No children, Adon noted thankfully. The guard beside Adon became ill, and fell to his knees. When he rose, he found the young cleric moving through the rows of benches and the tiers of the platformed altar. Adon was removing the dead from the horrible positions their attackers had left them in, and was laying them out upon the floor. Then he tore the silk curtains from behind the altar and covered the bodies as best he could. The guard moved to his side, knees trembling. There was movement from without, then a cry as the other guards saw the horrors within the temple.
“There may be others,” Adon warned as he pointed at the stairway leading into the heart of the temple.
“Alive?” the guard said. “Others … alive?”
The cleric said nothing, somehow sensing what they would find. The one thing he was certain they would not find were the precious healing potions he had been told about.
Adon remained in the temple even after the stench became unbearable for the others. He attempted to say a prayer for the dead, but the words would not come.
* * * * *
Kelemvor turned from the window. He had checked Midnight’s room and found that she had not yet returned from Elminster’s house. He went back to his own room, but he could not sleep. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of riding to Elminster’s tower and confronting Midnight, but he knew that his efforts would be wasted.
Then, as he was once again watching out the window of the tower, he saw the mage approaching. The fighter watched as she passed the guards and entered the Twisted Tower. A few moments later, there was a knock at his door. Kelemvor sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands over his face.
“Kel?”
“Aye,” he called. “Enter.”
Midnight entered the room and closed the door. “Shall I light a lantern?” she said.
“You forget what I am,” Kelemvor said. “By the moonlight your features are as plain as if I beheld them at highsun.”
“I forget nothing,” she said.
Midnight was wearing a long, flowing cape, a more than adequate replacement for the one she had lost. Tiny flames leaped across the surface of the pendant. Kelemvor was surprised to see that she had taken it back, but he did not bother to question her about it.
Midnight removed the cape, then stood before the fighter. “I think we should talk,” she said.
Kelemvor nodded slowly. “Aye. What about?”
Midnight ran her hands through her long hair. “If you’re tired.…”
Kelemvor rose to his feet. “I am tired, Ariel.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Kelemvor flinched. “Midnight,” he said and let out a deep sigh. “I assumed we would leave this place together. You would deliver the warning Mystra entrusted you with, then we would put this business behind us and be free for once!”
Midnight laughed a small, cruel laugh. “Free? What do either of us know of freedom, Kel? Your entire life has been ruled by a curse you can do nothing about, and I’ve been played for a fool by the very gods!”
She turned away from him and leaned against a dresser. “I can’t walk away from this, Kel. I have a responsibility.”
Kelemvor moved forward and turned her around to face him. He held her roughly by the shoulders. “A responsibility to whom? To strangers who would spit in your face even as you lay down your life to save them?”
“To the Realms, Kelemvor! My responsibility is to the Realms!”
Kelemvor released her. “Then we have little to discuss, it seems.”
Midnight picked up the cloak. “It’s more than just the curse with you, isn’t it? Everything and everyone has their price. Your conditions are too much for me to bear, Kel. I can’t give myself to someone who isn’t willing to do the same for me.”
“What are you talking about? Have I run from this place? Have I run from you? On the morrow we begin preparations for war. There’s a good chance I won’t see you again until this battle is over. If we survive, that is.”
There was silence for a time.
“You would leave this place, wouldn’t you?” Midnight said. “If I agreed to come away with you, you’d leave this very night.”
“Aye.”
Midnight let out a deep breath. “I was right, then. We have nothing to discuss.”
She reached for the door, but Kelemvor called to her. “My reward,” he said. “Elminster promised there would be a reward, but he didn’t say what it would be.”
Midnight’s lips trembled in the darkness. “I told him about the curse, Kel. He believes it can be lifted.”
“The curse …,” Kelemvor said absently. “Then it was a good decision to stay.”
Midnight’s hair fell before her face.
“He’d have done it anyway, damn you.…”
She opened the door. “Midnight!” Kelemvor called.
“Aye,” she said.
“You still love me,” Kelemvor said. “I’d know if you didn’t. That’s my reward for coming this far with you, remember?”
Midnight’s whole body stiffened. “Yes,” she said softly. “Is that all?”
“All that matters.”
Midnight closed the door behind her and left Kelemvor to stare into the darkness.
Mourngrym learned of the vicious attack against the Temple of Tymora in the hours before dawn. Elminster had been summoned, and met his liege at the gateway to the temple. Adon was still there when the sage arrived.
The bard, Storm Silverhand, soon showed up, too. She wore the symbol of the Harpers, a silver moon and a silver harp against a backdrop of royal blue. The night winds caught her wild silver hair, blowing it high into the air, giving her the appearance of a vengeful apparition rather than a human woman. Her armor was the bright silver of the Dales, and she moved past her liege and the sage without a word of greeting.
Mourngrym did not attempt to stop her. Instead he joined her in the desecrated temple, and they surveyed the destruction and the carnage in respectful silence. The symbol of Bane, painted in the blood of the victims, caught their attention instantly. Later, as Storm spoke to the guards who had found the destruction, Adon put forth the theory that it was the theft of the healing potions that had prompted the attack; the debilitating effects such an assault would have on the morale of Shadowdale’s faithful was probably also a consideration. Storm Silverhand regarded the cleric very suspiciously, as she would any outsider present during such a tragedy.
“The blood upon his hands he came by in honest service, laying out the dead,” Elminster said. “There is no malice in this one. He’s innocent.”
Storm turned to Mourngrym, seething with fury over the attack. “The Harpers shall ride with you, Lord. Together we will avenge this cowardly act.”
Then she was gone, her grief at the tragedy threatening to overwhelm her steely continence. Mourngrym set his men to the grisly task of identification and burial of the dead. The old sage stood at the dalelord’s side and spoke in hushed tones.
“Bane is the God of Strife. It is not surprising that he seeks to distract us, to strike at our hearts and leave us grief-stricken and vulnerable to his attack,” Elminster said. “We must not allow his plan to succeed.”
Mourngrym trembled with rage. “We won’t,” he said.
Hours later, after returning to the Twisted Tower, Mourngrym stood at the side of his friend and ally, Thurbal, as the man lay in a deep, healing sleep. Thurbal had not spoken since the night Elminster’s magic retrieved him from Zhentil Keep, when he warned Mourngrym of the planned attack against the Dales.
“The horrors I have seen, Thurbal. Men of worship slain like dogs. There is a rage that burns in my heart, old friend. It threatens to sear away the frail bonds of reason.” Mourngrym hung his head low. “I want their blood. I want revenge.”
Such rage leaves you a mad dog, incapable of victory and easily disposed of, Thurbal had said in the past. Cool the fires in your heart, and let reason guide you to the halls of vengeance.
Mourngrym stood watch
at Thurbal’s side until the first light of morning broke and he received a summons to join Hawksguard in the war room.
* * * * *
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, we
apons 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.
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