Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  “So now what?” Midnight said.

  Thurbrand surveyed the travelers. “You have wounded. He should be taken care of first. And I imagine you haven’t eaten or slept for quite some time.”

  “But what about the assassins?” Kelemvor asked, anxiously cutting glances back to the gap.

  “We might as well wait for them,” Thurbrand said as he turned and signaled his men to approach. “No use in running away if they are that highly trained. It’ll be best to fight them on our own terms right here.”

  Midnight touched the bald man on the arm. “Why did you follow us?”

  Thurbrand turned, but didn’t say anything.

  “Why are you here?” Midnight said quietly.

  “My men will tend to the cleric, then we can talk,” Thurbrand said.

  “Damn you!” Kelemvor yelled. “What do you want with us?” Thurbrand’s men all drew their swords.

  Thurbrand frowned. “Did I forget to mention? You’re all wanted for questioning in Arabel. The charge is treason. Technically, you’re all under arrest.”

  The bald man motioned for his men to sheathe their weapons and walked away.

  * * * * *

  Bane was alone in the throne room with Blackthorne, who stood beside the room’s huge doors. An amber cloud filled the center of the room, and the image of a huge, mottled skull hung in the mist.

  “I am intrigued, Myrkul,” the Black Lord said as he paced back and forth. “As you have delighted in reminding me, our last collaboration was hardly a crashing success. Still, after my battle with Mystra, when I asked for your assistance, you all but laughed. I, on the other hand, am polite enough to answer your summons in the middle of the night.”

  “What is time to you or me?” Myrkul said. “Will you listen to my proposal?”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it!” Bane shouted impatiently, curling his hands into fists.

  Myrkul cleared his throat. “I believe we should unite once again. Your plan of bringing together the power of the gods has merit that I am only now able to fully appreciate.”

  “And why is that?” Bane asked wearily as he dragged himself to his throne and sat down, a yawn escaping from him. The amber cloud followed him. “Have you grown as tired as I have of spending your time in these hated bonds of flesh?”

  “That is one consideration,” Myrkul said. “I also know where you can find another Celestial Stairway. You need it to gain access to the Planes, do you not?”

  “Go on,” the Black Lord said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne.

  “You’ve told me of plans to invade the Dales. Did you know that a stairway lies just outside of the Temple of Lanthander in Shadowdale?”

  “Yes, Myrkul, I knew of the stairway,” Bane said. “But I appreciate your effort.”

  The Black Lord smiled. Though Myrkul’s news of the stairway’s presence in Shadowdale wasn’t new to Bane, its exact location in the town was. Of course, Bane never even considered letting the Lord of Bones know that he had uncovered information of some value.

  The ghostly skull closed its eyes. “How can I make up for my failings as an ally, Bane? I wish to help you in any way I can.”

  Bane raised one eyebrow and stood up. “You still refuse to take part in battle directly, so what help can you be?”

  “I still have some control over the dead. I can … draw off the power of a human’s soul when he dies.”

  Bane walked closer to the floating skull. “And could you give me that power?”

  The skull nodded slowly.

  Bane thought it over. Finally he spoke. “These are my conditions. You will collect the souls of all who die in battle and funnel their energies through me.”

  “And then?” Myrkul said.

  “You will stand ready to join me in the assault on the Planes. When the time comes to climb the stairway, you will be at my side. We will first send my followers who survive the battle to attack the God of Guardians. When Helm slays the humans, he will only feed my power, weaken himself, and hasten his own destruction.”

  The skull in the mist was expressionless. Finally Myrkul nodded. “Aye. Together we shall retake the Planes, and then, perhaps, usurp mighty Ao’s throne.”

  Bane raised his fist. “Not perhaps, Myrkul. We will destroy Lord Ao!”

  Then the amber cloud dissipated and Lord Myrkul was gone. Bane walked to the spot where last the skull had hovered. “As for you, Myrkul, we will be allies for as long as it proves convenient.”

