Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  “What are you doing?” Sneakabout asked, watching the bits of mud fall.

  “Encasing him in stone,” Midnight explained calmly. She continued crumbling the clay.

  “Magically?” Adon asked.

  “Of course—do I look like a stonesmith to you?”

  “What if you miscast it?” Adon objected. “You might bring the tower down around our ears!”

  Midnight frowned. The spell’s appearance had excited her so much that she hadn’t considered the possibility of it going awry.

  Bhaal shoved away several more stones.

  “What do we have to lose?” Midnight asked. The magic-user closed her eyes and focused on her magic. She quickly uttered the chant, crushing the last of the first clay ball.

  When she opened her eyes, the rubble had turned to a syrupy, translucent fluid the color of ale. She had expected mud, not pine sap, but at least Bhaal’s mangled form remained encased. His hateful eyes were focused on Midnight, and he was struggling to free himself.

  Kelemvor and the Cormyrians charged into view on the first floor, then stopped at the edge of the golden glob. One tried to stick his sword through the goo and stab Bhaal, but the syrup gripped his blade and would not release it.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the sergeant demanded.

  “How are we supposed to attack through that mess?”

  “I wouldn’t advise attacking at all,” Adon replied, “unless you have no other choice.”

  Midnight soaked the other clay ball, then began sprinkling it over the yellow glob.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” the sergeant demanded, pointing at Midnight’s hand with his sword.

  Sneakabout replied for the magic-user. “Never mind. By the way, I’d stand back if I were you.”

  Midnight closed her eyes and recited another spell, this one designed to turn the sticky mess solid. When she finished, the golden fluid began hardening. The avatar’s struggles slowed and completely stopped within seconds.

  The Cormyrian sergeant tapped the yellow glob with his sword. The blade chimed as if he had tapped granite.

  “Where did you learn that?” Adon asked.

  “It just came to me,” Midnight replied, her voice weak and tired. “I don’t understand myself.” She suddenly felt very dizzy, and realized that the spell had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

  Adon stared at Midnight for a moment. Each day, it seemed the mage learned something new about her magic. Thinking of his lost clerical powers, he could not help but feel a tinge of jealousy.

  “Will this hold?” Kelemvor asked, tapping the glob.

  Adon looked at Bhaal’s prison. The liquid had dried into eighteen inches of clear, crystalline rock. Inside, the avatar continued to stare at Midnight.

  “I hope so,” Adon replied, resting his own gaze upon Midnight’s weary face.

  Despite a fitful night of sleep, Midnight woke just an hour after dawn. Slivers of light slipped through the seams in the window shutters, illuminating her room in eerie green tones. She pulled her cloak on and opened the window. Where the sun should have hung was an immense, multifaceted eye similar to a fly’s or spider’s. It burned with a radiant green light that turned the entire sky to emerald and cast a lush glow over the gray mountains around High Horn.

  Midnight blinked and looked away. Atop the keep’s inner wall, the sentries marched their routes without paying the eye any attention. The magic-user wondered if she were imagining the thing, but when she looked back, the eye still hung in the sky.

  Fascinated by the magnitude of its hideousness, Midnight studied the green orb for several minutes. Finally, she decided her captivation was pointless and dressed.

  The mage proceeded with the task of dressing slowly, stopping to yawn often. After imprisoning Bhaal, Midnight had fallen into a restless sleep that did little to replenish her energy. Though the god’s attack had terrified her, the ride from Eveningstar had fatigued the mage to the point where staying awake had been out of the question.

  Her slumber had been short-lived, however. Two guards had come to lay planks over the collapsed landing, interrupting her rest. Midnight had spent the next two hours flinching at High Horn’s unfamiliar sounds, then finally drifted into an unsettled sleep that had lasted until she woke to the green dawn.

  Though still drowsy and exhausted, Midnight knew it would be pointless to return to bed. Sleeping during the day was difficult for her, especially with the clamor of castle life outside the window. Besides, the magic-user was anxious to turn her thoughts to the spell she had used last night.

