by Troy Denning
Those worry lines had grown deeper over the last few days. Adon, Midnight, and Kelemvor had been aboard a small galley bound for the port city of Ilipur, where they intended to find a caravan bound for Waterdeep. As the vessel entered the final leg of its journey, through a sheltered sea called the Dragonmere, an unnatural storm rose out of the calm waters and almost tore the ship to pieces. The storm had lasted for three nerve-wracking days, and the galley had only been saved by the valiant efforts of its crew.
The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhentish trireme that had been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and put the three companions ashore.
A rustle sounded from the lean-to and Midnight turned to see Adon creeping toward her. In his right hand, the cleric carried a mace he had bought from a sailor. With his left, he held a set of saddlebags. One bag contained a flat stone about a foot wide and a foot and a half high—the Tablet of Fate their company had recovered in Tantras.
Even now, in the middle of the night, Adon’s sandy hair was meticulously brushed. His build was slight, though muscular enough and well proportioned, and his green eyes sparkled with a light of their own. Adon’s other features were symmetrical if somewhat plain, save for the red scar that traced a dark path from the left eye to his jawline.
The scar was a grim reminder of the personal crisis that the cleric had suffered over the past few weeks. On the night of the Arrival, when Ao had cast his gods from the Planes, all of the clerics in the Realms had lost their power. Unless they were within a mile of their deity, their prayers for spells simply went unanswered. At first, this had not shaken the optimistic Adon, and he had remained faithful to his deity, Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.
Then, near Tilverton, he had been scarred in an ambush. At first, Adon had feared the blemish was punishment for some unknown offense against his goddess. This feeling had grown steadily stronger. Finally, during the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster suffered an accident and Adon found himself powerless to help the ancient sage. The cleric then fell into a catatonic depression. When he finally recovered, several weeks later, his faith in Sune had been lost. Instead, the cleric had focused his fervor and dedication on his fellow man.
“Why are you awake?” Midnight asked, whispering loud enough to make herself heard over the wind.
Crouching next to her, Adon answered in a whisper, “Who can sleep with that racket in his ear?” He nodded at Kelemvor’s slumbering form, then offered, “I’ll take over if you’re tired.”
“Not yet,” Midnight said. She turned back to the toppled willow tree. The shadow she had observed earlier was still crouched behind the tree’s upturned roots.
“Is something wrong?” Adon asked, noting Midnight’s interest in the willow. He followed her gaze and noted the dark form skulking behind the tangle. “What’s that?”
Midnight shrugged and replied, “A shadow I’ve been watching.”
The moon poked its face through the clouds and cast a silvery light into the grove. On the top of the shadow, Midnight could see the silhouette of a head and shoulders.
“It looks like a man,” Adon observed, still whispering.
“So it does.”
The cleric looked toward the lean-to. “We should wake Kelemvor.”
Adon’s suggestion made sense. Neither the cleric nor Midnight were at full strength. Like the abilities of all mages, Midnight’s powers had become unstable since the fall of the gods. Adon’s condition was no better. Even if he had still believed in his deity, Sune was certainly too distant for him to call upon her power.
But Midnight wanted to let Kelemvor snore a while longer. She was not convinced the shadow was dangerous, and if it was, the mage didn’t want to alarm it with a sudden flurry of activity. Besides, even without their spells, she and Adon were capable fighters. “We can take care of ourselves if need be,” she said. “But I don’t think there’s any danger.”
A cloud covered the moon again, plunging the wood back into darkness. Adon squinted at the root mass, puzzled by Midnight’s assertion. “Why not?”
“If that’s a man, he means us no harm. He’d have done something by now if he did,” Midnight answered. “He wouldn’t be sitting there watching us.”
“If he didn’t mean us harm, he would have come into camp by now,” Adon countered.
“Not necessarily,” Midnight said. “He might be afraid to.”
“We hardly look like thieves,” Adon said, waving his hand at himself and the magic-user. “Who’d have reason to fear us?”
