Cyric was about to speak when he heard the soft padding of footsteps. Someone was leaping from boat to boat, carefully avoiding the dock where his footfalls would give him away. “What do you think of this boat?” Cyric said as he made an exaggerated motion with his right hand, hoping to draw attention away from the quicksilver motion of his left hand as he drew out one of his daggers. Suddenly the thief whirled on the intruder.
Midnight grabbed Cyric’s hand before the dagger could fly. One of the torches on the tower flared, and the heroes found themselves gazing into the searing green eyes of Elminster’s scribe, Lhaeo. Midnight softly breathed his name, and the brown-haired young man gracefully leaped from the bow of a nearby boat to the dock. A huge sack was slung over the scribe’s shoulder, but he carried it without effort. An elegant black cloak hung rather loosely around his shoulders.
“What do you want here?” Cyric hissed, suspicion burning in his eyes. The thief held his dagger pointed toward Elminster’s servant.
“I’m not about to give you away, if that’s what you mean,” Lhaeo whispered, then carefully set his canvas bag down on the dock. “Do you have any idea how annoyed Elminster will be if the first thing he learns upon returning home is that you’ve been executed for his murder?”
“But we saw Elminster die, Lhaeo,” Midnight said, hanging her head. “He was drawn into that horrible rift.” Adon winced slightly, but the cleric didn’t speak. He just stared at the boat, slowly bobbing in the water.
Lhaeo rubbed his chin. “I don’t believe it,” the scribe said as he opened his sack. “Elminster’s disappeared before-many times, in fact. I would know … somehow … if he were truly gone.”
“If you’re not going to stop us, then what do you want?” Cyric growled quietly. He continued to point his knife toward the scribe. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Lhaeo frowned and pushed Cyric’s dagger aside as he approached Midnight. “I’m here to help you. It’s the least I can do after the trial.”
The scribe gestured for Midnight to look into the sack. “Your spellbook is here, along with some provisions for your journey.” Lhaeo reached into the bag and withdrew a beautiful orb that glowed with an amber light. Strange runes had been wrought in the surface of the glass, and a golden base, marked with intricate designs that were covered with fine, sparkling diamond dust, had been added since the last time Midnight had seen the orb in Elminster’s study.
“Do you remember this?” Lhaeo said as he held the sphere toward Midnight. A slight smile played across the scribe’s face.
“Aye,” Midnight said as she reached out to stroke the glowing sphere. “The globe was made to shatter if any powerful magical object comes within its range.”
“This should help you find the Tablets of Fate,” Lhaeo said quietly and put the globe back into the bag.
Midnight and Cyric looked shocked, but Lhaeo continued to smile. “There is little Elminster keeps hidden from me. He even told me that the first tablet is in Tantras.”
“We have to go,” Cyric hissed to Midnight. “You can go through your bag of gifts later.” The thief grabbed Adon and moved toward the boat.
“One last thing,” the scribe whispered as he removed another, smaller bag from his shoulder and handed it to the magic-user. She opened it and saw a metal vial.
“The mists of rapture,” Lhaeo said. “Perfect for disabling a large group of guardsmen without causing lasting harm.” Cyric pushed Adon into the boat and started to untie the skiff’s moorings.
“You were going to try to rescue us yourself!” Midnight gasped. Adon looked up from the boat, and for an instant, his gaze seemed to focus on the scribe.
“Oh, perish the thought!” Lhaeo whispered and turned away with mock indignation.
Midnight grabbed Lhaeo by the shoulder and spun him around. The scribe’s expression was serious, almost hard, as he gazed into the mage’s eyes. “Why?” she said. “The townspeople would kill you if they found out.”
Lhaeo stood up straight, and his voice deepened slightly. “I could not allow you to be injured. I could not condone such a travesty of justice, milady.” The scribe took Midnight’s hand and kissed it. “Elminster trusted you to help him at the temple. You must be worthy of that trust.”
Cyric looked up sharply. “Midnight, I might just leave you here with him to face Mourngrym if you don’t hurry!”
“He’s right,” Lhaeo said softly. “You must go.”
Midnight climbed into the boat. Lhaeo helped Cyric release the boat from its remaining moorings, and the scribe pushed the craft away from the dock. Then Lhaeo stood on the pier and waved once before disappearing into the darkness.
Cyric manned the oars at the center of the boat, his back turned to Midnight. As he rowed, the thief was forced to stare into the vacant eyes of the scarred cleric, who always seemed to avoid Cyric’s angry stares. Utilizing the handover-hand method of rowing he had been taught during his years of traveling, Cyric started the boat moving, but, much to his surprise, not very quickly.
“What’s going on here?” the thief cursed as he looked into the water. “Are we caught on something?” As he dropped his hand into the cold water of the Ashaba, Cyric realized what was wrong. The current was traveling in the wrong direction, forcing him to paddle against the flow of the river, even though they were moving downstream, away from Shadowdale.
Cyric cursed and slapped an oar against the water. A small wave sloshed into the boat, soaking Adon and Midnight. The mage cried out in surprise, but the cleric just sat there, letting his wet tunic hang on his slouched shoulders.
