by Troy Denning
Unfortunately, it had been faith in Sune that supplied Adon with clerical abilities. No matter how deeply felt or sincere, devotion to fellow man would never restore those powers. Gods were magical, supernatural, and, for reasons of their own, they rewarded fervent belief in their existence with the barest fraction of their power.
The door to the stairwell creaked open, abruptly ending Adon’s reflections. A sliver of yellow light slipped into the room. Watching the partially opened door, Adon reached for his mace and put his feet on the floor.
As the cleric stood, a black shadow flew out of the doorway, striking his face with a cold weight. Shrieking in surprise, Adon fell back onto the bed.
“Quiet!” Sneakabout hissed. “Put that on.”
Adon angrily peeled the mail shirt from his head, then slipped into it. “What’s happening?” he asked.
But Sneakabout, who had spent the last three hours examining every trap in the keep tower, had already disappeared. As the halfling reached the bottom of the stairs, the doors to the banquet hall opened. Six Cormyrian guards rushed into the room carrying torches and weapons.
“Jalur, help me bar the doors!” ordered the sergeant, waving his drawn sword at the entrance. “Kiel, Makare, and you others—to the stairwell!”
Surprised at how quickly the Cormyrians had retreated into the keep, the halfling crept toward the kitchen. His destination was the room directly below Adon’s, the steward’s office. Unfortunately, the office was locked and Sneakabout would have to pick the lock or find a key. Then he would have to rearrange the furniture so he could reach the crank. It would take time—time he might not have. The halfling had no idea what it was that the guards were fighting, but he knew that it had torn through them with frightening speed.
The guards knew little more about their opponent than Sneakabout. Orrel had seen something crawl down a dark corner of the inner wall. A moment later, a timid-looking man had stepped out of the shadows and walked nonchalantly to the keep’s entrance. Orrel and another guard had stepped out of the foyer to challenge him. He had knocked their halberds aside, then slipped a dagger out of his sleeve and killed them both with a single, long slash.
A third guard had yelled an alarm, which had also proven fatal. The stranger had thrown a dagger through the guard’s throat, silencing him in midscream. Fitch, the sergeant, had ordered the survivors to retreat inside. He felt foolish for running from a lone attacker, but the smooth efficiency with which the man killed left no doubt that he was no ordinary assassin. Because their assignment was to protect the keep tower, Fitch thought it wisest to retreat and bar the door, then send a man to call for help.
His strategy didn’t work. The doors were thick and heavy, designed for strength instead of maneuverability. As the sergeant and a guard pushed them into place, the stranger stepped out of the foyer. The guard died an instant later, the attacker’s fingers wrapped around his larynx.
Brandishing his sword, Sergeant Fitch yelled his last order to the men on the stairs. “In Azoun’s name, keep him downstairs!”
On the second floor, Adon heard the sounds of a brief scuffle, which was followed by a few words he could not understand. A flickering torch lit the landing that separated his room from Midnight’s. Her door was also ajar, but the chamber was too dark for him to see inside. The magic-user might be there, or she might have already fled.
To Adon’s left, the stairs descended in a gentle, clockwise spiral. Five feet down, another torch hung in a sconce, casting its dingy light upon the cold stone steps. Where the stairwell curved out of sight, the shadows of four Cormyrians were retreating up the stairs. Each silhouette held a polearm.
Judging from the shadows, it appeared a single man was pursuing them. One of the Cormyrian silhouettes lunged. A flurry of activity followed, then a weak chuckle rolled up the stairs. An instant later, a man screamed in agony.
The other three guards retreated another step. Their chain-mailed backs were visible to Adon now, but the attacker remained unseen. Adon could not believe a single man pressed so fiercely, but the shadow appeared to be nothing more.
The cleric had no doubt that the mysterious attacker had come for the tablet. He went to the window inside his room and opened the shutters. An icy, driving rain struck him full in the face. Dismissing any thought of the storm, Adon propped the tablet in the window. If necessary, he would shove the tablet out the window rather than let it fall into an enemy’s hands. With any luck, one of Deverell’s men would pick it up at the tower’s base and flee.
