Shadowdale (38 page)

The work details had been organized in the early hours of morning, and Kelemvor was amazed at the progress that had already been made during the past few days. He had stood at Hawksguard’s side as the older warrior rallied the hundreds of soldiers who had volunteered to serve in Shadowdale’s defense. Many had passed through the nightmare vistas of Gnoll Pass and the Shadow Gap to make it to the dale. They knew the fate that would befall the Dales should they fail to repel Bane and his armies. A cry of unity had resounded, and Kelemvor found himself swept up in the momentum, raising his fist in the air with the others.

Then came the drudgery, though few complained. Merchants and builders toiled side by side with soldiers as highsun approached and the lines of defense began to take shape in the area of Krag Pool, on the road to Voonlar. Wagonloads of rock and debris from the ruins of Castle Krag were brought to the edge of the main road northeast out of the dale. There the materials were used to build large fortifications.

Around the workers, on the ground and in the trees, the archers prepared to defend the road and lay siege to the Zhentish troops that would advance from the northeast. The battle might not come for days, but the archers knew they had to prepare, too.

And after their work was completed, they waited patiently, The sky above was a clear blue, and there were very few clouds. The trees around them were alive with the sounds that one could only fully appreciate after spending endless hours chopping wood, cutting down trees, sharpening spikes, digging holes and covering them up again. The woodsmen did this and more as they set traps and prepared their hiding places.

The archers were not alone in this task, though. There were work crews from the town to help, lead by a pair of city planners from Suzail Key. The planners had been visiting relatives in Shadowdale when news of the imminent invasion arrived. They helped to place the various obstacles the men of Shadowdale would put in the way of Bane’s armies, and stayed to make detailed charts of escape routes through the forest. Of course, the maps would be memorized and destroyed long before the first of Bane’s armies arrived.

The work proceeded at a brisk pace throughout the morning, but as the day wore on and the dalesmen worked the defenses back toward the town, they were forced to leave more and more men behind to guard their elaborate traps and ensure their proper deployment. With each man lost to man a trap or watch for advance scouts, the construction of new traps slowed down. But even the dalesmen left in the woods tried to be useful as they waited for the battle to begin. The archers, especially, took the time to learn the small part of the forest they would defend.

These archers, the first who would engage the enemy, spent hours learning every sound of the forest, becoming completely attuned to the intricate flow of nature. Any sound or scent that was out of the ordinary would be instantly detected. They rarely spoke, and instead practiced hand signals that would be used to relay word of the enemy approach, if the attack came during the day. Other measures, like signal lanterns, had been taken on the chance that the armies would arrive at night.

For now there was nothing to do but experience the elegance of nature as they waited.

Patiently.

As the day wore on, Kelemvor was sent to rally the many smiths who had been working for days hammering out shields, swords, daggers, and armor for those who would fight with nothing but their bare chests and their resolve if it were necessary. With the help of two assistants, the fighter supervised the loading of the weapons onto wagons. Then Kelemvor checked on the fletchers and wood carvers who were busy making arrows and bows for the archers.

At the crossroads outside of the Old Skull Inn, other preparations were being made. At Jhaele Silvermane’s farm and on the opposite side of the road slightly further east, at Sulcar Reedo’s farm, movable walls made of straw were being constructed to take the brunt of the attack from the Zhentish archers when they reached the town. The warehouse of Weregrund the Trader had been emptied. A small force of men would emerge from the warehouse when the Zhentilar began to fight at the crossroads, hopefully taking the enemy by surprise.

Mourngrym hand-picked the lookouts who would lay signal fires on Harper’s Hill and the Old Skull to herald the arrival of the enemy. Only men who had no families to mourn them, no wives to be made widows, were chosen for this task. Before he sent them to their posts, the dalelord checked to be sure they were properly outfitted and supplied should their wait be a long one.

The disbursement of supplies had started in the early hours of the day, but it was an endless task. Jhaele Silvermane and her workers had delivered rations of meat, sweetbreads, and fresh water to each group of men. They gathered tents and bedrolls, too, but these were distributed sporadically.

