Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  "Goddess!" Midnight screamed as the rift engulfed the entire area, robbing her of her senses. When sight and sensation returned, she found that she was still standing in the same spot, but night had fallen.

  Elminster let out a deep sigh.

  The rift was gone. The only source of light came from the glowing blue-white portal behind Elminster. The mage looked at Midnight.

  "No more of this," he said solemnly.

  Midnight shook her head frantically. She heard a groan and saw Kelemvor sitting on the ground, holding his head.

  Elminster stepped into the portal, and Midnight screamed at the top of her lungs for him to stop. He poked his head from the glowing rift. "What is it!?"

  "The goddess Mystra," Midnight said.

  Elminster looked at her sadly.

  "The goddess is dead," she finished.

  Elminster tilted his head. "So I've heard." Then he darted back inside the portal, and the opening burst apart in a shower of spiraling flames.

  Midnight stood in the darkness. "But she had a message," she said, alone and in shock. "A message for you." The mage walked forward, to the spot where the portal had been.

  "Elminster!" she cried, but her desperate call remained unanswered.

  Lighting torches to pierce the absolute pitch-black of the night sky, Midnight and Kelemvor went in search of Cyric and Adon. Twice they had ventured south, to the road, the stars misleading them, and their calls had fallen upon deaf ears. But now they stood before their fallen comrades.

  Adon's back was turned to Midnight and Kelemvor as they approached, and the cleric jumped as Midnight touched his shoulder. Turning to address his comrades, Adon nearly screamed his welcome. When Midnight inquired about Cyric's condition, the cleric stared at her in surprise. As she continued to speak, his expression changed to one of panic.

  In moments it became clear that Adon was deaf. Most of his attempts to read his friends' lips met with failure, adding to the cleric's panic, but Midnight managed to calm Adon by holding his palm open and tracing her words, letter by letter, with the gentle touch of her index finger.

  It was easy enough for Midnight to figure out that the rift's collapse had somehow caused Adon to lose his hearing. Adon was left in the middle of the storm, protected only by the disintegrating wagon, while she was near Elminster, who must have been protected from the effects of the storm somehow.

  When Midnight examined Cyric, she found that, although his breathing had become regular, she could not wake him. As the magic-user had no means of examining the extent of the damage the brigand's blade had caused, she covered the wound and hoped for the best.

  While Midnight tended to Adon and Cyric, Kelemvor searched for any horses, either their own or the brigands', that might have survived the sandstorm. The fighter found Midnight's horse and one of the brigands' mounts still alive. He brought them back to Adon. The cleric knew what to do with the animals without Kelemvor having to mouth one word at him.

  As Adon tended the horses by torchlight, Kelemvor and Midnight sat in the darkness with Cyric. "Your debt must be paid," Kelemvor said.

  Midnight turned on the man. "What? We have far to travel before we reach Shadowdale."

  "That was not our agreement," Kelemvor said quietly. "I was to accompany you until you spoke with Elminster of Shadowdale. You've already done that."

  "He wouldn't listen!" the magic-user cried.

  "Nor will I," Kelemvor said harshly. "Every debt must be paid."

  "Very well," Midnight said. "My… true name…"

  Kelemvor waited.

  "My true name is Ariel Manx."

  There was a cough, and Midnight and Kelemvor both turned to see Adon help Cyric raise his head. "Cyric," Midnight said as she went to the man's side.

  Cyric cried out when he tried to sit up, but his body slowly relaxed as Midnight eased him back to the ground. Kelemvor stood watching, a sharp uneasiness biting through him.

  "How will we move him, Kel? His wound is serious," the mage said.

  Kelemvor looked away. "I had not considered…"

  "Surely you didn't mean to leave him — "

  "Of course not!" Kelemvor said. "But…"

  "Another reward?" she said. "Doesn't what we've been through together make any difference to you? Do you really care about any of us, or is it only the reward you care about?"

  Kelemvor said nothing.

  "I need your help getting Cyric to Tilverton and seeing that he is well enough to ride on to Shadowdale. After that, I don't care what you do." Midnight took out the purse of money she had earned with the Company of the Lynx. "I'll give you all the gold I have left."

