by Troy Denning
Like Kelemvor, Midnight was curious about the identity of the archer who had knocked the first zombie out of its saddle. She suspected the archer was Cyric, but if so, did not understand why the thief had not revealed his presence before the battle had begun. Perhaps he had overheard the discussion between her and Adon, and had decided to wait for a safer opportunity to present himself.
As Midnight contemplated the archer’s identity, four more riders thundered past her tree and went to attack Adon and Kelemvor. Adon had retrieved the saddlebags from where he had dropped them, and he and the fighter were again searching for Midnight.
“Midnight?” Kelemvor yelled. “Where in Myrkul’s realm are you?”
When Kelemvor and Adon heard the pounding of more hooves, the pair turned toward the reinforcements. The cleric draped the saddlebags holding the tablet over his shoulder, then he and Kelemvor slipped behind the fallen tree’s root mass. They intended to force the riders to dismount in order to attack.
Before the riders reached the two men, however, Midnight stepped away from her tree. In her hands, she still held the components for the magical ice storm. “Kelemvor, Adon!” she yelled. “Take cover!”
She poured some water onto the dust, then cast the spell. Immediately, her head began to spin in pain, her limbs went limp with fatigue, and her body started jerking in convulsions. A hundred silver streaks flashed from her fingertips, then, twenty feet behind the horsemen, abruptly gathered into a small cloud and rose into the treetops. An instant later, tiny balls of flame began falling from it. The cloud drifted toward Kelemvor and Adon, setting fire to everything below it. Within seconds, a wall of flame separated Midnight from her friends. The magic-user’s spell had misfired.
As the cloud drifted toward them, Adon and Kelemvor slowly rose to their feet. When Midnight had warned them to take cover, both men had realized she was risking a spell and had immediately dropped to the ground in fear.
The four horsemen stopped ten feet in front of the pair, then dismounted to attack through the root tangle. As the walking corpses came forward, their mounts fled into the forest to avoid the approaching rain of fire.
“Midnight’s on the other side of the fire,” the fighter said to Adon. “When I say to, get out of here and run into the forest. We’ll circle around the flames, then take Midnight and go.”
The cleric had no time to acknowledge Kelemvor’s plan. The zombies had arrived on the other side of the roots. Two of them immediately began poking their swords through the tangle. The other two tried to circle around to attack unobstructed.
Kelemvor moved to meet the corpses trying to get around the roots. Adon stayed behind the tangle to keep the other two from climbing through. When the second zombie jabbed its sword between the roots, the cleric brought his mace down on the blade and smashed it. The corpse hissed, then threw itself at the roots, pushing its arm through in an angry attempt to grab the cleric.
Meanwhile, Kelemvor met the other two zombies and prevented the pair from flanking his position. The first corpse attacked and the warrior easily parried, then lopped off its sword hand. The second one slashed at Kelemvor’s head, but he ducked and backed away.
Behind Kelemvor’s attackers, the cloud began dropping tiny fireballs onto the ground. The underbrush immediately caught fire and flames began licking at the zombies’ backs.
“Go!” Kelemvor yelled. The warrior kicked the armed zombie in the chest, knocking it into the fire. In the same instant, the other zombie threw itself at Kelemvor, flailing madly. The fighter met its charge with a shoulder, then shoved it back into the fire beside its companion. Both zombies began to burn, but resolutely started back toward Kelemvor. He turned and ran into the forest on his right, confident the corpses would not catch him before being consumed by fire.
Adon simply backed away from the root tangle and climbed over the fallen tree’s trunk. He fled in the opposite direction from Kelemvor. The corpses that had been attacking him tried to climb the root tangle, then burst into flame as the cloud passed over their heads.
On the other side of the fire, Midnight tried in vain to see what was happening to her allies. Her limbs trembled and her head still throbbed from the effects of her misfired spell. Finally, she called, “Kelemvor, Adon!”
The magic-user heard no response, but suspected her voice would not carry through the noisy fire that separated them. The raven-haired mage didn’t know whether to try circling around the fire to meet her friends, or stay where she was and hope they could reach her.
