Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  “Where did they come from?” Bishop said.

  “The north road,” Kelemvor said with growing alarm. “A battalion must have come through the north road. That means Hawksguard and Mourngrym have already been attacked, and these men were forced to retreat from them.”

  “Or the dalelord is already dead,” Bishop said quietly.

  “Don’t even think it,” Kelemvor shouted as he sent a group to stop the Zhentish cavalry in the rear before they caused too much havok in the ranks. It was already too late for that, though, as the horsemen charged into the dalesmen’s lines.

  “Kelemvor!” Drizhal shouted. “More of Bane’s soldiers are breaking through from the east!”

  “We’ll have to fight them, hold them here, and cut down their numbers as best we can until help arrives.” Kelemvor said.

  “What about the bog? Can’t we still draw them into the bog and fight them there?” Drizhal said.

  “You might as well forget that idea,” Kelemvor said, smiling weakly at the boy. “I’ve spent enough time with dalesmen to know they would never retreat from anyone … especially the Zhentish.”

  Drizhal watched as Bane’s soldiers poured through the opening.

  “Prepare cavalry!” Kelemvor shouted as he drew his sword. “We fight to the last man!”

  Soon all of Kelemvor’s finely drawn battle plans turned to dust as the dalesmen faced the enemy in a chaotic melee. Kelemvor knew that they would be hopelessly overwhelmed when the full weight of Bane’s army was brought against them. He knew that the only real hope was an organized retreat through the remaining, small stone barricades on the way to Shadowdale. But as the situation rapidly deteriorated strategically, Kelemvor saw that the defenders of Shadowdale were more than happy to go to their deaths fighting the Zhentish man-to-man.

  The fighter watched half-a-dozen men whom he had stood beside rush into battle, then fall before the dark army of the evil god. When he faced an enemy soldier himself, however, Kelemvor drew little satisfaction in the man’s death. He wasn’t fighting for the same thing the dalesmen were fighting for; all Kelemvor was doing was delaying what he saw now as the inevitable fall of Shadowdale. Then Drizhal fell before an enemy soldier, and Kelemvor turned to face the boy’s attacker.

  The Zhentish soldier lashed out with his mace and Kelemvor drew back and away from the weapon. The fighter then swung blindly with his sword, and he realized with disgust that he had only impaled the mount of the mace-wielding Zhentilar. The wounded horse pitched forward and its rider flew to the ground without losing his grip on his bloodied weapon.

  Kelemvor advanced on the downed soldier, then froze as the man turned over and Kelemvor saw his face:

  It was Ronglath Knightsbridge, the traitor to Arabel.

  Seizing upon his enemy’s momentary surprise, Knightsbridge swung his mace once more. The heavy club grazed Kelemvor’s leg and knocked him from his feet. Drawing his sword with his free hand as he scrambled to his feet, Knightsbridge waited until Kelemvor had half-risen before slashing at the fighter’s ribs with the sword, then swinging his mace again. Even as he fell to dodge the sword, Kelemvor brought his sword up in a block, stopping the mace before it met his neck.

  Kelemvor got to his feet at once, and the two fighters slowly circled one another, looking for an opening. Suddenly, Knightsbridge shouted “No!”

  Kelemvor ducked and the horseman’s sword swished just over his head. The fighter leaped to his left, then brought the pommel of his sword down hard on the rider’s hand. There was a crack as something in the Zhentilar’s hand broke, and the horseman dropped his weapon.

  Before Kelemvor could react, Knightsbridge charged at him again and slashed viciously at his head. “You die by my hand alone!” Knightsbridge hissed and raised his mace again.

  Kelemvor rushed at the Zhentilar, and the fighter’s sword ripped through the traitor’s side as the mace swung toward him. Avoiding the blow, Kelemvor brought his armored fist into Knightsbridge’s jaw, sending him stumbling back.

  Knightsbridge was exposed for an instant, and Kelemvor rushed at him again and and tackled him, giving the Zhentilar no chance to use his weapons. They struck the ground and Knightsbridge kicked Kelemvor in the chest, forcing him to tumble to his side.

  “You cost me my life!” Knightsbridge screamed. “Everything I cared about is gone because of you!”

