Adon's explanation of the events he had witnessed made little sense to either Midnight or Cyric. His panic had ruined his usual adroit handling of descriptive passages in his narrative, and only nightmarish fragments of the entire story were at all clear when the cleric attempted repeatedly to convey what he had seen.
The heroes ran for the stairs and fled the inn. Cyric, who had received a strange, but successful visit from Rull of Gond, cut their mount's tethers with his blade, and they rode from the stables in haste, Cyric upon Kelemvor's mount, Adon riding with Midnight. The cleric's directions were hardly necessary. The entire population of Tilverton seemed to have been awakened by the battle. Men, women, and children flocked to the alley.
Midnight ordered Adon to tend to the horses, and Cyric took his bow and a good supply of arrows from one of the pouches slung over Kelemvor's mount. They broke through the crowd, shoving people aside. Just before an elderly couple parted and revealed what lay in the alley, Cyric looked down and saw a puddle of blood spreading outward on the gray stone pavement. Then he looked up and was startled by the bizarre scene that lay before him.
The jackalwere lay gutted in the middle of the alley. It shuddered and clung to life, though death would obviously soon be upon it. A huge black panther padded noiselessly back and forth, occasionally stopping to lick at one of the many pools of blood that radiated out from the dead creature. The woman Adon had attempted to describe was there as well, splattered with blood. She shrank against the wall, sobbing as she drew her knees up to her chest and only peeked over them to catch sight of the wounded panther that came closer with every orbit it made around its savaged prey.
Cyric notched an arrow, oblivious to Midnight's cry. All sound appeared to die away as Cyric drew back the bow, and the tiny vibrating sound the arrow made as it scraped along its sight filled the dark-haired man's ears. He felt a slight strain in his lower back from his recently healed wound as he held the arrow ready for release.
The panther stopped and looked directly at Cyric. The intensity of its perfect, green eyes caused the thief's arm to relax slightly. The beast roared, which also brought the sounds of the commoners crashing to Cyric's ears as he realized they were cheering him on, asking him to do what they could not.
Midnight dared not make a move, afraid that Cyric might release the arrow in surprise. She knew the truth the instant her gaze had met with the panther's. Adon had appeared beside her, then slipped past her and made his way along the wall to the girl, whom he dragged to the far side of the crowd. The panther ignored the young cleric's movements.
I want to understand, Midnight thought. Look at me, damn you! But the beast had eyes only for its potential executioner.
Unnoticed by all, the jackalwere breathed its last.
Suddenly the panther averted its eyes and trembled as if Cyric's arrow had left the bow and found its mark. The creature roared in pain, then fell to its side. The ribs of the beast were forced apart as the head and arms of a man burst from its gut. Moments later, all that remained of the panther were bits of matted fur and gore that deteriorated rapidly.
Kelemvor lay in the alley, naked and covered with blood. His hair was full and black, and it fell across his face as he attempted to rise, then collapsed flat on his stomach with a groan.
"Kill it!" someone was shouting. Through a haze of pain, Kelemvor looked up and saw Phylanna, one of the women he had saved, standing over him. Her red hair seemed to be aflame in the sunlight. "Kill it!"
Kelemvor looked up at her face and found only hatred.
Yes, he thought. Kill it.
A few of the commoners surged forward, emboldened by Phylanna's cries. One found a brick that had been dislodged in the battle between Kelemvor and Torrence, and raised it high over his head.
Cyric rushed forward, his bow still at the ready. "Hold!" he cried. The commoners stopped. "Who dies first?"
Phylanna was unmoved by Cyric's threats. "Kill it!" she screamed.
Adon rose from the wounded girl's side. "It was not this man who took the lives of your people! This girl would be dead — slain by that abomination, were it not for this man!"
Midnight stood beside Phylanna. "The cleric is right. Leave him alone. He's suffered enough." The mage paused. "Besides, those of you who want to harm him will have to go through us to do it. Now go home!"
The commoners hesitated. "Go!" Midnight screamed, and the people dropped their bricks, turned their backs on the alley, and walked away. Still, Kelemvor had seen their faces and the utter revulsion they held for him.