Then Midnight heard the muffled thunder of more hooves behind her. Without turning around, the magic-user ran back to the shadows of her alder tree. The rider hammered past, the smell of rancid meat riding its wake. Midnight could not help gagging.
The zombie that was once Ogden the Hardrider drew up short and wheeled around to face the magic-user. The mount snorted, expelling an odor so foul it could only have come from the lungs of something dead and rotten.
Midnight presented her dagger in what she hoped was a threatening manner. She thought about reaching for a spell component, but rejected the idea. It would be impossible to use magic before the rider reached her. Besides, the incantation probably wouldn’t work.
The rider sheathed its blade, then walked its horse toward Midnight. Even in the pale moonlight, the magic-user could see her attacker in detail. The Purple Dragon of Cormyr decorated its shield. Its helm gleamed with reflections of the moon, and the zombie’s leather breastplate shined with oil and polish. But its gray skin hugged its cheekbones like shriveled leather, and a single red eye bulged from a sunken socket.
The horse must have once been magnificent, powerfully muscled, and well groomed. Now, the creature was more frightening than inspiring. Noxious black fumes discharged from its nostrils every time they flared, and the bit drew the beast’s lips back to expose a row of huge teeth that seemed fanglike and sharp.
Midnight started to back around the tree, being careful not to turn away from Ogden. The zombie urged its horse forward, quickly catching up to her. The magic-user kept her dagger pointed at the corpse and did not turn to run. Her chance of defeating the thing in combat was narrow, she knew, but her chance of outrunning it was nonexistent.
Finally, the horseman closed the gap entirely and leaned over to grab her. Midnight slashed at its ribs, opening a deep gash. The corpse didn’t care. Five icy fingers gripped the mage’s wrist and nearly jerked her arm from its socket as the zombie lifted her off the ground and draped her over the horse’s back.
A hand, as cold as granite and just as hard, pressed her down onto the saddle. Midnight tried to dislodge herself and slash at her captor, but it kept her pinned firmly in place and completely helpless. The rider started to walk its horse forward.
By now, Kelemvor had circled around the perimeter of the fire, and he saw Midnight being draped over the zombie’s saddle. The fighter immediately ran at a full sprint to cut the horseman off.
Before the rancid horse had taken a dozen steps, Kelemvor caught it. The fighter leaped out of the shadows and hit the zombie in the midsection, knocking both it and Midnight out of the saddle. The horse bolted. Midnight landed on the zombie, and Kelemvor landed on her.
The fighter stood up immediately, sword in hand. Using his free hand, he jerked Midnight to her feet. The corpse kicked at Kelemvor’s legs, but the warrior hopped out of the way.
“Are you okay?” Kelemvor asked Midnight. At the same time, he used his free arm to push her clear of the battle.
“Fine. Where’s Adon and the tablet?” She stepped back from the fight, knowing Kelemvor needed room to maneuver more than he needed the little help she could provide with a dagger.
Before Kelemvor could respond, the zombie drew its sword and slashed at the fighter’s stomach. He had to retreat a step, and the corpse leaped to its feet. Kelemvor attacked with a backhand that the zombie blocked easily, then it countered with a series of vicious slashes.
Meanwhile, Adon, still carrying
the tablet, had just circled around the other side of the fire. To the east, the cleric saw that most of the remaining zombies were being destroyed by the cloud of fire. A few of the undead were loping into the woods, but the cleric did not think he was in danger, as long as he moved away quietly. Then he heard the clanging of swords and decided to hazard moving faster.
Back with Kelemvor, Midnight hovered on the edge of the battle, dagger in hand. She was ready to strike if the zombie presented her an opening, but Ogden still moved with startling speed and grace. So far, she hadn’t even dared to approach within striking range of the undead creature.
Kelemvor slashed and the corpse parried, then thrust at the fighter’s head. He ducked inside the jab and smashed his hilt into the zombie’s jaw. The blow failed to stun the thing even slightly, so Kelemvor dropped to a knee and rolled away. He stumbled back to his feet just in time to block another of the corpse’s blows.
