Shadowdale (23 page)

Adon dropped his hammer. It fell to the earth and landed with a thud. The creature didn’t notice. A second gore-drenched hand burst from the flank of the beast, and there was a sickening sound as the rib cage exploded and Kelemvor’s head emerged from the opening. One of the beast’s legs tore open, and a pale, shriveled, child-sized leg emerged. The leg grew until it was the proper length for a man’s limb, and its twisted foot straightened, its bones crackling as they popped into place.

A second leg emerged, repeating the process, as the thing that was somehow becoming Kelemvor sprang from the shell of the beast. The fighter gave an exhausted grunt as he fell to the ground, a sleek network of hair already forming on his naked and smooth flesh.

Adon felt himself bending low to retrieve his hammer. He moved forward, shuddering as be approached the fighter. “Kelemvor?” he said, but the fighter’s eyes, wide and staring, registered nothing. Kelemvor’s breathing was shallow, and a current ran beneath his skin as blood vessels burst and his flesh aged to it proper years.

“Kelemvor,” Adon said again, and issued a blessing over the man, then passed through the clearing without looking back. He found the trail without difficulty, and soon he was moving down through the thicket of trees until he reached the campsite. Midnight and Cyric were waiting.

“Did you find him?” Midnight asked.

Adon shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “Game and solitude are plentiful in the valley over the first ridge. I’m sure he has found both. He will return soon.”

Adon told them of the odd swamp nature had created over the ridge, and soon the sounds of a man awkwardly making his way through the brush drifted to their ears. Midnight and Cyric met Kelemvor at the base of the foothills. The blood covering his armor looked to have come from the bloodied deer swung over his shoulder. Cyric helped the fighter with his freshly slain burden. They butchered the animal and quickly prepared it over a small fire.

Adon watched the fighter, who seemed oblivious to everything except the meal before him. Kelemvor looked up sharply at one point, catching the cleric’s gaze. “What? Did you forget to bless the meal?” Kelemvor asked bitterly.

“No,” Adon said. “I was —” he waved his hand in the air. “— lost in thought.”

Kelemvor nodded and returned to the feast. When they were done, Adon and Cyric went to work saving what meat they could from the animal, wrapping it tightly for their dinner.

“I must speak with you,” Kelemvor said, and Midnight nodded, following him as they made their way to the road. Midnight had already sensed his intent, and was not surprised when Kelemvor made his request. “There must be a reward, or I cannot go with you.”

Midnight’s frustration was evident. “Kel, this makes no sense! At some point you’re going to have to tell me what this is all about!”

Kelemvor said nothing.

Midnight sighed. “What shall I ply you with this time, Kel, more of the same?”

Kelemvor hung his head. “It must be different every time.”

“What else can I give you?” Midnight put her hand up to the fighter’s cheek.

Kelemvor grabbed Midnight’s hand roughly, forcing it away from him as he broke from her embrace. “It is not what I desire that matters, only what you are willing to give! The reward must be something of value to you, but worth what I must go through to earn it.”

Midnight could barely hold back her anger. “What we have together is of value to me.”

Kelemvor nodded slowly as he turned to face her. “Aye. And to me.”

Midnight moved forward, stopping before she came close enough to touch the fighter. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I can help you —”

“No one can help me!”

Midnight looked at Kelemvor. The same violent desperation she had seen in his eyes at Castle Kilgrave was there now. “I have conditions,” Midnight said.

“Name them.”

“You will ride with us. You will defend Cyric, Adon, and me from attack. You will help in the preparation of meals and setting up camp. You will impart any information you have that is relative to our safety and well being, even if it is only your opinion.” Midnight drew a breath. “And you will follow any direct orders I give you.”

“My reward?” Kelemvor said.

“My true name. I will tell you my true name after we have spoken to Elminster of Shadowdale.”

Kelemvor nodded. “It will suffice.”

The adventurers traveled the rest of the day, returning to their earlier practice of sharing two mounts. That night, after they set up camp and feasted. Midnight did not go to Kelemvor. Instead, she sat beside Cyric, keeping him company on the watch. They spoke of the places they had seen, with neither ever telling what they had done in those strange lands.