At the other side of the township, Cyric arrived at the Ashaba bridge and discovered the two-fold resentment of “his” men almost immediately. First, not one of the men had volunteered his assignment; each had desired to see the glory of battle at the front lines instead of guarding the bridge on the chance that a second force of soldiers would be sent to take Shadowdale from the west. Second, and most importantly, they resented taking orders from an outsider. It was a well-matched union, as Cyric despised having to give orders to what he considered a group of ill-mannered, loudmouthed cretins.

But before Cyric could even consider getting his troops organized, he had a large number of refugees to deal with.

The refugees had gathered by the river. The boats that would take them down to Mistledale had not yet arrived and Cyric ordered a handful of soldiers to see to the well-being of the old people and children as he tried to organize the work details. In time, he walked among the families and was struck by the wellspring of strength he found in their eyes.

Imbeciles, Cyric thought. Didn’t they understand that they would probably be leaving their homes forever? The thief found that he couldn’t help but toy with the idea Marek had placed in his head: turning and joining the enemy if there was no other option but death. After all, what did he owe these people? If it were not for Midnight, he would have left long ago.

The majority of the refugees were children, or those too infirm either by age or by disability to fight. They all stood and stared as the soldiers dug trenches at either end of the bridge. They knew that these men would likely die to defend homes they no longer lived in, but they knew, too, that running away would have killed most of the soldiers quicker than any Zhentish arrow or sword could.

But as the refugees watched, the men working at the bridge slowed their digging. Most of the men complained loudly, criticizing the dark-haired man who moved among them, barking orders with an ever-shortening temper.

Then a dozen men suddenly threw down their shovels and rose from the half-formed ditch they had toiled in for hours. The leader of the men, a giant of a man named Forester, called out to Cyric, who was busy digging with the soldiers at the other end of the bridge.

“Enough!” Forester screamed, the sweat matting his long, stringy hair to his face. “Our brothers stand ready to lay down their lives at the eastern border to protect the dale! I say we join them! How many are with me?”

The majority of the soldiers on Forester’s side of the bridge threw down their shovels at once and rallied behind the wild-haired fighter. Some of the soldiers on Cyric’s side of the bridge had yelled out their support for Forester’s plan, and threw down their shovels, too.

Cyric gripped the handle of his shovel and gritted his teeth. “Damn!” he hissed, and when he turned to rise from the ditch, he saw that all of the refugees were staring at him. His gaze locked on that of a young mother, who stood no more than twenty paces from Cyric, her eyes filled with concern not for her children, but for herself.

Thoughts of his own parents abandoning him as a baby came to Cyric as he averted his gaze and climbed out of the ditch. Forester and his men were already coming across the bridge, weapons drawn, when Cyric barred their way on the other side of the bridge. Although he would have been happy to let these men rush off to their deaths, he would not allow his authority to be questioned.

“Stand aside!” Forester called. “Else you’ll be entering the river without benefit of a ship beneath you!”

“Go back to work,” Cyric said coldly. “We have orders from Lord Mourngrym to secure this bridge.”

Forester laughed. “Secure it against what — the setting sun? The wind at our backs? The battle will be to the east. Move aside.”

Forester was closer now, and still Cyric did not move.

“You coward,” Cyric said.

Forester stopped suddenly. “Brave words from a corpse,” he said as he raised his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, but still, Cyric did not move or draw a weapon.

Cyric’s lips drew back. He pointed at the refugees. “Look there.”

The refugees stood huddled on the bank of the Ashaba. Fear glittered in the eyes of every one of them.

“You wish glory? You wish to lay down your worthless lives? Alright. But will you seek it at the cost of their lives?”

Forester’s blade wavered. The murmur of voices began to rise.

“Leave this place and who will protect them? Daggerdale is infested with Bane’s Zhentilar! Allow this bridge to fall and you deliver them and Shadowdale into the hands of the enemy!”

Cyric turned his back on Forester. “Stand with me and you stand with Shadowdale! How say you? How say all of you?”