  After a few moments, Kelemvor lifted his head and spoke. "We can make a wooden frame from the wreckage of the thieves' wagon, wrap the canvas of our tent around it, and make a stretcher. The wheels are intact, and we can pull Cyric behind us as we ride."

  Midnight handed the bag of gold to Kelemvor. "Take this now. I want to be certain that you honor your promise."

  Kelemvor took the gold and waded into the pile of wreckage that was strewn about the plain, where he found a small lantern that was still in one piece. Once the lantern was lit, Kelemvor looked at Midnight's face and noticed the tears running down her face.

  In Zhentil Keep, a criminal had been dragged through the streets, hands and feet bound. His body bounced against the pavement of the torch-lit streets, and his screams echoed for all to hear. The mangled body had been deposited at Bane's feet and the Black Lord was surprised to find the human still clinging to life, though by a gossamer thread at best.

  The man was Thurbal, captain of arms and warden of Shadowdale. He had somehow entered the city undetected, then tried to join the Black Network under an assumed name. Fzoul had caught on to the man instantly, and although he advised Bane to feed the man false information then allow him to return to Shadowdale, the god could not suffer the affront so casually.

  Thurbal had been subjected to endless sessions of interrogation, and he claimed he knew nothing of Bane's plans. The Black Lord did not wish to take chances, and so he ordered his men to drag the spy through the streets and then bring him to the temple to be executed. Invitations had been sent by messenger to Bane's elite, and the execution had become a standing room only event.

  As the time of execution arrived, Bane left his throne to stand over Thurbal, then attempted to torment the aging, half-dead warrior at his feet. The man's eyes were sharp and alert, and Bane suspected they would continue to look that way, even after the spy had passed into Lord Myrkul's domain.

  The throne room was crowded with officials and their wives. They raised a toast to their dark lord and chanted his name as his taloned hands reached down toward Thurbal. Just before the tip of a single nail from Bane's gauntlet could reach the eye of the dying man, there was a flash of blue-white light and Thurbal vanished. Bane was stunned for a moment. Someone had teleported Thurbal away, presumably to a place of safety.

  The chanting ceased.

  Bane studied the eyes of his worshipers. He noticed surprise and confusion in their expressions. Until this moment, the loyalty of Bane's worshipers had been unswerving. He did not want them to know that his will could be thwarted this easily.

  "And now only a memory remains," Bane said as he rose and allowed his talons to unfurl with practiced grace. "I have sent the interloper into Myrkul's Realm, where he will pay for his crimes with an eternity of suffering!"

  Then the chanting started once more. The Black Lord was relieved that the lie had been accepted. Still, he was troubled for the rest of the evening by the victory that had been snatched from him.

  Hours later, when Bane was alone in the chamber, he sat and brooded.

  "Elminster," Bane said aloud. "No one but you would dare interfere with my plans." Bane's goblet was crushed in his grip. "You will take Thurbal's place soon enough, and your agonies will be legend throughout my kingdom! For this I will not only see you dead, but after I secure the Celestial Stairway, I wi
ll reduce your precious Shadowdale to a smoking pit. I swear it!"

  The Black Lord felt the wine that had escaped the ruined goblet stain his leg. He stared at the goblet and cursed at it, but it did not regain its shape. He threw it across the room and called out for Blackthorne to bring him another.

  "Milord," Blackthorne said, lowering his head.

  "The assassins?"

  "They have departed, Lord Bane. We await word of their success."

  Bane nodded and became silent as he stared off into space. Blackthorne didn't move, as he had not yet been dismissed. Bane and his emissary stayed like this for close to thirty minutes before Blackthorne's leg cramped and he involuntarily shifted his weight. Bane looked up slowly.

  "Blackthorne," Bane said, as if he had forgotten about the other man's presence. "Ronglath Knightsbridge."

  "Yes, milord?"

  "I wish to have Knightsbridge lead one of the contingents from the Citadel of the Raven in the attack on Shadowdale. He has much to atone for, and he may be willing to do what others are not and without hesitation," Bane said.

  "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.

  X

  Tilverton

  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 lo
ng 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: travel. 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?"