When Adon returned to the door, clutching his mace, only two guards remained. They stood on the second floor landing, facing their attacker despite the terror in their faces. Two steps below them stood the mysterious assassin. When Adon saw the little man, he could not help but be puzzled by the Cormyrians’ fear.
The man stood no taller than five and a half feet, and had a slight build. His bald head was tattooed with swirls of green and red, but that was the only thing about him that was even remotely frightening. From the stranger’s apprehensive brow hung a timid nose, with nervous, bulging eyes on either side. The only prominent features on the entire face were two flaplike ears and a set of buckteeth. The face was the kind that made Adon thankful for his own good looks, scar and all. The man’s body had been allowed to wither into a gaunt bag of bones held together by sinew and willpower alone. Small gouges and cuts covered him from head to toe.
“What’s wrong?” Adon demanded. “Stop him!”
One of the Cormyrians glanced in the cleric’s direction. “You try it—or get out of the way!”
A clamor arose outside the tower as word spread that the keep was under attack. The tattoo-headed man turned to listen for an instant, then calmly returned his gaze to the two guards in front of him. The stranger stepped forward, slapping their halberds aside as if the weapons were no more than sticks.
“Get back!” screamed the second Cormyrian, kicking at the bald man.
The guard’s boot caught the stranger square in the forehead. The blow should have sent him tumbling down the stairwell, but the tattooed head simply rocked back. Then the little man growled and, moving with astounding speed and grace, struck the offending leg and broke it. The guard screamed and fell, his head striking a stone step with a sickening thump.
Adon suddenly knew why the guards had not stopped the attacker. The little man was an avatar.
“Bhaal!” Adon gasped, unconsciously lifting his mace.
The avatar turned toward the cleric and drew his thin lips back in an acknowledging smile.
A wave of fear washed over Adon, and he could not force it away. When he had faced the god Bane in similar circumstances, Adon had had his faith to strengthen him. Death had not been frightening then, for he had believed that dying in Sune’s service was a high honor that would bring a great reward in the afterlife.
There were no such guarantees now. Adon had abandoned the goddess, and if he died, only endless despair and nothingness would follow. Worse, there would be nobody to set the matter straight. Bhaal would take the tablet and plunge mankind into darkness and misery.
The last guard dropped his halberd and drew his sword. He crouched into a fighting stance and slowly traced a defensive pattern in the air.
Still two steps below the landing, Bhaal turned his attention back to the guard.
The Cormyrian hazarded a glance at Adon. “Are you with me?”
Adon swallowed. “Aye,” he said. The cleric stepped out of his room and stood over the guard who had fallen a moment earlier.
The remaining live soldier shifted to the other side of the landing, then raised his sword. The guard was deliberately giving the god an opening so Adon could attack.
Heedless of the trap, Bhaal stepped forward, and Adon swung his mace at the avatar’s head. The god easily ducked the blow. Before the Cormyrian could slash, however, the Lord of Murder punched him in the abdomen. The man barely retained his balance and stumbled back on the landing. Bhaal now stood
next to Adon.
Staring the avatar in the eyes, Adon brought his mace into a guarding position. The Cormyrian staggered a step forward and lifted his sword, too.
“What now?” the guard asked, gasping for breath.
“Attack!” Adon yelled.
The Cormyrian obliged with a vicious overhead slash. Bhaal sidestepped it easily, moving backward toward Midnight’s chamber.
The magic-user’s door flew open. Midnight stood in the entrance to her room, dagger in hand. She had been watching the battle in silence, cursing the loss of her spellbook and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Finally, it had come. She thrust the blade into the avatar’s back.
Bhaal’s eyes widened in surprise. He started to turn, and Adon seized the chance for an easy attack, smashing his mace into the avatar’s ribs. The god’s knees buckled and he tumbled down the stairs, roaring in a rage.
The avatar came to rest six steps down, Midnight’s dagger still planted in his back.
“Is he dead?” Midnight asked.