Silence. Cyric waited for the blade of the giant to pierce his back.

“For Shadowdale,” a voice called.

“For Shadowdale!” more voices cried. Then a chorus of loud, angry voices picked up the call. Even the refugees joined in.

“For Shadowdale!” a voice called directly behind Cyric. He turned, and Forester raised his weapon high overhead as he chanted with the others.

“Aye,” Cyric said at last, and all fell silent. “For Shadowdale. Now get back to work.”

The efforts of the soldiers redoubled, and in the far distance Cyric saw the first of the ships that would carry the refugees to safety.

“For Shadowdale,” a woman said to the thief as she headed for a boat, her eyes positively aflame with Cyric’s words, tears streaming down her face. Cyric nodded, although he felt nothing but contempt for these weak-willed sheep who sought to hide behind their belief in their gods or their country to justify their actions rather than confront life head on. He turned from her as he took his place in the ditch, his patience for dreamers and cowards at an end.

He had convinced the others that staying behind was the correct choice.

Now all he had to do was convince himself.

As Cyric got the refugees loaded onto boats and on their way down the Ashaba, and drove his men on as they dug their trench at the bridge, Adon was cloistered in Elminster’s tower. After the cleric and the sage had returned from the Temple of Tymora early in the morning, Elminster set Adon to work in the cluttered antechamber that Lhaeo normally occupied.

“You are to find all references to the following names,” Elminster said. “Then study and learn the spells set forth by each of them in their lifetime. They are all contained in these volumes. Make lists that we might access them again.”

“But my spells fail me,” Adon said. “I don’t know —”

“Nor do I, but as the Realms depend on us all, I think now’s the time to find out, do you not agree?” Then the sage was gone, and the cleric poured over the tomes until Midnight arrived and they left for the temple.

By the time Adon, Midnight, and Elminster reached the Temple of Lathander, a purple haze was drifting across the evening sky, and it was already time for eveningfeast. The sage, the cleric, and the magic-user passed through a nearly empty town, though they could hear Cyric’s men digging to the west and the soldiers building fortifications to the east.

As they approached the building, Adon and Midnight could see that Lathander’s temple had been constructed in the form of a Phoenix, with huge stone wings rising up on either side of its gate. The wings curved and became turrets. In the center of the building there were huge double doors that had been left unattended, and Elminster rapped at them impatiently. A window opened three stories up, and a handsome, square-jawed man with wavy hair looked out.

“Elminster!” the cleric said in awe.

“I might still be by the time ye get thyself down here and open this door!”

The window snapped shut, and Elminster wandered away from the heavy doors. Midnight continued to harangue him about the temple, and the role she and Adon were to play in the battle.

“Simply remember what I taught ye and do as I’ve said!” Elminster said wearily.

“You’re treating us like children!” Midnight snapped. “After all we’ve been through, a simple explanation should not be out the question.”

Elminster sighed. “Ye wouldn’t mind if an old man rests his sorry frame while ye pound at him, would ye?”

Elminster sat down. It wasn’t until Midnight was halfway through her argument about the Tablets of Fate that she noticed he was sitting in midair and the air about him crackled with mystical energies.

Midnight stopped.

“A Celestial Stairway,” she said.

“Aye, like the one your lady Mystra used in her bid to regain the Planes.”

Midnight backed away in horror. “Then Bane…”

“He doesn’t want the dale,” Elminster said. “He wants the Planes.”

“But Helm will stop him, possibly slay him —”

“And Shadowdale will be reduced to a smoking pit, a black mark on the maps of travelers for all time.”

Adon ran his hands over his face. “Just like Castle Kilgrave. But what can we do?”

Elminster tapped at the air beside him. “Destroy the Celestial Stairway, of course!” He reached out to Midnight. “Help me up!”

Midnight assisted the sage to his feet. “How can we destroy that which the gods created?”

“Perhaps ye will tell me,” Elminster said. The door to the temple opened and the blond-haired man appeared. He was dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim.