Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  “There may be some resentment on the part of his troops, Lord Bane. He is seen as having failed the city—”

  “But he hasn’t failed me!” Bane said. “Not yet, anyway. Go about your duty and do not question me again.”

  Blackthorne lowered his eyes.

  “Deliver my word on this matter personally,” Bane said. “While you are there, survey the readiness of our troops and the hiring of mercenaries.”

  “How should I travel, Lord Bane?”

  “Use the emissary spell, you fool. That is why I taught it to you.”

  Blackthorne waited.

  “You may go,” Bane said.

  Blackthorne frowned as he spread his arms wide and recited the emissary spell. The mage knew that, with the instability of magic in the Realms, it was only a matter of time before the spell failed. He might be struck in the form of a raven or changed into something far worse. It could even kill him. But as the magic-user finished the spell, he was transformed into a large raven that sailed at the wall then vanished. This time the spell worked as planned.

  Alone in the chamber, Bane found that he had much to think about.

  * * * * *

  Ronglath Knightsbridge thrust his sword into the floor, then knelt down on one knee before it. He lowered his head and gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands. He had been given private quarters in the Citadel of the Raven, despite the recent overcrowding. When he ate his meals, no one else sat at his table. When he trained with his sword or mace, only his trainer arrived for the sessions. At most times, he was left completely alone.

  Knightsbridge was just past forty winters, with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, azure eyes, a moustache, and deeply pitted, sunburned skin. His features were strong and distinctive. He was almost six feet tall, with a very impressive build.

  All of his life he had served Zhentil Keep, but now he was in disgrace, and would have gladly taken his own life, but for the interference of Tempus Blackthorne.

  Blackthorne, because of his well-meaning sentiments of friendship and loyalty, had damned Knightsbridge to a far greater punishment than death would have afforded him. Knightsbridge turned those thoughts away.

  He had others to direct his hate against. There was the wizard Sememmon, for instance, who addressed Knightsbridge as “the chosen” and laughed at the spy, taunting him before the others whenever possible. Knightsbridge knew that the wizard resented the tie he had to Bane through Blackthorne. If only the wizard knew how greatly Knightsbridge desired to sever the bond himself, he would have laughed at the irony.

  Then there was the man who was truly responsible for all that Knightsbridge faced: Kelemvor Lyonsbane.

  If it had not been for the interference of the fighter, Knightsbridge would not have been found out, and the torments he had undergone would never have occurred. If not for Kelemvor, his plan to disgrace the city of Arabel might have succeeded.

  Knightsbridge clutched the hilt of the sword tightly, until his knuckles became white. Suddenly he threw his head back and released a scream of rage that echoed through the passageways of the fortress he had been assigned to serve in. The scream had been the first sound Knightsbridge had uttered since he came to the citadel.

  No one knocked upon the door to see if he was hurt. No one came running, as they should at an officer’s cry.

  The echoes of the scream faded away, and Knightsbridge heard a sound behind him.

  “Ronglath,” Tempus Blackthorne said. “I bring word from Lord Bane.”

  Knightsbridge stood and yanked the sword from the floor. He said nothing as Blackthorne relayed the Black Lord’s message.

  “Come with me, and we will make the announcement together!” Blackthorne said, oblivious to the searing hatred in the eyes of his childhood friend. “You will march from the citadel to the ruins of Teshwave, where mercenaries wait to join our ranks. The armies will gather at Voonlar, to await the signal to attack the dale. Of course, there are other troops being sent in different directions, but you will not have to concern yourself with that.”

  Knightsbridge felt his hand shake. The sword had not yet found its sheath.

  “Kelemvor,” Knightsbridge said, testing the sound of his own voice as he sheathed his sword and followed the emissary out of the room.

  Blackthorne turned. “What did you say?”

  Knightsbridge cleared his throat. “A debt I must settle,” he said. “I pray I get the chance.”