Bhaal rose and glared at the magic-user, cursing in a language no human could duplicate. Without paying any attention to his wounds, the Lord of Murder jumped for the landing.
The Cormyrian yelled and leaped to meet the avatar, blade flashing. Bhaal met the guard in midair, blocking the soldier’s sword arm with a bone-crunching blow and simultaneously driving his fingers into the man’s throat. The avatar reached the landing with the guard’s gasping body in his hands, then dropped the corpse down the stairs without a second thought.
It was then that Adon understood. Nothing they could do would stop the avatar. Bhaal was animating the body with his own life force.
The tramp of boots and a chorus of yells announced that reinforcements had entered the keep tower.
“Run, Midnight!” Adon yelled. “We can’t kill him!”
The cleric turned toward his own room, intending to shove the tablet out the window. Bhaal grinned, then turned toward Midnight.
“Adon!” the magic-user screamed. “What are you doing?” She could not believe her friend would desert her.
Midnight’s cry brought Adon back to his senses. In his concern to protect the tablet, he had forgotten she was defenseless. He turned and hefted his mace, finding Bhaal’s back to him. It was as good a chance as he’d ever have.
Adon brought the mace down hard on the back of Bhaal’s head. Bone splintered beneath the weapon. The surprised avatar teetered and stumbled, and Adon thought for a moment the god might actually fall.
Bhaal lifted a hand and felt the wound. His fingers came away bloody. Without so much as turning around, he kicked backward, catching the cleric in the ribs. Adon flew into his chamber, crashed into his bed, then crumpled to the floor gasping for breath and wondering how he would ever pick himself up.
Adon felt the floor tremble faintly, then metal screeched against metal. He had no idea what could be causing the strange noise and vibration.
“What’s happening down there?” Kelemvor yelled from up the stairway. His voice was hoarse with grogginess.
Bhaal looked up the stairs, his head little more than a bloody pulp.
“By Torm’s mailed fist!” Kelemvor cursed, descending the keep’s stairs with heavy, unsteady steps. “What are you, I wonder?”
Bhaal turned back to the magic-user, apparently unconcerned with the warrior. Heart pounding with fear, Midnight held on to her door for support while searching her mind for a way to defend herself without a weapon.
A mighty roar echoed from the walls. Kelemvor flew into view, swinging his sword in a mighty arc. Bhaal dropped his shoulder, letting the fighter land on his back, then stood up and catapulted the warrior down the stairwell. Kelemvor flashed out of Adon’s sight as quickly as he had entered it.
A series of thumps and curses announced that the Cormyrian reinforcements had broken the fighter’s fall—and that they would be delayed even further. Adon forced himself to stand, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. His doorway was aligned directly opposite Midnight’s, and he could see Bhaal slowly advancing on the magic-user.
Midnight remained motionless as the Lord of Murder moved toward her. She had thought of a way to delay Bhaal, but it depended upon surprise. When the god reached the threshold to her room, she slammed the door, using its bulk as a weapon.
The move did catch Bhaal by surprise, and the heavy door hit him squarely in the face. The avatar stumbled back two steps, then Midnight pushed the door shut, slid the bolt into place, and braced her body against it. The tactic would not hold the Lord of Murder for long, but it might allow her time to think of something better.
Bhaal stood in the middle of the landing and stared at the closed door, venting his anger in a stream of guttural curses.
Adon could easily understand how Midnight’s move had stunned the evil god, for it had certainly astonished him. What he could not understand, however, was why Bhaal was concentrating so intently on her. Perhaps the god assumed that she carried the tablet, or, not realizing that her spellbook was lost, feared her magic more than Adon’s mace. Whatever the reason, the cleric decided to take advantage of the situation.
Adon stepped into his own doorway. Six feet down the stairs, Kelemvor and eight Cormyrians lay in a heap, dazed and groaning.
As the cleric raised his mace, the floor vibrated beneath his feet again, and faint metallic clinks echoed around the landing. Though he could not imagine what caused them, Adon shrugged off the strange vibrations and prepared to attack.