  The spell had simply appeared in Midnight’s mind, which both puzzled and delighted her. Magic was a rigorous discipline, demanding careful and tedious study. The mystical symbols that a mage impressed upon her brain when studying a spell carried power. Casting the spell discharged the power, draining all memory of the symbols until the spell was studied again. That was why Midnight’s spellbook had been her most valued possession.

  But the stone-to-mud spell had appeared in her mind without study. In fact, she had never studied it, and had considered it beyond her ability to cast.

  Flushed with excitement, Midnight decided to summon another spell. If she could call mystical symbols at will, the loss of her spellbook would be a trivial—perhaps even lucky—thing.

  She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Then, remembering how Kelemvor had spurned her last night, she tried to trace the symbols for a charm spell into her brain.

  Midnight did not need to try for long, however. Nothing happened, and the magic-user immediately knew that nothing would. She sat down and analyzed every detail of the previous night’s events. After the collapsed landings had failed to kill Bhaal, she had realized their only hope was to imprison the god—and a method for doing so had come to her.

  But Midnight couldn’t remember any of the spell’s mystical symbols, and realized that the incantation had come to her in pure, unadulterated form. She puzzled over this for several minutes. In effect, mystical symbols were spells, for symbols put the spellcaster in touch with the magic that powered her art. It was impossible to cast a spell without using a mystical symbol.

  With sudden clarity, Midnight understood what had happened. She had not cast a spell at all, at least not as most magic-users thought of one. Instead, she had tapped the magic weave directly, shaping its power without symbols or runes.

  Her stomach fluttering, Midnight decided to try summoning the charm spell again. This time, she concentrated upon the desired effect instead of the symbols associated with it. The power swelled within her and she intuitively knew how to say the words and make the gestures that would shape the magic into her charm spell.

  Midnight’s hand went to her chest and she ran her fingers over a flat, smooth line crossing her collarbone. That was where, just weeks before, the chain of Mystra’s pendant had grafted itself to her chest.

  “What have you done to me?” she asked, looking toward the heavens. Of course, no one answered.

  As Midnight contemplated the magic weave in her room on the second floor, a dozen hungry Cormyrian officers stood in the banquet room on the first floor. They had been awaiting the arrival of Lord Deverell, and dawn repast, for over an hour.

  Finally, the lord commander stumbled into the room. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot and his skin pallid yellow. His condition had nothing to do with Bhaal’s attack of the night before. Lord Deverell had slept through the entire battle and knew about it only because his valet had recounted it for him.

  Although he had drunk less ale than Lord Deverell, Kelemvor was less accustomed to the potent drink and was in a condition similar to the lord commander’s. However, he was still in bed, having earlier informed a maid that he would not be rising before midday. Adon, too, remained in bed, finally resting quietly after a series of dreams involving Bhaal and various forms of slow death.

  Sneakabout was the only one of the four companions present when Lord Commander Deverell
took his seat. Though any other host might have found the absence of Sneakabout’s friends strange, perhaps even rude, it did not trouble Deverell. In fact, it made him feel less guilty about rising so late, and these days he could do with less guilt. The night officers were sure to grumble about his valet’s inability to rouse him last night, and Deverell couldn’t blame them. Lately, there had been too many occasions for similar remarks. But he felt he could not be blamed for keeping himself entertained in the forlorn halls of High Horn.

  Deverell waved the officers and Sneakabout to the table. “Sit,” he said wearily. “Eat.”

  The officers sat without comment. From conversations he’d had earlier, the halfling knew that the Cormyrians were in a foul mood. Most had spent the night on cold ramparts and were anxious to go to bed, though ceremony dictated they break bread with their lord first.

  Serving wenches brought out steaming bowls of hot cereal. Deverell looked at the gruel and pushed it away in disgust, but Sneakabout dug in with a hearty appetite. He liked boiled grains more than roasted meat or sweet cake.

  A moment later, Deverell turned to the halfling. “My steward tells me you broke into his office last night.”

  Sneakabout gulped down a mouthful of oats. “The need was great, milord.”

  “So I hear,” Deverell replied, shaking his head sadly. “My thanks for your quick thought.”