Phylanna stared at the fighter and watched as the gray returned to his hair, the small wrinkles to his face.
"You are unclean," she said, her hatred radiating from her like a blinding sun at midday. "You are accursed. Leave Tilverton. Your presence is foul and unwanted."
Then the priestess turned and went to the frightened child, the "feast" Torrence had desired. "Join your fellow," she said to Adon as she lifted the girl up into her arms. "You're not welcome here either."
Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the girl's face as Phylanna carried her away. He hoped there might be a trace of understanding in the girl's eyes, but there was only fear. The fighter sunk to the ground once more, his face only inches from the pool of blood he'd spilled. He closed his eyes and waited for the last of the spectators, his former allies, to leave the alley.
"Is he alright?" Cyric asked.
Kelemvor was confused. The sounds of the man's boots became louder.
"I don't know," Midnight said as she crouched beside the fighter and touched his back. "Kel."
Kelemvor squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He could not bear to see the disgust and fear of the commoners in the eyes of his friends.
"Kel, look at me," Midnight said sternly. "You owe me a debt for saving you. Look at me."
Kelemvor started as a sheet unfurled in the air above him and gently settled on top of him. He looked up and saw Adon's face as the cleric pulled the sheet over his back. Kelemvor gathered the sheet to him and rose to a crouch. Midnight and Cyric were beside him.
There was concern in their eyes. Nothing else.
"My… armors and mails are upstairs."
"I'll get them," Cyric offered. He took the steps slowly, his side still sore from holding the bow drawn for so long.
Kelemvor studied Midnight's face. "Are you not… revolted by what you've seen?"
Midnight touched his face. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"I've never told anyone."
Cyric returned with Kelemvor's gear. He set it beside the fighter, then motioned at Adon. "We'll ensure your privacy as you ready yourself. There is a long road ahead of us, and we'd best meet it with the sun above our heads, not at our backs."
Adon stood watch at the far end of the alley, while Cyric went back the way they came and stood beside the mounts. Kelemvor bowed his head, and Midnight ran her hand through his hair.
"Ariel," he said quietly.
"I'm here," Midnight said, and she held the fighter tightly until he spoke. Once he began the tale, Kelemvor found that he could not stop until the debt of trust he owed to Midnight was fulfilled.
The curse of the Lyonsbanes had been passed down through Kelemvor's family for generations. Kyle Lyonsbane was the first and only of the Lyonsbanes to receive the curse due to his own actions. All those who followed received it from his tainted blood and through no fault of their own. Kyle was known as the quintessential mercenary: every service had its price and he was utterly ruthless in extracting payment, even from grieving widows if they held the gold that he was entitled to.
Kyle's actions caught up to him in a great battle, when he was given the choice of defending a fallen sorceress or continuing to cut through the enemy to reach their stronghold and be the first to plunder the vast riches within.
With Kyle's help, the sorceress might have gathered her strength, but the mercenary knew she would object to the plundering and could see no clear gain in helping her. He left her to die at the hands of the en
emy. Before she died, she spat out one last intricate work of magic and cursed him to pursue his fortunes in a form more suitable to his true nature than a human shell could ever be.
When Kyle arrived at the stronghold and attempted to take his share of the gold, he felt a sudden weakness. He dragged himself away to a secluded chamber where he changed into a near-mindless, snarling panther. Instinctively, the beast knew it had to escape the stronghold. Only after half a day's flight from the castle, when the beast had killed a traveler, did Kyle suffer the painful transformation and become human once again.
For the rest of his days, Kyle Lyonsbane suffered the curse of the sorceress: whenever he attempted to perform an act for any type of reward, he became the beast. And even though only selfless, heroic acts were permissible for the mercenary under the curse, he had sworn he would never devote his life to such activities. He was forced to retire from the mercenary life he loved the most and live off the gains he had made from his previous adventures. When his gold ran out and the only avenue open to him was to live off the charity of his wife's family, he took his own life rather than live with the humiliation of poverty or perform any good deeds.