As she lingered on the edge of battle, it became increasingly clear to Midnight that Kelemvor was getting tired and would need help to destroy the zombie. The magic-user’s first thought was to try a magic missile, but after her earlier failure, she feared magic would do more harm than good. As risky as it was, she knew the best choice was stabbing the zombie in the back.
Then, as she started to circle around to the thing’s rear, Midnight saw Adon coming through the brush. The corpse seemed oblivious to him, so the magic-user decided to make sure the cleric remained unnoticed. She moved directly opposite Adon. Then, as Kelemvor slashed at the zombie’s head, Midnight hurled her dagger at its side.
The blade struck point first and sank several inches into Ogden’s torso. The zombie parried a thrust, then glanced at Midnight and snarled. The momentary distraction was all Kelemvor needed to land his first blow, opening a deep gash in the creature’s lower back. The corpse whirled on the fighter, slashing at him madly. Kelemvor barely managed to duck the wild swing, then the zombie raised its sword to strike again —and this time Kelemvor was so off balance, he would not be able to avoid the blow.
Adon stepped out of the brush and smashed his mace into the back of the zombie’s knees. The corpse dropped to the ground. Kelemvor stepped forward and separated the undead creature’s sword hand from its wrist. The cleric smashed his mace into the zombie’s nose, the fighter lifted his sword to strike again, and within moments Ogden the Hardrider no longer presented a threat.
For several seconds, Kelemvor stood panting over the foul-smelling body, too exhausted to thank Adon and Midnight for their help.
Regardless of whether he received thanks or not, Adon didn’t think it wise to allow the warrior to rest for long. “We’d better get out of here,” he said, pulling Midnight’s dagger out of the cadaver’s ribs and using it to point toward the woods. “There are still one or two zombies out there.”
“What about the archer who helped us?” Kelemvor panted. “He may be in trouble.”
“If they haven’t found him yet, they’re not going to,” Adon said, sharing a knowing glance with Midnight.
“I’m sure that this particular archer can take care of himself,” the magic-user added. If the archer was Cyric, as she and Adon suspected, the last thing he needed at the moment was to have Kelemvor roaming the woods, searching for him.
The warrior frowned. “Do you two know something I don’t?”
Midnight started walking to the north. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said.
“The men will see no rest tonight,” Dalzhel said, slipping past the cockeyed door.
A burly man who stood nearly six and half feet tall, Dalzhel resembled a bear both in build and disposition. He had broad, hulking shoulders, a heavy black beard, and a long tail of braided hair that hung down his back. His brown eyes were calm and observant.
Cyric didn’t respond to Dalzhel’s comment. Instead, he watched warily as his lieutenant entered the room. The thief and his men were five miles north of Eveningstar, in the great hall of a ruined castle. The hall was fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. An imposing fireplace dominated one end of the dusty chamber, the roaring fire within providing the room’s only light. In the middle of the floor sat a thirty-foot banquet table, gray and cracked from age and neglect. Around the table and scattered in the hall’s corners were a dozen rickety chairs.
Cyric had placed the sturdiest chair before the fireplace and was sitting in it. With a hawkish nose, narrow chin, and dark, stormy eyes, his sharp features were equally suited to sly humor or sinister moods. A recently acquired short sword lay across the thief’s lap. The blade’s reddish luster left little doubt that it was an extraordinary weapon.
Removing his wet cloak, Dalzhel moved to the fire. Beneath the cloak the Zhentish soldier wore a shirt of black chain mail. Though the armor weighed at least thirty-five pounds, Dalzhel removed it only to sleep—and then only when safely hidden away.
“You could not have picked a darker lair,” Dalzhel noted, warming his hands over the hearth. “The men are calling this place the Haunted Halls.”
Though he did not say so aloud, Cyric understood the sentiment. Located in the bottom of a deep gorge and overlooking the turbulent currents of the Starwater River, the ruin was as forlorn a place as he knew. The castle had been built before Cormyr had become a kingdom, yet many of its brooding walls and black towers remained intact. It was a hundred yards long and fifty wide, with outer walls still rising to a height of thirty feet in places. The gatehouses showed no signs of the castle’s age, though their elaborate portcullises had long since fallen into disrepair.