  “Think nothing of it, milord. It was but gratitude for your hospitality.” Though raised in Black Oaks, Sneakabout had seen the inside of enough palaces to know the mandates of courtesy.

  A murmur of approval rippled through the room. The lord commander tried to smile and inclined his head. “Your words are kind, but I must apologize. I promised safe refuge, and my failure to provide it is a grievous violation of host duty.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Lord Deverell,” Midnight said, stepping into the room.

  Lord Deverell and the others stood to acknowledge her presence. “Lady Midnight,” Deverell observed. “You look well this morning.”

  Midnight smiled, appreciating the flattery—though she knew her fatigue showed. The magic-user approached the table, continuing to speak. “You mustn’t feel bad on our account. Our attacker was Bhaal, Lord of Murder.”

  Whispers rustled round the table. She had just confirmed the rumor that had circulated through the ranks all night. A few men cast nervous glances toward the courtyard, where Bhaal still lay in his amber prison, but no one made any comments.

  Sneakabout added, “There was nothing you could do. Nobody could have stopped him.”

  “But you slowed him down, friend halfling,” Deverell responded, motioning Midnight to a seat. “Perhaps you should be my watch captain.”

  One of the officers, a lanky man named Pell Beresford, frowned. So did Midnight. In the few days she had known him, she had developed a fondness for the halfling—and the cleverness he had shown in twice saving their company. The prospect of parting with him did not make her happy.

  “I know you haven’t traveled long with Midnight and her friends,” Lord Deverell continued, resuming his seat. “If you wish to stay here, my offer is serious. I can always use men with keen wits.”

  “You flatter me,” Sneakabout said, astonished. Humans rarely offered positions of authority to halflings.

  Midnight bit her lip. If Sneakabout took the offer, she would have to congratulate him and appear happy.

  “I’d like to accept,” the halfling replied, looking into Deverell’s blurry eyes. “But my path runs with Midnight’s for a while yet.”

  Midnight breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then, thinking Lord Deverell deserved further explanation, Sneakabout added, “I’ve certain unfinished business with a Zhentilar band pursuing them.”

  “Black Oaks,” said Pell Beresford, pushing aside his empty bowl.

  Sneakabout nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Before dawn, forty of your people passed this way. They were trailing a troop of Zhentilar that one of our patrols chased off during the night.”

  “No doubt the same Zhentilar that chased you into our company,” Lord Deverell observed.

  “I must leave at once!” Sneakabout exclaimed, hopping out of his chair. “Where did they go?”

  “Patience,” said Lord Deverell. “They undoubtedly fled to the west, and those lands belong to the Zhentilar—if they belong to anybody. You’ll never find the ones you seek, though plenty of evil will find you. It would be wiser to forego your vengeance and accept my offer.”

  “If it were only a matter of vengeance, I would,” Sneakabout sighed. He meant what he said. As much as he ached to repay the men who destroyed Black Oaks, he knew that no good would come of trailing them into the Tun Plain.

  But Sneakabout had no choice. When the Zhentilar had attacked his village, they had stolen his sword. Now, as evil as it was, he had to steal it back. The thing had a will of its own—a will that had long dominated Sneakabout, forcing him to murder indiscriminately and often. If the red blade’s absence had not been driving him insane, Sneakabout would have been happy to be rid of the thing.

  But an irrational desire to recover the sword dominated all of his thoughts and he had not slept an hour since losing it. Sneakabout knew his symptoms would get worse. The sword’s previous owner had turned into a raving lunatic—before dying in a poorly planned attempt to recover the weapon.

  The lord commander, misinterpreting the desperation in Sneakabout’s eyes as resolve, said, “Do as your honor dictates. No matter how great my need, I can’t command you to stay.”

  Sneakabout bowed to Deverell. “My thanks for your hospitality.” He turned to Midnight. “Please say good-bye to Kelemvor and Adon for me.”

  “Where are you going?” Midnight demanded, rising to her feet.

  “To track down the Zhentilar who destroyed my village,” the halfling answered, glancing at the door anxiously. “As I remember, you wanted to avoid them.”

