchman had hacked an arm off the zombie carrying the saddlebags. Cyric had ducked beneath the surface and swam through a jungle of legs after it. Two hands had snatched the saddlebags away just as he reached it.

  The thief had drawn his sword and surfaced with the idea of attacking whoever had the tablet, but had seen Myrkul casting a spell, then smelled a caustic odor. He had ducked back beneath the water and swam away while a cloud of poison killed the patrol. Since then, Cyric had been following the Lord of the Dead through the sewers, waiting for another opportunity to take the tablet.

  As he heard the zombies come closer, Cyric moved up the tunnel ahead of them until his hand touched one of the intermittent ladders that led up to an access hole. The thief climbed up the ladder and remained perfectly motionless as the zombies passed beneath him. He did not come down until the sound of sloshing was a hundred feet away.

  Unaware that he was being followed, Myrkul concentrated solely on maintaining contact with the tablet. He followed it through a twisting maze of sewer tunnels. Sometimes he had to pause while Midnight and her company passed through a tangle of streets and followed no direction in particular. Sometimes he had to backtrack when the tunnels took an unexpected turn.

  Eventually, however, the tablet stopped moving, and Myrkul was satisfied it had reached its destination. He went down the tunnel to an access ladder, then climbed up and raised the iron cover just enough to see the building into which his enemies had gone.

  It was a large tower with no windows or doors—one that had come to his attention in the past. The tower belonged to Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, one of Waterdeep’s most powerful mages.

  Myrkul descended back into the cloaca. “We will leave the tablet with Blackstaff for now,” he said to his uncaring zombies. “Recovering it would draw attention to us, wouldn’t it?” He paused and smiled a rictus grin. “We’ll go to the Pool of Loss now, and see what is keeping my denizens. Then, perhaps, we’ll worry about the other tablet.” The Lord of the Dead turned and led his zombies into the darkness.

  A few moments later, when he was confident Myrkul would not see him, Cyric climbed the ladder and looked at Blackstaff’s tower. At least one being in the tunnel had been paying attention to Myrkul’s words.

  The thunder of five hundred hobnailed boots on cobblestone ended a slumber as deep and as restful as any Midnight could recall. She rolled over and buried her face in the feather bed, cursing the city for its noise. An officer barked an order and the soldiers rumbled to a stop outside her window.

  Her dim room suddenly seemed as quiet as a graveyard. The silence woke her more fully and quickly than any clamor. At once both curious and frightened, Midnight leaped from her bed and threw her cloak over her shoulders.

  At the base of Blackstaff’s tower, a voice asked, “Whom may I say is calling?”

  “Mordoc Torsilley, Captain of the Company of the White Wyvern, of the City Guard of Waterdeep, for Khelben ‘Blackstaff’ Arunsun. And be quick about it!”

  Midnight threw open her window shutter, which was magically hidden to people on the street. In the courtyard below, over two hundred troops stood at strict attention. Their commander was facing the blank wall at the base of Blackstaff’s tower. Each man wore black scale mail embossed with an upturned crescent moon of gold encircled in nine silver stars. The entire company was fully armed, with halberds in hand and daggers and bastard swords on their belts.

  Though al
l of them kept their attention fixed directly ahead, their faces were far from expressionless. The older men had the grim look of veterans returning to battle, while the younger men could barely keep themselves from trembling.

  Midnight’s door opened and Kelemvor rushed into the room.

  “What’s happening?” the raven-haired mage asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kelemvor replied, leaning out her window to study the troops. Though he was no longer a soldier and had no desire to become one again, his heart stirred at the spectacle of a company fully dressed and ready for battle.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked, hoping the answer would give her some clue as to the excitement’s cause.

  “Six hours,” Kelemvor said, without turning away from the troops. He had seen the look in their eyes many times before, and he knew what it meant. “They’re off to battle,” the fighter noted. “And they don’t think they’re coming back.”

  He turned and limped toward the stairs. Blackstaff’s restorative had worn off, and the warrior’s feet still suffered the effects of having been frostbitten. “We’d better see what’s happening.”

  Midnight followed him down three flights of stairs to the anteroom on the ground floor. Blackstaff and Elminster were already there, Elminster holding the tablet beneath his arm. Both men looked as though they had not rested in more than a day. While Midnight had slept, the two wizards had been laboring to remove Myrkul’s magic from the tablet. She wondered if they had succeeded.

  Mordoc Torsilley, commander of the White Wyvern, was just unrolling a long scroll. He addressed Blackstaff. “Are you Khelben ‘Blackstaff’ Arunsun?” he asked.

  “You know who I am,” Blackstaff answered. “We’ve met many times.”

  Mordoc looked up from the scroll apologetically. “This is official business, Your Splendidness.” He began to read from the scroll, “For the good of all citizens of Waterdeep, and in order to defend the city from its enemies, Khelben ‘Blackstaff’ Arunsun is hereby commanded—”