Shadowdale (20 page)

I could have cured you, she said. Since you do not believe me, I will not.

Kelemvor’s laughter stopped and his flesh became pale.

“Goddess! I would accompany you!” Midnight said, and Kelemvor looked to the magic-user in alarm.

Mystra weighed the offer carefully. A human witnessing sights only a god could comprehend? The woman would be driven mad. Caitlan’s mind would be protected, but there was nothing she could do to protect Midnight.

“Only gods may follow,” Mystra said. The power that had been secreted in the pendant, along with the stolen energies Mystra had taken from Lord Bane, coiled within her, as if waiting for release. Then Mystra felt the wellspring of magic within her threaten to overflow. There was a moment of purely human panic for the goddess as she lost control of the forces within her. Gently swaying grass crackled as blue-white fires enveloped every blade.

Cyric felt a pleasant warmth beneath his feet. The air was charged with blue-white sparks, and the winds became visible as great glowing streaks of light, delivered with the passionate brush strokes of a mad genius, seared the air, then faded away.

For just an instant, the stairway became visible to Midnight, and she saw that it was a stairway in name only. An endless amount of delicate white hands lay palm up, some standing alone, others in strange clusters where their flesh seemed to have merged. They rose and fell in irregular patterns and their steely fingers constantly flicked back and forth, anxious to receive their next guest. A network of crystalline bones attached the clusters of hands. Oddly, the stumps of the disembodied hands could never be seen. Soft, flowing mist floated down from cluster to cluster.

Then the stairway was gone and Midnight returned her attentions to Mystra.

Caitlan’s form was becoming less distinct, and as it shimmered, the heroes saw the child transformed into the woman she had been destined to become. Her body was lush and beautiful, her face delicate and sensual, but her eyes were very old, revealing a millennium of private concerns.

The goddess was shaken as she turned from the heroes and moved away. She seemed to be walking up into the air, and wherever the goddess’s feet touched, tiny bolts of bluish white lightning were loosed.

Mystra saw that her perceptions of the stairway and of the gateway to the Planes were constantly shifting. One moment she saw a beautiful cathedral carved from the clouds, with a broad, ornate stair leading up to it. The next moment the area surrounding the gateway seemed to be made of vast, living runes that danced an unknowable dance as they changed positions with their fellows to spell out secrets of the art Mystra had long pondered and never discovered, until now.

Only the gate itself remained constant: it was a large steel door, forged in the image of a giant fist, the symbol of Helm.

Halfway up the stairs, the clouds parted and the God of Guardians materialized before Mystra.

“Well met, Lord Helm,” Mystra said cordially.

Helm simply watched Mystra. “Go back, goddess. This way is not for you.”

“I would return to my home,” Mystra said, angered by the guardian.

“Do you bring the Tablets of Fate?”

Mystra smiled. “I bring word of the tablets. I know who stole them, and why.”

“That is not enough. You must turn back. The Planes are no longer ours.”

Mystra seemed confused. “But Lord Ao would wish to have this information.”

Helm was unmoving. “Give it to me, and I will pass it along.”

“I must deliver this information personally.”

“I cannot allow that,” Helm said. “Turn back before it is too late.”

Mystra continued to climb the Celestial Stairway, the primal forces of magic gathering tightly around Faerun as she willed them to be ready for her call.

“I have no desire to harm you, good Helm. Stand away.”

“It is my duty to stop you,” Helm said. “I was lax in my duties once. Never again.”

Helm descended further.

“Stand away,” Mystra said, her voice as loud as a thunderclap.

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.

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.