Midnight did not answer immediately and avoided the cleric’s gaze. As soon as Adon had asked his question, it had occurred to her that the shadow might belong to Cyric, the trio’s missing comrade. It had been only a few weeks since the thief had disappeared on the River Ashaba, but already it seemed that he’d been gone for years. She missed his grim wit, his aloof bearing, even his dark temper.
After Midnight did not respond to his question for several moments, Adon turned toward the lean-to. The magic-user grasped his shoulder to keep him from leaving. “It might be Cyric,” she whispered.
Spinning around to face Midnight, Adon hissed, “Cyric! It couldn’t be!”
“Why not?” Midnight asked, glancing back at the shadow. “The trireme that worried our ship captain did seem to be following us.”
“That’s still no reason to think Cyric was aboard,” Adon countered. “How could he have known we were leaving Tantras, much less which ship we were on?”
“Cyric has his ways,” Midnight said grimly.
Adon frowned and squeezed his mace until his knuckles turned white. “Yes, he proved that in Tantras.”
Both Midnight and Adon turned to look at Kelemvor. The fighter had seen Cyric last, in Tantras. A Zhentish assassin had attacked Kelemvor, but failed to kill him. When the battle was over, he spotted Cyric in the crowd, watching the attempted murder.
Removing Midnight’s hand from his shoulder, Adon declared, “I’m getting Kelemvor.”
“But he’ll kill Cyric,” Midnight said, concern creeping into her voice.
“Good,” Adon responded. The cleric again turned toward the lean-to.
“How can you say that?”
“He’s joined the Zhentilar,” Adon snapped over his shoulder. “Or have you forgotten?”
According to rumor, Cyric had been with one of the Zhentish armies that had come to attack Tantras. Given Cyric’s presence at the attempt on Kelemvor’s life, Adon believed the rumor.
“What did you expect?” Midnight inquired, still unconvinced of her friend’s betrayal. “Cyric’s a schemer. Faced with joining Bane’s Zhentilar or dying, he’d join. That doesn’t mean he’s betrayed us.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t,” Adon said, still speaking over his shoulder. The wind gusted, whipping the grove into a clamor of rattling branches.
“A few weeks ago, Cyric was a trusted friend and a good ally,” Midnight said. “Or have you forgotten that he was the one who saved our lives in Shadowdale?”
“No,” Adon admitted, finally turning around to face Midnight again. “And I haven’t forgotten that Cyric would have left me for the executioner’s axe if you hadn’t refused to abandon me.”
Midnight didn’t know what to say, for the cleric was right. After Elminster disappeared during the Battle of Shadowdale, the people of the town had convened a hasty trial and accused Adon and Midnight of the old sage’s death. Unfortunately, Elminster’s disappearance had also been the event that triggered Adon’s catatonic depression, so he was unable to say anything in his own defense. He and Midnight were quickly found guilty and condemned to death.
The night before the scheduled execution, Cyric had come to rescue Midnight. The thief had been disgusted by Adon’s collapse during the trial, however, and had taken the cleric along only upon Midnight’s insistence. Then, as the trio had fled down the River Ashaba, Cyr
ic had treated Adon like an unwanted dog, speaking to the cleric only to insult him, and occasionally even hitting him. Midnight had been forced to intervene on Adon’s behalf many times.
As the magic-user remembered the unpleasant journey, the moon appeared again and pale light bathed the forest. This time, it looked as though the moon would shine for a while, for the only clouds near it were the ones the wind had just blown past.
Adon took the opportunity to look squarely into Midnight’s eyes. “I owe Cyric nothing,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m indebted to you for saving me at Shadowdale.”
“Then I want you to pay back that debt,” Midnight responded, returning Adon’s stare. “Don’t assume that Cyric has betrayed us just because he’s treated you badly in the past.”
“You don’t know Cyric like Kel—”
Midnight held her hand up to silence the cleric. “Are you going to honor your debt or not?” she demanded.