  Knightsbridge raised his sword high over his head, but the swing exposed his chest and Kelemvor drove his sword through Knightsbridge’s breastplate before he could deliver his final blow. The traitor’s eyes gave no quarter, even as life fled from them. His face fixed in an eternal grimace of hatred and pain, Knightsbridge fell into the dirt and died.

  As Kelemvor pulled his sword from Knightsbridge’s chest, he saw a glint of bright, shining metal as a Zhentish dagger flew toward him. A sword flashed before the fighter and the dagger was deflected. Another flash and the Zhentilar fell.

  “That’s the problem with these jackals,” a familiar voice said flatly, “there’s always more than one of them.”

  Kelemvor’s savior turned to face the fighter. It was Bishop, commander of the first group.

  “Behind you!” Bishop shouted, and Kelemvor spun and dispatched another Zhentish soldier.

  Two more riders approached, swords drawn. Bishop dragged the first of the riders from his mount and ran him through, as Kelemvor faced the soldier’s fellow and killed him. Then another wave of Bane’s soldiers approached on foot, and the warriors fought back to back until they were knee-deep in the bodies of the dead and dying. Their swords flashed as the endless parade of dark soldiers closed in on the dalesmen.

  As Kelemvor looked to the road to the west, his heart sank; Bane’s army was getting through the men and the barricades, and moving toward Shadowdale.

  * * * * *

  With each death, Bane’s power grew until his vision was glazed over by an amber haze of power. He felt his frail mortal shell blistering from his stolen energy, but he endured the discomfort gladly.

  Teleporting from the barricade had been a simple matter. He found himself at the outskirts of the dale and quickly cast a spell of invisibility upon himself, then used the power of the soul energies to take to the air.

  A small band of Zhentilar had been deployed to travel the north road into Shadowdale and engage the soldiers at the crossroads of the town, where Bane had assumed the defenders would make their last stand. There were no more than five hundred men in this detail, and many would be stopped by the defenses Mourngrym’s men had certainly placed in their way along the road and in the farms to the north.

  As he flew toward the crossroads, Bane was delighted to find that at least a few hundred of his men from the north had made it through, yet it seemed they had been expected. Bane descended to the center of the fighting while maintaining his invisibility. In the distance he could see the Celestial Stairway, its changing aspects a beacon in the sky that drove him onward, and would eventually take him home. Beside the stairway he could see the brightly lit Temple of Lathander. One combatant had been notoriously absent throughout the battle and Bane suddenly realized the logical place for his adversary to hide.

  “Elminster,” Bane said and laughed. “I would have given you more credit.”

  A human approached, wielding a sword.

  Mourngrym.

  How delightful it would be to carry the head of the lord of Shadowdale upon his belt as he opened his arms in greeting to the hated sage. Bane dropped his invisibility and laughed as Mourngrym stopped just before the Black Lord, startled by Bane’s sudden appearance. Bane crushed Mourngrym’s sword in his taloned hand as Mourngrym swung at him, then reached down to claim his prize.

  Suddenly another man appeared and pulled Mourngrym from the Black Lord’s grasp. Bane ripped open the second man’s chest.

  “Hawksguard!” Mourngrym shouted as the older man fell to the ground.

  Bane was about to kill the stunned dalelord when he caught sight of the Celestial Stair
way.

  It was burning, set ablaze by blue-white eldritch fires.

  The humans all but forgotten, Bane used the power of the dead to take to the cold night air. Bane drew close to the Temple of Lathander. The temple, molded in the form of a phoenix, was releasing a flow of bluish white fires that assaulted the stairway like a dragon spewing forth its fiery breath. The stairway crackled with the eldritch flames, and Bane watched with horror as the changing aspects became a heated blur that the eyes of his avatar could no longer bear to look upon.

  The flesh of the Black Lord was engulfed in an amber haze as the continuous flow of souls ripped through his form, strengthening the god until his power reached levels he had only tasted for fleeting instants in the dungeons of Castle Kilgrave. Knowledge of countless spells and the power to cast them at will, without the physical components usually necessary, coursed through the Black Lord. He was almost a god again.