  Blackthorne nodded, and he led the spy to the assembly hall, where a crowd had already begun to gather. Knightsbridge looked out into the sea of faces, and hope began to flicker in his heart.

  I can redeem myself in this battle, Knightsbridge thought. And then I will have my revenge.

  Kelemvor worked long into the night to finish the cart for transporting Cyric. And though he was in pain, the fighter ignored the pain of his own wounds. They were not serious enough to keep him from his task, and he wanted to leave for Tilverton at first light. When he was certain that the modified wagon would perform satisfactorily, Kelemvor lay beside it and fell into a deep sleep.

  Midnight sat with Cyric, keeping watch as Kelemvor and Adon slept.

  “You stayed with me,” Cyric said. “I didn’t believe you would.”

  “Why do you think I’d abandon you?” Midnight asked with genuine concern.

  A moment passed before Cyric spoke, as if he were attempting to gather his words and arrange them in just the right order. “You’re the first person who hasn’t abandoned me,” he said. “In one way or another. It’s what I expect.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Midnight said. “Your family—”

  “I have none,” Cyric said.

  “None that are living?” Midnight asked gently.

  “None at all,” Cyric said with a degree of bitterness that surprised Midnight. “I was orphaned in Zhentil Keep as a baby. Slavers found me in the street, and a wealthy family from Sembia bought me and raised me as their own until I was ten. I heard them arguing one night, as parents often do. But the subject of this fight was not their dissatisfaction with one another, but their shame over me.

  “One of our neighbors had learned the truth about me, and my ‘parents’ felt nothing but humiliation over their dark secret. I confronted them, threatened to leave if I was such an embarrassment.” Cyric’s eyes narrowed as his lips pulled back in a cruel, wicked smile. “They didn’t stop me. It was a long journey back to Zhentil Keep. I almost died several times. But I learned.”

  Midnight brushed the hair from his brow. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to go on.”

  “But I want to!” Cyric said savagely. “I learned that you do what you must to survive, even if it means taking from others. I arrived in that black pit known as Zhentil Keep, where I attempted to learn something of my past. But of course there were no answers to be found. I became a thief, and my actions soon gained me the attentions of the Thieves’ Guild. Marek, the leader, took me in and taught me all the skills of the trade. I was a quick study.

  “For a long time I did whatever Marek told me to do. I was anxious to please that black-hearted rogue. It took me many years to realize that it was taking more and more to get that treasured, tiny nod of approval from him.

  “Then, when I was sixteen and Marek’s attentions turned to a new recruit, who was the same age as I had been when he first took me from the streets, I realized that I had been used yet again and planned to leave. When my plans became known, the Guild put a price on my head. No one would help me as I attempted to escape Zhentil Keep. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; the people I had regarded as allies no longer had a use for me. I wouldn’t have made it out of the city at all if it weren’t for my talent with a blade. It was quite refined, even then. The streets ran red with blood the night I left.”

  Midnight lowered her head. “Then what happened?”

  “I spent eight years on the road, using my skills to indulge the one passion I had cultivated since I had been a boy: trave
l. But wherever I would go, people were the same. Poverty and inequality were as widespread as luxury and splendor. I had hoped to find fellowship and equality; instead I found pettiness and exploitation. Somehow I thought I would escape the betrayals of my youth and find a place where honesty and decency prevailed, but no such place exists. Not in this life.”

  Midnight hung her head. “I’m sorry for your pain.”

  Cyric shrugged. “Life is pain. I’ve come to accept that. But don’t pity me just because my vision is clearer than yours. Pity yourself. You’ll wake to the truth soon enough.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s just that there’s so much you haven’t seen, Cyric. You’ve been cheated out of so many of the joys life has to offer.”

  “Really?” the thief said. “Love and laughter, you mean? A good woman, perhaps?” Cyric laughed. “Romance is a lie, too.”

  Midnight brushed the hair from her face. “And why do you say that?”

  “I was twenty-four when I realized that my life had no direction, no real meaning. I returned to Zhentil Keep, and this time my efforts to find my roots met with some limited success. I was told that my mother had been young and madly in love with an officer in the Zhentilar. When she became pregnant, he cast her out, claiming the child was not his. She fell in with the poor and homeless, who cared for her until I was born. Then my father returned and murdered her and sold me for a healthy profit. Quite a fairy tale romance, wouldn’t you say?”

  Midnight said nothing as she sat, staring at the fire.

  “I heard other versions of the story, but that’s the one I believe to be true. It was a beggar women who claimed to have befriended my mother who told me this tale, but she could not give me the name of the man who had sired me, nor could she tell me what had befallen him. A shame, really. I was looking forward to having a nice long talk with the man before I slit his throat.

  “Eventually, Marek and the Guild offered to take me in again, but I refused. The refusal was not accepted, and I was forced to flee the city once more. When I was gone from Zhentil Keep, though, I felt as if I was leaving the past behind. I attempted to start over, and I adopted the life of a fighter. But my past always catches up to me and forces me to move on. With Mystra’s reward I had hoped to travel far, perhaps across the desert. I don’t really know where—just someplace where I could find some peace.”

  Midnight let out a deep breath.

  Cyric laughed. “Now we know each others secrets, and you no longer have reason to be afraid.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Midnight said, attempting to hide her concern. “What secrets of mine do you know?”

  “Only one, Ariel,” Cyric said.

  “You heard my true name—”

  “I didn’t try to find it out,” he said. “If I could forget it, I would, although it is a beautiful name.” Cyric swallowed hard. “No one alive knows all that I have told you. If you wished to ruin me, I couldn’t stop you. Inform the Guild of my whereabouts and I’m a dead man.”

  Midnight caressed his face. “I wouldn’t think of it,” she said. “Secrets are always safe between friends.”

  Cyric tilted his head. “Is that what we are, friends?”

  Midnight nodded.

  “How interesting,” Cyric said. “Friends.”

  Cyric and Midnight talked long into the night, and when it came Adon’s turn to take the watch, Midnight didn’t wake him.

  By morning, after Kelemvor relieved Midnight of the watch and Cyric had a chance to sleep, the pain from the thief’s wound had lessened enough for him to sit up. Cyric even had the strength to eat with the others, although there was nothing more than a few sweetbreads to be had.

  After morningfeast, Cyric asked Midnight to bring his bow, and he instructed her on its proper use. Midnight took aim at a large bird that had hovered over the party since morningfeast began. Cyric’s instincts combined with Midnight’s great strength brought the black bird down, and they roasted its carcass after Adon retrieved the fallen creature.

  After a night’s rest, Adon’s hearing returned to some degree. The first sign of progress came when the cleric no longer required a slight blow from Kelemvor’s steel-plated elbow to realize that he was shouting in the fighter’s ear instead of speaking at a normal level. And Adon’s loss of hearing in no way stopped him from talking, Now, though, he strained to hear himself when he voiced his flowery opinions, as if he could not risk the utter damnation that would certainly follow if his important statements about the righteous path of Sune were not said with the proper timbre and volume.

  After the adventurers finished off the roast bird, they packed their belongings and mounted the two remaining horses. Kelemvor was again subjected to Adon’s company, and the cart the fighter had built was lashed to Midnight’s mount.

  The ride was surprisingly comfortable for the wounded thief, despite the sweaty, leathery embrace of the stretcher. Cyric met with only an occasionally bump, until late morning, when one of the cart’s wheels was shattered on a huge stone in the road and couldn’t be repaired. Kelemvor was forced to cut the assembly free and toss it to the side of the road. Cyric rode with Midnight for the remainder of the journey.

  A storm had been on the horizon when the heroes first spotted the gates of Tilverton, and the threat of bad weather had hung above their heads ever since. Steel-gray skies stood behind ominous black clouds. Tiny flashes of lightning were visible in the distance all morning, and the roar of far-off thunder drifted across the plains.

  A few hours later, they reached the town of Tilverton and were promptly stopped by a group of men wearing white tunics with the insignia of the Purple Dragon. The men seemed tired but alert, and they were filthy. Six crossbows had been readied and aimed at the adventurers even before the leader of the Cormyrian patrol asked to see their charter. Kelemvor found the false charter Adon had bought back in Arabel and offered it to the captain. The patrol leader examined the charter, handed it back, and waived them on. They rode past the patrol, and entered the town without incident.

  The adventurers rode into Tilverton tired and without humor. The hour of highsun was upon them, and their stomachs growled like beasts searching for release. Cyric was exhausted from the trip, and as the heroes stopped in front of an inn, the thief tried to get down from Midnight’s horse. He got to the ground, but fell back into the red-maned beast with a grunt. His second attempt to walk was only slightly more successful, and he got two steps from the mount, but could go no further.

  Midnight dismounted and threw one of the thief’s arms around her neck. The magic-user was taller than the thin, dark-haired man, and she had to crouch slightly as she helped Cyric stumble into the inn. Kelemvor and Adon rode in behind Midnight. The cleric, whose hearing had returned to normal, immediately rushed to help Midnight, but the fighter dismounted and led both horses to the stables behind the gray stone inn.

  The sign above the door identified the inn as the Flagon Held High. As Midnight and Adon struggled to reach the door handle, they noticed a young man with pale gray eyes sitting in the shadows beside the door.

  “Your assistance if you would,” Midnight said as she tried to get a better grip on the sagging thief.

  The young man continued to stare directly ahead, ignoring the magic-user’s request.

  Now, a dirty brown rain started to fall on the city. Midnight struggled with the door, and with Adon’s help, the mage dragged Cyric inside. Kicking the door of the inn shut behind her, Midnight helped Cyric to a wooden chair beside the door. At first she thought the inn was deserted, and then she saw a flickering light and heard voices in one of the dining rooms. She called out, but her requests for assistance went unanswered.

  “Damn,” she hissed. “Adon, you stay here with Cyric.” Midnight went off in search of the innkeeper.

  As she entered the common room, Midnight saw that it was crowded. Men were scattered throughout the room. Some appeared to be soldiers, bearing the coat of arms of the Purple Dragons. A few had been
wounded, although their wounds had been bound. Others appeared to be only civilians. All seemed sullen and withdrawn.

  “Where is the innkeep and his help?” Midnight asked the closest soldier.

  “Off to pray, I suppose,” the man said. “It’s about that time.”

  “It’s always about that time,” another men said, nursing his drink.

  “I don’t understand,” Midnight said. “No one is here to tend the inn?”

  The soldier shrugged. “There may be a guest or two upstairs. I don’t know.” Midnight turned away, but the soldier continued to speak. “You can just take what you need. No one will care.”

  Midnight walked away from the common room, shaking her head. She returned to the foyer of the inn, where Adon was standing beside Cyric.

  “Where’s Kel?” she said. Adon shrugged and looked back to the door, holding his hands up in confusion.

  Midnight cursed again and ran from the inn. She saw Kelemvor’s back at the far end of the street, and she called to him. “Where are you going? You owe me!”

  The fighter stopped and lowered his head. What I owe you is to get out of your life, Kelemvor thought. There are too many secrets between us, too many questions that you would not like the answers to.

  But he chose not to tell Midnight any of this. Instead, the fighter barked, “The debt will be paid!” then continued on his way.

  Midnight stood trembling for a moment, then she returned to the inn and sat beside Cyric.

  “Perhaps he needs time,” Adon said, slightly louder than he should have.

  “He can have a lifetime,” Midnight said, her harsh expression falling away as the door opened and she rose to her feet. A white-haired man who had seen more than fifty winters stood in the doorway, his expression cold as he looked to the travelers. He walked by them to a small antechamber and vanished, ignoring Midnight’s attempts to get his attention. When he emerged from the room, stinking of some foul liquor, he was surprised that the travelers were still there.