Adon frowned angrily. “I’ll never trust Cyric.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Midnight responded, looking back toward the shadow. “All I ask is that you give Cyric the benefit of the doubt. Don’t kill him on sight.”
Adon’s face betrayed his frustration and he looked away. “All right … but you’ll never convince Kelemvor.”
Midnight breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll handle that problem when we come to it. First, I think I’d better find out what Cyric wants.”
Without waiting for a reply, Midnight began crawling toward the willow roots. Soggy leaves cushioned her knees and hands, muffling what would otherwise have been a loud rustle.
“Wait!” Adon hissed. “You don’t even know if that’s him.”
“We’ve got to find out, don’t we?” Midnight responded, pausing only an instant. “You can wake Kelemvor if it isn’t.”
Sighing in frustration, Adon slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and prepared to rush to the mage’s aid if the need arose.
As Midnight advanced, the hiss of the wind muffled Kelemvor’s snoring, though the soft growl did remain audible. The magic-user gripped her dagger tightly, realizing that the farther away from her friends she crawled, the more she exposed herself to attack. As Adon had pointed out, they could not be sure the man behind the root tangle was Cyric. It could just as easily be a thief or a Zhentish spy who had trailed them from Tantras. But Midnight did not see that she had any choice except to go out and see.
Twenty feet later, the mage put her hand on a stick and snapped it. The shadow didn’t stir, but as Midnight glanced back, Kelemvor rolled over, found his swordhilt, then returned to his snoring. She turned back toward the willow roots and advanced another ten feet.
The wind suddenly calmed, leaving the grove eerily quiet. To the north, the pop and crack of snapping sticks rang through the wood. Alarmed, Midnight stopped and looked in the direction of the commotion. Several large silhouettes were moving through the undergrowth.
“Get Kelemvor,” Midnight called to Adon. “Something’s coming!” She glanced back at the willow’s roots and saw that the shadow was gone.
Two hundred feet to the north, thirteen Cormyrian soldiers—once the patrol under Ogden the Hardrider—were slowly riding south, still searching for Midnight and her companions. Most of the men were missing ears, fingers, noses, even whole hands or feet. Jagged wounds laced their torsos where carrion eaters had torn them open in search of an easy meal. The horses were no better off, with great strips of hide ripped away and the tender portions of their bodies gnawed away.
Back at the lean-to, Adon put his hand over Kelemvor’s mouth, then shook the fighter’s shoulder. The brawny warrior woke with a start, then instinctively thrust Adon aside, knocking the cleric onto his back. A moment later, the fighter realized that it had been Adon’s hand on his face and pulled his friend back into a sitting position—not thinking to apologize for knocking him over.
Kelemvor’s appearance was as rugged as his manner. Standing just shy of six feet tall, he was heavily muscled and broad-shouldered. Three days’ growth of black beard covered the chiseled features of his face, and his green eyes were hidden beneath a frowning brow. The warrior moved with a feline grace that was the only remaining trace of the lycanthropic curse of which he had recently freed himself.
“What is it?” Kelemvor asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Something’s coming from the north,” Adon replied, slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder and hefting his mace. “Midnight didn’t say what.” The cleric did not mention the shadow that might or might not have been Cyric, for he had promised not to kill the thief on sight. Informing Kelemvor of Cyric’s presence would amount to the same thing.
“Where is she?” Kelemvor asked, kneeling.
Adon turned back toward the willow roots. Midnight was nowhere in sight. “She was here a minute ago,” he said.
Kelemvor cursed and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. “We’d better find her.”
At that moment, Midnight had just crawled to within a hundred and fifty feet of the shadows north of camp. She could see the silhouettes of eight mounted men, though the mage heard the sounds of other riders behind them. The eight riders that she could see were moving slowly toward the lean-to, so the magic-user began looking for a place to hide.
By the time she found it, pressed against the back side of an alder tree, Kelemvor and Adon had begun their search for her. The fighter had crawled behind a fallen tree’s tangled roots and was looking for signs of her there. Adon was crouched halfway between the lean-to and the roots.