  Midnight ignored his barbed comment. “You’re going to catch your people and join the war party?” she probed.

  “You know they won’t have me,” Sneakabout replied testily.

  “If you go alone, the odds are twenty-to-one,” Deverell said. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Are you mad?” Midnight added, grabbing the halfling’s shoulder.

  Noticing that the Cormyrian officers were listening to the exchange, Sneakabout hesitated before replying. Midnight did not know about the sword’s curse. Nobody did, and he thought it wise to keep it that way. Finally, the halfling pulled away from the magic-user and snapped, “I’ve slipped into better guarded camps.”

  “And then what?” Midnight demanded. “Will you slit twenty throats as the Zhentilar sleep?”

  Just one, the halfling thought. He’d done that often enough. But all he said was, “I must go.”

  “You’ll be killed!” Midnight cried. She clenched her fists, angry at the little man’s stubbornness.

  “Perhaps not,” Lord Deverell noted, turning to halfling. “We often send heavy patrols into the Tun Plain. It’s time for another. If you rode with it, you’d be safe until you caught the Zhentilar who raided your village.”

  Before Sneakabout could reply, Deverell turned to Midnight. “The patrol could also escort your company as far as Yellow Snake Pass, if you’re going that way.”

  Several officers arched their brows, thankful they had been permanently assigned to garrison duty.

  “We’d certainly welcome that,” Midnight said. She and her companions had not yet discussed their new route to Waterdeep, but she knew both Adon and Kelemvor would agree. They’d been driven so far north that risking the Tun Plain and Yellow Snake Pass would be much easier than going south to join a caravan.

  “Good,” Deverell said wearily. “I’ll have the quartermaster assemble a few supplies. You’ll need mountain ponies, cold weather gear, spare weapons, rope, a map.…”

  Cyric sat huddled behind a boulder, a wet cloak drawn over his sho
ulders. To all sides, white-streaked peaks eclipsed the horizon, scraping their jagged snouts against the sky’s gray belly. Cyric’s men were camped on the only flat space visible for miles, a field of man-sized rocks at the base of a towering cliff. The field ended atop another cliff that overlooked the road from High Horn.

  A gentle, cold breeze washed down the valley, carrying with it the sour odor of skunkweed. Though a few scrappy bushes grew in sheltered pockets, there wasn’t a tree or plant taller than a dwarf in sight.

  Dalzhel stood next to Cyric, having just relayed what he thought was a reasonable request from the men.

  “They can’t build fires,” Cyric replied, not that he could see where anybody would find the wood to start one. After a night of icy drizzle, an insect eye had risen in the sun’s place. Though the eye had cast a green light over the mountains, its rays had lacked warmth, causing more grumbling among Cyric’s already disheartened men. Mercifully, clouds had finally moved in at midday and concealed the eye. At least the day now looked like it should be cold.

  The chill did not trouble Cyric. Though the water in his canteen was frozen solid, he could not have been warmer if he had been sitting before a roaring fire. Although the thief did not fully understand the reason for his warmth, he suspected the red sword had something to do with it.

  “We’re ill prepared for mountain travel,” Dalzhel grumbled, his nose and ears white from the cold. He looked toward the west, where eighteen of Cyric’s company sat huddled in the rock field. “The men are frozen and hungry.”

  One of the Zhentish soldiers let out an agonized wail, as he had every few minutes since dawn. The howls unsettled the horses and put Cyric’s nerves on edge.

  “No fires,” the hawk-nosed thief repeated. Though his men were freezing, there could be no fires, for fires created smoke, and smoke was visible for miles. “When our spies sight Midnight and we start moving, the men will warm up.”

  “That’s little comfort,” Dalzhel replied, rubbing his hands together. “Half the men will be frozen corpses by then.”

  “Think!” Cyric snapped. He touched the tip of his sword to a nearby rock. “This is us.” The thief moved the tip of his sword a few inches to the east. “And here is High Horn. The Cormyrians are over five hundred strong, with patrols crawling all over.”