  Bane laughed. The ceremonies Myrkul would have to perform to invest Bane with the power he had requested would exhaust the Lord of Bones and most of his high priests. When the time came to climb the stairway, Myrkul would be relying on Bane’s strength. He would not be expecting the betrayal Bane had planned.

  “Blackthorne!” Bane said. “Prepare my chambers.”

  The emissary hurried past the Black Lord.

  “I believe I’ll sleep quite well tonight.”

  “Kindly remove your foot from my face,” Thurbrand said and reached for his sword.

  It was just before morningfeast, and the bald man found himself being roused from a short nap by a series of kicks to the back. He was then greeted by the sight of Kelemvor’s boot looming over his skull.

  “Traitors? What’s this about the four of us, of all the beings who walk these Realms, being traitors?” Kelemvor shouted.

  “Suspected traitors,” Thurbrand said. “Now please remove your foot before I hack it off at the ankle!”

  Kelemvor stood back from the bald man. Thurbrand rose, and a symphony of moans and crackles sounded as he ironed the kinks from his back, neck, and shoulders. The adventurers and Thurbrand’s party were camped at the outskirts of Spiderhaunt Woods.

  “How are your companions, Kel?” Thurbrand said as he got up to get some food.

  “They live.”

  Thurbrand nodded. “And Midnight? Is she well? We have the matter of an outstanding debt—”

  Kelemvor’s sword left its sheath before Thurbrand could utter another word. “Consider it cancelled.”

  Thurbrand frowned. “I just want my hair back.”

  Kelemvor looked around the camp. The telltale skitter of his sword leaving its sheath had caught the attention of at least six men, who now stood with weapons to the fore, waiting for a word from their leader.

  “Oh,” Kelemvor said, and replaced the sword. “Is that all?”

  Thurbrand scratched his bald pate. “It’s enough,” he said. “Although my mistresses seem to like this look.”

  Kelemvor laughed, and sat beside Thurbrand as he ate. Cyric, who had been wakened by the argument, made his way to the fighters. He walked slowly, and his arms gleamed in the bright morning sunlight with dark bruises from the treacherous ride through Shadow Gap.

  “You look—” Kelemvor said as the thief approached.

  “Don’t say it,” Cyric said, and took a plate of food. “If you looked or felt the way I did, you’d be dead.”

  “You’re not,” Kelemvor said absently.

  “I’m not convinced,” Cyric said, running his hand through his matted hair. “Midnight? Adon?”

  “Adon’s still unconscious,” Kelemvor said.

  “Then he doesn’t know,” Cyric said, his voice low as he made a gesture with his hand across his face.

  Kelemvor shook his head.

  Cyric nodded, then turned and barked a command at one of Thurbrand’s men. The man looked to Thurbrand, who closed his eyes slowly and nodded. The man brought a warm mug of ale to Cyric, who downed the contents in one swift motion, then handed the mug back.

  “That’s better,” Cyric said, turning to Thurbrand. “Now, what’s this talk about traitors?”

  Thurbrand related the tale of Myrmeen Lhal’s battle with the attacker who had identified himself as Mikel, and Cyric laughed. “Marek never could come up with a decent alias.” he said.

  The bald man frowned and went on with his story. He told them of his meeting with Lhal and Evon
Stralana, and the party he’d been asked to arrange. “Naturally I insisted on leading the company myself,” Thurbrand said. “For a long time it’s been common knowledge that the Knightsbridge conspiracy originated in Zhentil Keep. When we learned of the band of Zhentish assassins who are tracking you, your innocence became somewhat obvious.”

  “You had doubts?” Kelemvor said.

  “You paid for false identification and a false charter, then left the city in disguise, running out on your contracts to serve and protect Arabel. Then this Mikel—or Marek—implicates you in the conspiracy. I believe you can see the obvious conclusions that were drawn.” Thurbrand grinned. “But of course, I had no doubts.”

  “So why didn’t you just turn around and go right back to Arabel?” Cyric said.

  Thurbrand frowned. “Once we learned what lay ahead for you, the only lawful decision was to blaze our way through the Shadow Gap and come to the aid of a former ally.”

  Kelemvor rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, please,” Cyric said. “There must be something you wanted.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Thurbrand said. “Besides the prompt return of my hair, there is a little job I could use a few good men for, back in Arabel …”

  “We have business in Shadowdale,” Kelemvor said.

  “And after that?”

  “Wherever the wind takes us, I suppose,” Cyric added.

  Thurbrand laughed. “There’s a hearty wind blowing in our direction. Perhaps we can arrange something at that!”

  “We’ll see what Midnight has to say,” Kelemvor said quietly.

  Cyric and Thurbrand stared at the fighter, then began to laugh as he rose and went to scavenge more food from the company’s cook. He didn’t notice that Adon was awake.

  The cleric had awoke at the sound of Myrmeen Lhal’s name, though it had been spoken all the way across camp. “By Sune, I’m cooked!” he said out loud. Adon realized he wasn’t alone when he heard a young girl’s laugh.

  A girl of no more than sixteen summers sat beside him, making indelicate slurping noises as she made her way through the huge bowl of gruel that rested in her lap. Her name, Adon soon discovered, was Gillian, and she had stringy brown hair and deeply tanned skin that was hard and dry. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her features were ordinary but not unattractive.

  “Ah!” she said. “You’re awake!” She set the bowl down, then lifted it and held it out to Adon. “Care for any?”

  Adon rubbed his forehead and suddenly remembered the attack of the gray-eyed man in Tilverton. He knew he’d been hit by the man’s dagger, then passed out. Still, he now felt rested and only a little weak.

  “I knew Sune would protect me,” he said, contented.

  The girl stared at him. “Care for any stew or not?”

  “Yes, please!” Adon said, any concerns he might have had about Myrmeen Lhal and her lackeys now vanquished by his hunger. As the cleric sat up, though, he felt a sharp tug along the left side of his face and a deep burning sensation. Something warm and wet rolled down his cheek. Odd, Adon thought. It isn’t unusually warm this early in the morning. I wonder why I’m should be sweating so. Then he looked at the girl.

  Gillian’s shoulders were drawn up tight, and her knees had ground together as she looked away from Adon.

  “What’s wrong?” the cleric said.

  “I’ll get the healer,” Gillian said and rose to her feet.

  Adon ran his hand across his face. The sweat was even worse. “I’m a healer. I’m a cleric in the service of Sune. Am I feverish?”

  Gillian glanced back at the cleric, then quickly looked away.

  “Please, what’s wrong?” Adon said, and reached for the girl. Then he saw that there was blood on his hand. It wasn’t sweat he had wiped from his face at all.

  Adon’s breathing slowed, and he felt as if a huge weight were pressing down on his chest. His skin grew cold. His head began to swim.

  “Give me your bowl,” he said.

  Gillian looked to the others in the camp and called out to one of them. Midnight saw that Adon was awake and jumped to her feet.

  “Give it to me!” Adon cried, and wrenched the bowl from her hands, spilling the contents to the ground. His hands were trembling as he shined the metal bowl with his sleeve, then raised it to his face and looked into the curved mirror.

  “No.”

  Gillian was no longer by his side. There were crashing footsteps. Midnight and a cleric wearing the symbol of Tymora stood before Adon.

  “It cannot be,” Adon said.

  The cleric of Tymora had been grinning from ear to ear when he approached, thankful that the young Sunite had risen from his sleep with no ill effects. Once he saw the expression on Adon’s face, though, his smile quickly faded.

  “Sune, please …,” Adon said.

  The muscles in the healer’s face tensed. He suddenly understood. “We did what we could,” he said somberly.

  Midnight put her hand on Adon’s shoulder and looked at Cyric and Kelemvor, who were sitting together across the camp.

  Adon said nothing. He simply stared at his reflection.

  “We are too far from Arabel and the goddess Tymora for healing magic to work,” the cleric continued. “There were no potions. We had to rely on the salves and natural medications I could create.”

  The rim of the thin metal bowl began to curl in Adon’s grip.

  “What’s important is that you’re alive, and perhaps one of your own faith will be able to help you where we could not.”

  The metal twisted.

  “You must let me examine you. You’re bleeding again. You’ve torn the stitches.”

  Midnight reached down and took the bowl from Adon’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  The healer bent low, toweling away the blood from Adon’s face. The damage was not as bad as he had feared, though, as only a few of the stitches had been torn. As the cleric looked at the scar, he wished they’d been in a city when he found the Sunite. At least he could have made a cleaner job of the stitching with the proper tools.

  Adon’s fingers traced the darkening scar, following it from his left eye, down over his cheekbone, and through the center of his cheek. The ragged cut ended at the base of the cleric’s jaw.

  * * * * *

  Later that morning, as the adventurers broke camp, Cyric got into an argument with Brion, a young thief in Thurbrand’s company.

  “Of course I understand what you’re saying!” Cyric shouted at the albino. “But how can you deny the evidence of your own senses?”

  “I gazed upon the face of the goddess Tymora herself,” Brion said. “That’s all the evidence I need. The gods are now visiting the Realms to spread their sacred word first hand.”

  “Aye, pay your money and step right up,” Cyric said. “Perhaps your goddess will start telling fortunes next.”

  “All I’m saying—”

  “Dullard! I heard you the first time,” Cyric yelled.

  “Contributions are always necessary—”

  “A necessary evil, you mean.” Cyric shook his head and looked away from Brion.

  “It must be terribly lonely not believing in anything but yourself,” Brion said. “My belief makes me whole.”

  Cyric trembled with rage, then gained control of his emotions. He knew that Brion had not intentionally provoked him, but the dark-haired, lean fighter had been unusually edgy since he woke that morning. Perhaps it was the sadness that hung over the camp because of Adon’s wound, but a part of him wanted to charge into the mountains once more and let fate throw any monstrosity it could imagine at him. Even Spiderhaunt Woods felt vaguely tempting, although Cyric knew that the only catharsis he would likely find in that place was death.

  There was a sound in the distance, and the earth beneath the adventurers shuddered. Cyric saw huge crystalline shards sliding from the face of the glass ridges that had positioned themselves across the road to Shadowdale.

  “Merciful Tymora,” Brion sai
d as the massive glass boulders shattered and sent rainbows across the land as they reflected the sunlight.

  Then, without warning, a glossy black spear, the size of a small tree, shot out of the earth next to Cyric. The thief was knocked to the ground, but quickly got up and grabbed his horse. All around the plain, similar jagged ebon spears thrust up through the dirt and towered a dozen feet into the morning sky.

  “Time to leave,” Kelemvor said to Thurbrand, and the two men ran for their mounts. “It looks like we’re going through the woods after all.”

  Thurbrand surged through his company, rallying his people and hurrying them toward the woods. Before they could get away, though, two of his men were impaled by the spikes, and three horses were gutted. The only remaining members of the company bolted into the darkness of the Spiderhaunt Woods. Spears continued to shatter the plain, and huge avalanches of glass fell from the mountains to the northeast.

  As she got close to the woods, Midnight discovered that Adon was missing. As she scanned the plain from the edge of the woods, she saw the cleric’s riderless mount racing amidst the spears. Midnight charged toward the renegade animal and caught up with it in the center of the plain.

  A figure was moving slowly through the clouds of dirt, approaching the horse.

  “Adon, is that you?” Midnight called.

  The cleric took his time as he mounted the horse and led it away from the deadly plain at a leisurely pace. He reigned the animal in when it tried to bolt, and if he heard Midnight’s words or saw her frantic gestures, he ignored them. But when Adon didn’t react, even as a spike shot from the ground a few feet away from him, Midnight moved beside the cleric and slapped the hind quarters of his mount with all her strength. The horse galloped toward the woods and relative safety. Adon didn’t cry out or even lurch forward as the horse ran. He merely dug his fingers into the horse’s mane, his legs into its flank, and hung on.

  Kelemvor waited at the perimeter of the woods. All but a few of Thurbrand’s people had vanished within, and the last of the riders joined their allies in the darkened recesses of Spiderhaunt Woods.