Cyric looked at Adon and cursed again. “This lump is only so much ballast,” he sneered and flicked water into Adon’s eyes. “All he’ll be good for on this trip is making the rowing harder.”
The hawk-nosed thief started to row again, and Midnight used a cloak to dab some of the water from Adon’s face. “I know you can hear me, Adon,” the mage whispered. “I still care. I won’t let you get hurt.”
When Adon failed to respond, Midnight frowned and wiped more water away from the cleric’s face. She didn’t notice the salty tears mixed with the cold drops from the Ashaba.
* * * * *
Kelemvor had stood in the windy courtyard much of the night. Sleep had been out of the question. Besides, the fighter had not been alone. Guards had been stationed to watch over the courtyard of Midnight and Adon’s executions, and a small crowd of rowdy gawkers had decided to keep an all-night vigil. Watching the dalesmen laugh and make disgusting jokes about the event scheduled to occur at first light made Kelemvor sick at heart. The festive atmosphere that pervaded the killing grounds was horribly out of place.
The fires of Kelemvor’s anger were fanned into a blaze of rage as workmen arrived at the courtyard and began to assemble a complex stage for the executions. The spectators had evidently been taken into prime consideration in the design of the stage. It was composed of two circular platforms that moved like opposing gears, constructed to display the victims for all who cared to see them. Columns jutted from the center of the platforms, with crude, metal hooks where wrists and ankles would be bound. There was a circular opening, not unlike the knot of a tree, midway down each column. Kelemvor realized with a shiver that the executioner’s spikes would be driven through the holes, and into the bodies of the condemned—his former allies. It would be a slow, horrible death.
Kelemvor wasn’t sure what he planned to do when the time for the execution actually arrived. He felt that he had to atone somehow for his failure to help Midnight at the trial. Still, the evidence given against Midnight and Adon at the trial had been so conclusive that the fighter was not even convinced that his friends were really innocent. It certainly was possible that Midnight had lost control of the powerful magic she wielded and accidentally caused Elminster’s death. Kelemvor simply couldn’t decide.
The first hint of dawn played across the horizon as a band of reddish gray light appeared in the dista
nce. Kelemvor found himself standing beside a pair of guardsmen who struggled to hold back their yawns.
Suddenly a series of alarm gongs sounded from the Twisted Tower, and the guards shook themselves to battle readiness in a matter of seconds.
“The prisoners!” someone shouted from the tower. “They’ve escaped!”
“Kelemvor, come on!” one of the guards, an obese young man, shouted as he headed for the Twisted Tower. “We need every man we can get!”
The dalesmen still think of me as one of them, Kelemvor realized as he followed the guards to the main entrance of the tower and was admitted without a second glance, even though the irate villagers were held back. The door leading to the dungeon stood open, and Kelemvor and the overweight guard raced to the landing. From there, they saw a congregation of dalesmen in the cavernous chamber. Forcing his way through the crowd, Kelemvor stopped abruptly as he saw the solemn faces of Lord Mourngrym and Thurbal.
The reason for their distress sat propped upon a small stool at the head of the corridor leading to the holding cells. Kelemvor studied the wide-eyed expression of total bliss that graced the dead man’s features, then looked down to see the hilt of the man’s short sword protruding from his neck. The blade had been driven through the man with such force that the tip had pierced the mortar of the wall behind him, pinning the dead guard in place.
“Who killed him?” Kelemvor growled. His words broke the silence on the landing, and everyone turned to him.
“He killed himself,” a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “When I came to relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that was big, about Forester’s size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent.”
The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story. “He said this man came down the back stairway and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym.” The redheaded guard paused for a second, then started rocking again. “When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own throat, right where the mark was! That’s just how it happened. I swear!”
The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than the rest.
“I saw it!” a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. “I saw it all!”
Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.
“Cover him,” Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon’s-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close behind.
“What did you see?” Mourngrym said.
“Not so fast!” the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. “What’s in it for me?”
Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner’s hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted iron bars. Mourngrym’s sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man’s wrist.
“You get to keep your hand,” Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner’s other hand before he could gouge Mourngrym’s face. “Speak quickly, or I’ll take you apart, starting with this hand!”
The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous night.
“Cyric,” Kelemvor said, hanging his head. “It must have been Cyric!”
There was a hoarse shout from the top of the stairs. “More bodies up here! Forester is dead!”
“Come with me,” Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he expected trouble at any second. The guard’s pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym’s coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the bottom of the red curtain. Forester’s body had been left in the space directly behind Mourngrym’s throne.
“Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain,” the bald guard mumbled softly.
The dalelord shook with anger. “Search the tower!” Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. “I want to know who else is … missing.”
Within the hour, Cyric’s movements had been mapped out, and the missing boat was discovered. Mourngrym was suspicious of the guardsman at the bridge. The bodies of Segert and Marcreg had been discovered near his post. The guard was led away to the dungeon for interrogation.