  I can destroy this place, Bane thought. I can raze it to its foundations and slay all who dare stand against me.

  He looked back to the Celestial Stairway and flew as close as he dared, then hovered in midair and watched as his way back to the Planes melted away. There was nothing he could do to stop the destruction of the stairway; his plans to retake the Planes had been thwarted. Elminster had dared to stand against the Black Lord and now the old sage would pay.

  Bane descended to the temple and studied it for a moment. He did not dare to enter through the passages that released the mystical fires. That would certainly destroy his avatar. And when he checked the doors and windows, Bane found they had been fortified by a spell of some sort. To break the magical ward would certainly alert Elminster to his presence.

  Then Bane saw a window that had been left unguarded, and he rose to it tentatively, expecting Elminster’s gaze to meet his when he looked into it. But no one was there. Bane passed through the bright stream of light that flowed from the window without harm, and he found himself standing in the bedroom of a high priest of Lathander. At his feet, Bane noticed a book with the words “Diary of Faith” embroidered on its cover. The Black Lord crouched and picked up the leather-bound journal.

  When Bane read the words on the final page, he could not stop laughing. Only when he heard the sound of voices directly below did he drop the book and stop laughing. Casting a glassee spell, Bane looked at floor, then through the wood planks and supports that separated him from the sage.

  He saw Elminster casting a spell. The mage looked exhausted, as if he had been working on this spell for the entire night. Swirling mist whirled in all directions. The magic-user and the cleric who had interfered with Bane’s plans in Castle Kilgrave were here; the failure of his assassins to report had steeled him for this knowledge, and somehow he was made quite happy by this turn of events. To the Black Lord, there was nothing sweeter than taking the lives of his enemies with his own hands.

  The cleric was busy rifling through ancient tomes, locating spells for the dark-haired magic-user to study. Occasionally Elminster would address the magic-user, and she would recite one of the spells she had learned.

  And when the woman mage repeated the spells, they worked, even without components! Bane stared at the woman, then saw the star pendant, the symbol of Mystra, around here neck. Each time she cast a spell, tiny strands of energy played across the pendant and disappeared when the spell was finished.

  She must have some of Mystra’s power in that trinket, Bane thought. I must have it for my assault on Helm and Ao.

  Bane considered how best to take the old sage by surprise, but there was no spell he could think of to accomplish his goal. Refusing to be daunted, Bane lay face-down upon the floor and used his stolen power to make his form insubstantial. Then he slowly drifted into the floor until his face protruded from the other side very slightly, and followed the ceiling until it met with the wall nearest Elminster. The Black Lord then drifted down the wall, keeping his prey in view at all times. Finally, when he stood no more than six paces behind Elminster, Bane pushed away from the cover of the wall and advanced on the sage, talons extended.

  By the time the dark-haired magic-user noticed Bane’s presence, the Black Lord’s talons were only inches away from Elminster’s throat.

  The sage of Shadowdale was lost in the private world of the spells he was casting. He felt the great powers he was releasing flow from the magical weave around Faerun, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that a section of the temple’s floor had vanished as planned. A rift had been opened by his conjurings—a rift that was lined by a swirling mist that flashed with a power he had summoned only once before, and then when he was much younger. In those days, when he was only one hundred and forty, he believed himself to be immortal. Now, as Elminster looked down into the rift, he was frightened just a bit by the forces that he had brought into the Realms to combat the Black Lord.

  The old sage was shocked from his conjuring by Midnight’s cry. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the fiery eyes of the God of Strife as his talons descended toward him. Elminster spoke a word of power, and Bane was thrown back by an incredible force. The Black Lord struck the wall he had emerged from.

  A horrible screech came from the rift in the floor, and Elminster turned to see that his spell of summoning had gone awry when Bane attacked. The thing that had come to him instead of the eye of eternity was unknown to the old sage, and that frightened him very much.

  “Midnight!” Elminster cried. “You must try a spell of containment!” There was no time to wait for a reply, as Bane moved forward against the aged sage again. Elminster released a blinding flash of blue-white lightning that ensnared the dark god in a nearly endless series of traps. The Black Lord screamed in rage and used his power to cut away at the eldritch bonds.