Before Kyle died, he sired an heir to his misfortune. Strangely, when the curse finally revealed itself in Kyle's son, the effects were reversed. Kyle's son could not perform any act, unless it was to protect his own life, without the promise of some type of reward. If he performed an act and did not receive his reward or he dared to perform a charitable act for no reward at all, he became a panther and was forced to take a life.
A roaming mage had a theory that as the original curse was meant as a punishment for evil and greed, and as all babes were born into the world as innocents, the curse found no evil to punish, and instead altered itself to punish the innocence and good in Kyle's son.
The intent of the sorceress' curse had been undone, and a long line of mercenaries with histories as bloody and unscrupulous as Kyle Lyonsbane's were born. It was Lukyan, Kyle's grandson, who discovered an inherent danger in his father's condition as his sire grew old and senile: the aged mercenary could no longer remember when a reward had been offered or warranted, or even when or if it had been paid. Because of this, the old man changed into the beast without provocation, and became a menace to all he came near. It became the responsibility of every child in the Lyonsbane clan to slay their father when they reached fifty summers.
The family survived for many generations, but the ritualistic killing of sires by their offspring was not always necessary: the curse did not strike every generation. Kelemvor's father and uncle had, for example, been exempt from the effects of the curse, free to live their lives the way they pleased. Like Kelemvor, all of the sons of Kendrel Lyonsbane were not as fortunate as their father.
Kelemvor was a seventh generation descendant of Kyle, and he had tried all his life to free himself of the curse. He longed to perform acts of kindness, of charity and right. But the years had passed for the fighter, and there had been no hope of a cure, no hope for redemption. Only the bloody path of service and payment as a mercenary lay before him.
Kelemvor finished the tale and waited for Midnight to respond. She was quiet and caressed the fighter gently as he spoke.
"We'll find a way to cure you," she said at last.
Kelemvor looked into her eyes. There was compassion, mixed with regret.
"Will you come with me to Shadowdale?" Midnight asked, her hands caressing Kelemvor's face. "I offer a handsome reward."
The fighter could not look away. "I must know what you offer."
"I offer my love."
Kelemvor touched her hands. "Then I will come with you," he said and held her close.
As Kelemvor and his companions rode back to the Flagon Held High, Cyric stopped a number of times to gather the supplies they would need for their journey to Shadowdale. He found fresh mounts for Adon and himself, and meats and breads for the party. When they reached the inn, Midnight accompanied Kelemvor inside so they might retrieve their few possessions. Cyric and Adon waited outside, near the inn's front door.
The young man with pale gray eyes sat unnoticed in the shadows beside the door. There was an uncomfortable silence between Cyric and Adon. Looking out at the main street of Tilverton, Cyric saw a group of riders approaching from the direction of the temple. A floorboard creaked, and Cyric turned just in time to see the gray-eyed man rise up from the shadows behind Adon, wielding a knife. Cyric was already moving as the cleric turned, but the blade sliced through the air, too quick for even the thief to stop. A spray of blood blossomed onto the wall as the knife struck Adon in the face.
Cyric pulled the unconscious cleric back with one hand as the gray-eyed man prepared to strike again. The thief already had his dagger in his free hand, and he thrust forward, impaling their attacker.
"I die for the glory of Gond," the gray-eyed man said and fell back into his chair.
Kelemvor and Midnight appeared in the doorway. "Take him," Cyric said as he shoved Adon toward Kelemvor. The cleric's face was covered with blood. Midnight moved to help Kelemvor with their wounded, unconscious friend, and Cyric ran for the horses.
The gray-eyed man clutched at his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. "Phylanna warned us," he said and pointed at Kelemvor. "She told us that Lord Gond had sent a monster into our midst to test us. Only by killing it can we prove ourselves worthy of the presence of Lord Gond, the Wonderbringer…"
The gray-eyed man fell out of the chair and sank to his knees, his back scraping against the wall.
Cyric looked to the road. The riders from the temple were approaching and would be upon them in moments. "We have to leave now, Kel," he said and turned his mount away from the Temple of Gond, toward the road to the north and Shadowdale.