“Midnight?” the cleric whispered. “Midnight, where are you? Are you safe?”
Though she could barely hear Adon’s queries, Midnight did not answer. The horsemen were only a hundred feet away, and she feared they would hear her reply. She gripped her dagger tightly, praying the riders had entered the wood by coincidence and intended no harm. But as they came closer, Midnight saw two dozen red eyes burning out of the darkness and doubted her prayer would be answered.
The magic-user pressed herself closer against the tree, hoping to fade into the shadows against its trunk. She rummaged through her cloak pockets, taking an inventory of spell components. This battle, she feared, would not be won without magic.
While Midnight prepared a spell, the riders continued advancing. In the pale light of the moon, the first sign of life they saw was Adon crouched between the willow roots and the lean-to. The two point riders charged. Behind them, a second wave of six horsemen spread out through the wood and trotted forward, trying to flush Midnight and Kelemvor from their hiding places. The other five riders remained deep in the forest, still hidden from Midnight’s sight.
The two point riders made straight for Adon. They did not see the dark figure lurking fifty feet beyond the cleric, hidden beneath a broad-leafed bush. Suddenly, the figure rose to his knees, lifted a short bow, and twanged the bowstring. The arrow took the first horseman in the throat, knocking him out of his saddle. The rider landed on his left arm, rolled four times, and came up holding his sword. With the arrow still protruding from his throat, he rushed into the forest to search for the archer.
Unaware of his companion’s fate, the second point rider continued toward Adon. The cleric dove for cover beneath a fallen log that was ten feet to the left of the root mass. The rider hung off his saddle, his shoulder only three feet off the ground, and lifted his sword.
As the horseman rode past, Kelemvor leaped from behind the root tangle. His blade flashed once, and the rider’s head bounced along beneath his mount’s hooves. The warrior immediately slipped back behind the roots, his thoughts occupied by the arrow that had knocked the first horseman out of the saddle. Kelemvor knew Adon had not fired the arrow, for the cleric had been right in front of him. The warrior also doubted that Midnight had fired it, for he had never seen her use a bow and arrow.
The fighter’s deliberations were interrupted when the second wave of riders approached. Five of the horsemen rode past K
elemvor’s hiding place without slowing down, but one stopped ten feet in front of the willow roots.
The overwhelming stench of rotten flesh forced the air from Kelemvor’s lungs. The fighter staggered and nearly dropped his guard. Then he saw the rider’s red eyes and knew that he couldn’t let his attacker’s odor put him off guard.
In order to fight through the willow roots, the decaying horseman dismounted, being careful to keep his mount between him and Kelemvor. Then the rider stepped around his horse and quickly thrust his sword through the tangle of roots. Kelemvor sidestepped the blade, then plunged his own sword back through the tangle. The tip bit into the attacker’s spongy flesh, but the rider paid the wound no attention. It was then that Kelemvor decided he was fighting a corpse.
As the zombie attacked Kelemvor, Adon rolled out from beneath his tree, leaving the saddlebags—and the Tablet of Fate—hidden there. He scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the fight, hefting his mace. The cleric’s first blow caught Kelemvor’s undead assailant in the back of the head. Though the attack caused the zombie no pain, it knocked the thing off its feet. Kelemvor rushed around the root tangle, then he and Adon hacked and smashed the body into a dozen different pieces.
While the lone zombie fell to Kelemvor and Adon, the other five riders of the second wave were searching the forest for the elusive archer. So far, they had seen no sign of the woman they were supposed to capture. Incorrectly assuming she had been the one who had fired the arrows, they were determined to capture her before she escaped into the forest.
In actuality, Midnight was still standing next to the tree where she had taken refuge when the battle began. In her hands, she held a pinch of dust and her water flask. If Adon and Kelemvor had not destroyed their attacker, she would have used the components to create a magical ice storm. With luck, the resulting hail would have pounded the riders into bits—provided, of course, the spell had not misfired disastrously. Fortunately, however, Midnight had not been forced to risk using magic.