Soon, though. Midnight grew tired and left Cyric, settling into a deep, restful sleep that was shattered by an image of a horrible black beast with glowing green eyes and a slavering, fanged mouth. She woke with a start, and for a moment she thought she saw tiny blue-white fires playing over the surface of the amulet. But that was impossible. Mystra’s power had been returned to the goddess, and the goddess had been slain.

The magic-user heard movement and reached for her knife. Kelemvor stood above her.

“Time for your watch,” he said and vanished into the night.

As Midnight sat by the fire, she watched the darkness for signs of Kelemvor, but there were none. A few feet away from her, Cyric tossed and turned in his sleep, plagued by some personal nightmare.

Adon found he could not sleep at all. He was disturbed by the secret he had inadvertently uncovered. Kelemvor seemed to have no memory of Adon’s presence during his metamorphosis from panther to human. Or was Kelemvor merely pretending not to remember? Adon wanted desperately to confide in someone about what he had seen, but he felt honor-bound as a cleric to respect the privacy of the fighter. It seemed clear that he should let Kelemvor’s secret remain just that until the fighter either chose to confide in his comrades or became a threat to the party due to his affliction.

Adon stared into the night and prayed that he had made the right decision.

Tempus Blackthorne lit a torch before he entered the tunnel, then he wrestled with the supplies he had purchased. The tunnel had been expertly constructed. The walls and ceiling were perfectly cylindrical, and the floor was a long two-foot wide plank. The walls had been polished then sealed with a substance that resembled marble when it dried. Blackthorne still regretted killing the craftsmen and fabricating the story of their accidental death. He wondered if anyone believed him.

In the chamber above, Bane was bellowing incoherently in a tongue Blackthorne had never heard before. The emissary listened as he climbed the stone steps carefully and practiced the routine he had helped Lord Bane install as a fail-safe against intruders: right foot on the first step, left on the third. Right foot joining left on the third step. Left up one, right up two, then retracing the steps in reverse, and returning upward once more in a different sequence. Any who varied from this routine would be sliced to ribbons by the traps Bane had created.

Blackthorne teetered on one foot as he struggled to keep hold of the packages. He touched the lever on the wall, pulling it back three clicks, forward nine, back two. The wall before him vanished, and Blackthorne stepped through into Bane’s secret chamber.

The mage turned away from the sight of Bane’s dark, bubbling flesh and the froth of blood at his mouth. There was a new hole in the wall beside the Black Lord, and Blackthorne saw that one of the restraints had been torn from the wall. The bed frame had been shattered long ago, and the mattress torn to ribbons. Bane screamed, his body convulsing as the fit grew worse.

Blackthorne was attempting to devise a new excuse for the Black Lord’s absence when the noises behind him abruptly ceased. He turned and saw that Bane was absolutely still. As the emissary moved close to his god, he feared that Bane’s heart had stopped. There was an odor of death in the room.

“Lord Bane,” Blackthorne called, and Bane’s eyes shot open. A taloned hand moved toward Blackthorne’s throat, but the emissary fell back and out of the way of the blow, saving himself. Bane sat up slowly.

“How long?” Bane said simply.

“I am pleased to see you well!” Blackthorne fell to his knees.

Bane tore the remaining restraints from the wall and snapped the bonds at his ankles and wrists. “I asked you a question.”

Blackthorne told Bane everything about the dark times after Bane had been rescued from Castle Kilgrave. The Black Lord sat on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listened, nodding occasionally.

“I see my wounds have healed,” Bane said.

Blackthorne smiled enthusiastically.

“My physical wounds, anyway. There is always the matter of my pride.”

Blackthorne’s smile faded.

“Aye. My pathetic human pride…” Bane held up his talons before his eyes. “But I am not human,” he said, and looked to Blackthorne. “I am a god.”

Blackthorne nodded, slowly.

“Now help me dress,” Bane said, and Blackthorne rushed forward. As they struggled with Bane’s black armor, the god inquired about specific followers and the progress that had been made on his temple.

“The humans that came to Mystra’s rescue in Castle Kilgrave,” Bane said at last. “What of them?”

Blackthorne shook his head. “I do not know.”

One of the ruby red eyes of Bane’s gauntlet opened wide, and the Black Lord grimaced. Memories of Mystra’s final moments and of her warning to the dark-haired magic-user filled the mind of the dark god.