With a swiftness born of desperation, Kelemvor heaved Adon over his shoulder and climbed to his mount. Midnight grabbed the cleric's belongings as she ran to her horse. The townsfolk were still on their heels when the heroes reached the road and headed out across the Stonelands.
The heroes rode long into the night, their pursuers never far behind. Kelemvor's plan was simple: the riders were not prepared for a lengthy journey, so they would have to slop or turn back at some point. Losing the pursuers was simply a matter of endurance.
It was dawn, and the riders from Tilverton were falling behind by a considerable distance, when the heroes came across a small lake near the mountains of the Shadow Gap. The water was surrounded by a scattering of trees, tired sentinels that longed to reach down and cool themselves in the sparkling water. Kelemvor knew that the party couldn't afford to stop, though he almost fell to the temptation of the cool water. As they rode by the lake, the fighter hoped that their pursuers' willpower was not as strong as his own.
A few minutes later, the heroes let out a cheer when they saw that Phylanna and the Gond worshipers had stopped by the lake. And though they were now far ahead of the Tilvertonians and were all very tired, the heroes pushed on until highsun. By then, there had been no sign of their pursuers for almost two hours. They stopped long enough to eat and drink, but sleep was out of the question.
As Cyric and Kelemvor ate and tended to the horses, Midnight checked on Adon and took the time to cover his wound. He had lost a great deal of blood during the ride and was still unconscious, but the magic-user thought that he'd live to see the Twisted Tower in Shadowdale. However, as the heroes got ready to leave and Adon was hoisted onto Kelemvor's horse, Midnight wondered if the cleric would be better off not waking up at all.
As the day wore on, the heroes got closer and closer to the Shadow Gap. At highsun, the huge granite slabs that made up the steel-gray ranges of the gap appeared ghostly, as light bathed the valley between the opposing ridges and made the heroes wonder how the place got its name. But as afternoon wore on and the heroes got closer to the mountains, they quickly learned that the gap's name was really quite appropriate.
As the sun moved to the west, a veil of darkness fell upon th
e road as the massive peaks of the Shadow Gap blocked the sunlight at every turn. Long before nightfall, the heroes felt as if they had been traveling with a blanket of cool thin air over them, even though the sun baked the Stonelands to the south of the gap, as well as the Desertmouth Mountains to the west.
Still, the heroes pushed on, until in the half-light just before night fell upon the Stonelands, the ground started to make odd noises. Kelemvor dismissed the sounds at first, believing them to be nothing more than underground rock-slides, or perhaps the earth settling after the rain that had drenched the area recently. But then the mountains around the Shadow Gap started to move.
At first, Midnight thought a lack of sleep was causing her senses to betray her, but then she saw the ridge to the west slowly turning to face her. To the east, massive boulders were falling from the cliffs, crashing through the trees, crushing or uprooting them.
The earth quaked beneath the heroes, frightening the horses. The sounds quickly became deafening, and soon the boulders were coming closer, crashing against the trees that flanked the road. The road through the Shadow Gap was closing, and to the northeast, the heroes could see new mountains pushing up from the ground.
"We have to make it through," Kelemvor yelled, and dug his heels into his mount's side. "Come on!"
As the fighter raced down the narrowing road, Cyric and Midnight behind him, it became clear that both ridges were moving, closing the distance between them, closing off the gap. Rocks and other debris crashed down around them, uprooting trees and raising huge clouds of dust and dirt as the chaos continued. Soon it was impossible for the adventurers to see more than a few feet ahead, but they had to ride on as fast as they could. Though they might be hit by a boulder as they dashed for the other side of the gap, they would certainly be crushed when the mountains came together if they slowed down and rode cautiously.
Then, as the heroes raced through the falling debris, the chaos in nature struck again. Midnight's mount sensed it first and abruptly drew back, despite the magic-user's efforts to force the horse on. The color of the clouds that suddenly engulfed them was burnt amber, and they had to cover their noses and mouths to keep from inhaling the foul gases that made up the mist. When they had no choice but to breathe, the billowing, heavy clots of air the heroes inhaled burned horribly. No matter which direction they turned, the mist was there.
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