In the same instant, Bhaal rushed forward and kicked Midnight’s door. The bolt snapped off and the door flew open, sending the magic-user sprawling.
Adon missed Bhaal’s head and his mace struck the floor with a hollow clang. Two stones fell out of the landing. The cleric stepped back into the doorway to his room and frowned at the hole in astonishment.
Bhaal turned to face Adon, the avatar’s face betraying irritation. Then the entire landing collapsed, carrying the Lord of Murder and the body of one fallen guard with it. The landing crashed onto the first floor with a deafening clatter. Clouds of dust billowed up out the newly opened pit.
Midnight crawled back to her doorway, and, for a moment, both she and Adon stared down into the hole. When the air finally cleared, they both saw that Bhaal’s crumpled form lay in the rubble, its neck cocked at a severe angle and obviously broken. The small body, sprawled and twisted, had been crushed in a dozen places.
But the avatar’s eyes remained opened, and they were staring at Adon with deliberate wrath. The god curled first his left hand into a fist, then his right.
Midnight gasped, unable to believe the avatar still lived.
“What does it take to kill you?” Adon cried.
As if in answer, Sneakabout stuck his head out of a hole below the cleric’s doorway. It was where the beam supporting the landing should have been.
“That didn’t do it?” the halfling asked. “What have you dragged me into?”
“What happened?” Midnight asked, still staring in wonder at the collapsed landing.
“It was a trap,” Sneakabout noted casually. “A last line of defense. The landings in this tower are designed to collapse, in case the keep is breached and the residents need to slow down pursuit while they retreat to the roof.”
As the halfling spoke, Bhaal drew a knee up to his chest, then propped himself into a sitting position.
“Never mind,” Adon said, pointing at the avatar.
Sneakabout gestured at the top of Adon’s doorway. “There’s a crank behind the door!” he cried, waving his hand for emphasis. “Turn it!”
The cleric stepped behind the door. The crank was where Sneakabout said it would be. The cleric began turning it. A terrible, rusty screech filled the room. The beam overhead—the one that supported the landing on the third floor—began moving.
“Hurry!” Sneakabout screamed.
Midnight backed away from her door, sensing it might be wiser to be completely inside her ro
om when the landing fell.
Adon cranked harder. The supportive beams slowly withdrew, and a stone dropped out of the landing. Then two more dropped. Then a dozen. Finally, the whole thing crashed down, falling through the hole where the second floor landing should have been.
Sneakabout poked his head out of his hole again, and Midnight crawled to look out her doorway. The Cormyrian reinforcements finally reached the second floor, Kelemvor stumbling along behind them. Everybody peered through the hole and stared at the rubble on the first floor.
“Is he dead?” Sneakabout asked.
Adon shook his head. “No. When a god’s avatar dies, the destruction is immense.”
“A god!” Sneakabout gasped, nearly tumbling out of his hole.
Adon nodded. “Cyric wasn’t lying. Bhaal is chasing us.” The cleric paused and pointed at the rubble. “That’s him.”
As if in response to Adon’s revelation, the dust clouds cleared. Bhaal lay buried under a small pile of rock, a hand and foot protruding from beneath the stones.
“He looks dead to me,” Sneakabout declared.
The hand twitched, then it pushed a stone away.
Midnight gasped. “If we can’t kill him,” she said, looking to Adon, “isn’t there some way to imprison him?”
Adon frowned and closed his eyes, searching his memory for some trap that might hold a god. Finally, he shook his head, “Not that I know of.”
The hand pushed another stone away.
“To the first floor, men,” ordered the Cormyrian sergeant.
“Quick, before he frees himself!” Kelemvor added, turning and leading the way down the stairs—to die in a hopeless fight, Adon thought.
“Perhaps we should leave now,” Sneakabout offered weakly.
Midnight was not listening. As soon as she had suggested imprisoning Bhaal, a spell unlike anything she had ever studied had formed in her mind.
The mage went back into her room and rummaged through her cloak, then emerged with two balls of clay and some water. After soaking the first ball in water, Midnight crumbled it between her fingers and sprinkled it over the pile of rubble below.