“We will find them,” he said. “They will journey to Shadowdale, to seek out the assistance of the mage, Elminster.”

“You wish them detained?” Blackthorne said.

Bane looked up, startled. “I wish them dead.” Bane’s attentions returned to the gauntlet. “Then I want the pendant from the woman brought to me. Now leave. I will call for you when I am ready.” The emissary nodded and left the chamber.

The Black Lord fell back against the wall, his body trembling. He was very weak. Bane corrected himself. The body had been weakened. Bane, the god, was immortal and immune to such petty concerns, despite his situation. Bane reveled in his first moments of true clarity since awakening from his sealing sleep, then he considered his options.

Helm had asked Mystra if she bore the Tablets of Fate. When she offered the identities of the thieves instead of the actual tablets, Helm destroyed her. The secret he shared with Lord Myrkul was still safe.

“You are not omniscient after all, Lord Ao,” Bane whispered. “The loss of the tablets has made you weak, as Myrkul and I suspected it would.”

Bane realized he had said these words aloud in an empty room and felt a coldness in his essence. There were still a few traces of his avatar’s humanity to exorcise, but he would accomplish this in time. At least his search for power had not been a strictly human conceit. The quest had begun with the theft of the tablets and would end with the murder of Lord Ao himself.

Yet there were obstacles Bane would have to overcome before he could achieve his final victory.

“Elminster,” Bane said softly. “Perhaps we should meet.”

In the darkest hours of morning, Bane stood before an assembly of his followers. Only those who had been awarded the highest ranks or privileges were in attendance as Bane sat upon his throne and addressed his followers. He linked the minds of all present so they could share in his fevered dream of incredible power and glory. Without uttering a word, Bane had whipped the humans into a frenzy.

Fzoul Chembryl had the loudest voice and the most intense passion for Bane’s cause. Though the God of Strife knew Fzoul had opposed his will in the past, he felt a growing admiration for the handsome, red-haired priest, as Fzoul argued for the eventual dissolution of the zhentarim — of which Fzoul was second in command — and the reformation of the Black Network under the strict authority of Bane himself. Naturally Fzoul requested to be considered for the position of leader of these forces, but the decision would be Bane’s alone, Fzoul cried, and Bane’s wisdom was beyond criticism.

The Black Lord smiled. There was nothing like a good war to motivate humans. They would march on Shadowdale, Bane leading the troops personally. In the frenzy of battle, Bane would slip away and dispatch the troublesome Elminster. In the meantime, assassins would be sent to intercept Mystra’s magic-user before she could deliver the pendant to the sage of Shadowdale. Another group would be sent to occupy the tiresome Knights of Myth Drannor. Satisfied with the plans, Bane went back to his secret chamber in the rear of the temple.

That night the God of Strife did not dream, and that was good.

The Air Raid

Whenever the bald man attempted to sleep, his dreams would inevitably return to the same shocking nightmare. He would wake almost the instant it began, but then he would see that his dream only reflected reality: his nightmare was only a memory of the widespread destruction he and his men had faced on their journey from Arabel to the place where Castle Kilgrave had once stood.

And somehow the bald man knew that he was now camped near the place that had been the eye of whatever supernatural storm had taken place. The effects had reached almost as far as Arabel, then stopped. The denizens of the walled city were relieved that their home had been spared, although one only had to look from the watchtowers to view the startlingly altered landscape and see how close the city had come to destruction.

The goddess Tymora had suffered an agonizing attack the day the sky had been filled with the odd lights from the north. Then the goddess had gone into a deep shock from which she had not yet risen when the bald man and his Company of Dawn left the walled city in pursuit of Kelemvor and his accomplices. Constant vigils had been held by Tymora’s followers, but the goddess merely sat upon her throne, unresponsive to their calls, staring at something beyond the limited range of human senses.

Dismissing the nightmares and memories, the bald man attempted to get back to sleep. In the morning he and his men would set out from the untouched place of beauty they had found, a lovely colonnade that once may have been a shrine to the gods. The cool, sparkling water of the glorious pool had served lo refresh his men, but they had not washed away the memories of the vast destruction they had witnessed.