  Elminster recoiled as a searing bolt of amber flame tore through him. He countered the spell, but he could sense the dark god growing in power, his spells replenished almost as quickly as they were cast. The great sage could afford no such luxury. Every incantation took its toll, until finally the God of Strife began to drive him back into the swirling mist of the rift.

  Bane pressed the advantage, calling into play the forces he had reserved to unleash on Helm. Unspeakable energies flowed through the dark god, and he felt incredible pain as his mortal avatar struggled to maintain its form and focus the great powers. Bane would feed the sage to the creature that had been summoned, then he would use the creature to devour the God of Guardians and great Ao himself. Bane would have to remind himself to ask Myrkul to deliver his thanks to the sage in the land of the dead.

  Suddenly a blue-white bolt unlike anything Bane had ever felt before cut through him, sending him flying back and away from the sage. He looked up and saw the dark-haired magic-user standing at the other side of the room, her hands moving as she intoned another spell.

  Bane laughed. “You may have part of Mystra’s power, girl, but you are not a goddess.” Then the God of Strife lashed out with a bolt of energy that knocked Midnight across the room. Bane stood up and prepared to kill the mage. Then he heard the horrible rumbling from the rift, and knew that whatever Elminster had summoned had arrived.

  When the God of Strife turned and saw the thing from the rift, his avatar’s heart nearly stopped beating.

  “Mystra,” Bane said slowly.

  But the being before him shared little with the ethereal goddess he had enslaved and tortured in Castle Kilgrave. This was a creature that had no place in the world of men or gods. Mystra was no longer a creature of flesh and blood or a god of the Planes. She had become a primal essence, a part of the phantasmagoric wonderland of the weave of magic surrounding the world. She could only be called a magic elemental.

  Rational thought came only with the greatest of efforts to her now; Mystra was barely conscious and powerless to act. Only the power of Elminster’s summoning had been great enough to allow her essence to reform and give her access to the Realms—and a chance to face Lord Bane once again.

 
Huge threads of primal magic burst from Mystra’s eyes and encircled the room. A single, impossible hand clawed from her ectoplasmic flesh, and Mystra reached out toward Bane.

  Adon covered Midnight with his body as the bolts of energy raced around the room, scorching the walls and scattering Elminster’s books. Then Midnight stirred and looked up at Mystra in horror. “Goddess,” was all she could say.

  Then Elminster released another spell at Bane, but a steady flow of green eggs shot from the old sage’s hand and struck the dark god. Elminster cursed and started another incantation. Bane turned from Mystra and released a single bolt of amber light. Just before the amber light struck Elminster, he created a shield to hold the bolt off, but he was knocked, screaming, into the rift anyway. Then blinding bolts of blue-white energy leaped from the hand of Mystra as it fell on the God of Strife.

  Bane fell to his knees as the force of his stolen power was turned on him, and his frail human avatar slowly ripped apart. Flesh and blood and bone collapsed into a steaming mass that was now only remotely human.

  “I’ll not—die—alone!” Bane hissed, and the bloodied avatar crawled forward, reaching out as he saw the dark-haired magic-user huddled with the cleric. Her hands were on the pendant, as if she were about to use the magic against the Black Lord again. Then the pendant snapped from her neck and flew to Lord Bane. The god laughed as his talons closed over it.

  “Your power is mine again, Mystra,” the God of Strife said through blistered lips.

  Midnight heard the cracking, maniacal voice of Mystra inside her head as the mage got up and walked toward the God of Strife. Strike him the voice said. Use the power I gave you.

  A bolt of blue-white power surged from Midnight as she completed her spell. It struck Bane and knocked him closer to Mystra. The Black Lord looked up at Midnight for a moment, confusion in his eyes. “But I have the—”

  Then the God of Strife screamed as Mystra covered him. Here, Lord Bane, Mystra said as she engulfed him. Have all the power you want. There was a flash of blue-white fire and Bane’s avatar exploded violently. Mystra’s amorphous body stiffened for a second as the avatar died, as she absorbed the power from the blast. Then she, too, disappeared in a flash of brilliant white light.