The great hall, residential apartments, kitchen, and stable had once stood snuggled against the keep’s interior wall, their doors and windows opening onto the courtyard. Only the great hall—built from the same black granite as the gatehouses—remained completely intact. The other buildings, constructed of some lesser stone, had fallen into ruins.
Given the castle’s combination of crumbled walls and imposing edifices, it did not surprise Cyric that the men found the place unsettling. Still, he had little stomach for their complaints. Dalzhel and the rest of the troops had arrived at the castle that morning, in plenty of time to avoid the storm that had raged all afternoon. Cyric, however, had not come until dusk—cold, tired, and wet after an afternoon in the rain. He had no wish to listen to the men simper.
Heedless of his commander’s mood, Dalzhel continued to speak. “There’s something beyond the outer curtain,” he said, trying to gain Cyric’s interest. He removed his scabbard and placed it upon the dusty banquet table. “Or so the watch says.”
Cyric had little concern for what lurked outside the walls to frighten his men. He decided to change the subject and asked, “How is my pony? That fellow carried me well, considering how hard I rode.”
“With rest it’ll recover—provided someone doesn’t kill it first,” Dalzhel said, returning to the fireplace. “There are those who grumble that it has eaten better than the men.”
“It’s proven more use!” Cyric snapped. The pony had carried him nearly one hundred and fifty miles over the last three days. A war-horse could not have done better. He considered threatening death to anyone who touched the pony, but rejected the idea. The order would breed resentment, and someone might take up the challenge. “If it survives until morning, take the pony to the plain and free it.”
“Aye. That’s for the best,” Dalzhel responded, surprised at his commander’s unexpected hint of compassion. “The men are in a foul mood. Couldn’t we have stayed elsewhere?”
“Where would you suggest?” Cyric growled, glaring at Dalzhel’s standing form. “Eveningstar?”
“Of course not, sir,” the soldier responded, stiffening his posture.
Dalzhel had meant the question to be rhetorical. Given that he and all the men wore Zhentish armor, few things would have been as foolish as seeking lodging in a Cormyrian town.
Cyric looked away and glowered into the fire. “Never question my orders!”
Dalzhel did not
respond.
The hawk-nosed thief decided to further chasten his lieutenant by bringing up a sore subject. “Where are your messengers?” he demanded harshly.
“Holed up with two-copper wenches from one end of Cormyr to another,” Dalzhel retorted, standing more or less at attention.
Cyric had ordered sentries to watch all roads leading out of Cormyr, and it had fallen on Dalzhel’s shoulders to execute the command. So far, not a single messenger had reported.
“And I’d be with ’em,” Dalzhel continued, “if my mother had blessed me with the sense of an ox.”
Cyric wheeled on Dalzhel, the rose-colored short sword in his hand and the desire to use it in his breast.
In return, the Zhentish lieutenant backed away and snatched his scabbard off the banquet table, then met his commander’s angry glare with a puzzled gaze. His reply had been out of line, but Cyric had never before responded to unruliness with such vehemence.
Three tentative raps sounded at the cockeyed door. The intrusion brought Cyric back to his senses and he thrust the short sword into its scabbard. “Enter!” he ordered.
The night sergeant, Fane, slipped into the room. He was a stocky man with a scraggly red beard. Water dripping from his cloak, he turned to Dalzhel and reported, “Alrik is missing from his post.”
“You’ve looked for him?” Dalzhel demanded, laying his scabbard back on the table.
“Aye,” Fane replied, hardly daring to meet Dalzhel’s gaze. “He’s nowhere to be found.”
Dalzhel cursed under his breath, then said, “Assign another to his place. We’ll deal with Alrik come morning.” He turned away, indicating the audience was over.
Fane did not leave. “Alrik isn’t one to desert,” he insisted.
“Then double the guard,” Dalzhel snarled, turning back to the sergeant. “But don’t let the men grumble to me about it. Now go.”