“Does this look like the work of your friend?” Mourngrym said as he crouched over Segert’s body. He exposed the wound on the corpse’s neck for emphasis.
“He was not a friend,” Kelemvor said as he surveyed the corpse’s wounds. “And, yes, it looks like Cyric’s work.”
There were shouts from the kitchen, and Kelemvor accompanied the dalelord back into the tower, to the kitchen. They found the cook pointing at the stairs that led to the storage room. The body of the young guard-in-training had been placed on a hook and dangled beside a number of butchered slabs of meat. Smears of chocolate and cherry still covered the lad’s ashen face.
“Come with me,” Mourngrym said, but Kelemvor remained standing at the door, staring at the young man’s corpse. The dalelord gently put his hand on the fighter’s shoulder and turned him away from the body. “We need to talk,” Mourngrym said softly as he led Kelemvor to his private audience chamber.
The two men climbed a set of stairs. At the first landing, the dalelord unlocked a large oaken door and ushered Kelemvor into the room. Mourngrym’s audience chamber was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of dark wooden furniture scattered about the room and brightly colored tapestries on the walls. A single, small opening admitted the weak morning sunlight from outside the tower.
The dalelord collapsed into a chair and started to wring his hands. “I need someone to find them, Kelemvor. Someone who is loyal to the causes of the Dales—freedom, justice, honor—and someone who knows how to find the butchers who did this to my men.” Mourngrym stopped speaking, but he continued to wring his hands.
Kelemvor was too distraught to answer. Midnight, Cyric, and Adon had played him for a fool all along. That was the only thing that could explain their leaving the dale without him. Perhaps they were murderers after all.
“Your service in the cause of the Dales was exemplary,” Mourngrym said after a moment. “You are a good man, Kel. I believe you have been deceived.” The dalelord stopped wringing his hands and stood up.
“Aye,” Kelemvor said as he ran his hands through his hair. The fighter sat down in a large, high-backed chair across from the dalelord. “That may be so.”
“You spent time with them,” Mourngrym said as he moved to the fighter’s side. “You know how they think. You may have some idea where they’ve gone.”
“I may,” Kelemvor mumbled.
Mourngrym paused for a moment, then put his hand on Kelemvor’s shoulder. “I want you to track down the criminals and return them to Shadowdale. I will give you a dozen men, including a guide who knows the forest.”
“The forest? But they left by boat,” Kelemvor said, confusion showing on his face.
“They have a considerable head start. The only way to overcome their lead is by land,” Mourngrym said with a sigh. “Will you do it?”
Kelemvor roughly brushed the dalelord’s hand from his shoulder and stood up. But before the fighter could speak, the door to the chamber suddenly burst open and Lhaeo stumbled into the room. “Lord Mourngrym, your forgiveness!” the scribe said and fell to his knees before the ruler of the dale. “I did not know! I believed in their innocence! But they have spilled innocent blood and soaked my hands in it!”
“Slow down,” Mourngrym said as he reached down and grabbed Lhaeo’s shoulders. “Tell us everything.
”
Elminster’s faithful scribe sighed and looked up into Mourngrym’s eyes. “As I said at the trial, I thought Elminster was alive. I—I went to the tower, thinking to help the magic-user and the cleric escape before they were executed.… But Cyric had already done that.” Lhaeo bowed his head again and covered his face with his hands. “I let them get away—No. I helped them get away. I gave Midnight her spellbook … and some other things.”
Mourngrym frowned and turned to Kelemvor. The fighter stood silently over the scribe, his face devoid of all emotion.
“I should have realized that the guard inside the tower was dead,” Lhaeo snapped, suddenly angry. “Someone should have seen us and sounded the alarm. I never thought that they …” The scribe shuddered and looked up at Kelemvor. “I can never forgive myself for what has occurred!”
Mourngrym tried to remain calm, but anger marched across his features like a rampaging army. “The killings occurred before you arrived, Lhaeo. You must not blame yourself.”
Lhaeo swallowed and bowed his head again. “You must place me under arrest.”
Mourngrym stepped back from the scribe. “Consider yourself under house arrest,” Mourngrym said flatly. “Do not leave Elminster’s Tower unless it is to procure food and drink for yourself. That is my final word.”
The scribe lifted himself from the floor, bowed before his liege, and turned to leave. “One other thing,” Mourngrym snapped before Lhaeo could leave. “Do you know where the criminals were headed when they left?”
The scribe turned. Kelemvor could see that his face was white, and anger clouded his eyes. “Yes,” Lhaeo said through partially clenched teeth. “They are going to Tantras.”
Mourngrym nodded, but Kelemvor held up his hand. “Wait, Lhaeo. You just said that you thought Elminster was alive. Don’t you believe that anymore? Do you think that Midnight and Adon … murdered him?”
Shoulders drawn tight, the scribe stood up straight. His voice was barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. “After what they did in the tower, I believe they are cold-blooded killers. Worse still, they have fooled good men—like Elminster. Like you, Kelemvor. They must be brought to justice!”
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