by Troy Denning
Midnight paused to search for signs of a sentry. Then she heard a faint chorus of deep laughter behind the inn. A high-pitched voice cried, “Not again, I beg—aaaaghh!”
Taking care to remain concealed in the brush, the magic-user circled around to the southern side of the building. The high-pitched voice screamed again, then fell silent. A few seconds later, the foul drizzle changed to a shower, and Midnight reached the edge of the clearing. She stopped a hundred feet away from the building, where she had a clear view of the area between the inn and the river.
Standing up to their chests in water, four Zhentilar held a ten-foot long log in place against the current. They had carved a deep groove in the center of the wood, and in this groove rested the joint of two long poles lashed together at right angles. The Zhentilar had tied a halfling to the far end of each pole, leaving his arms free so that he could swim and hold himself above water.
The diabolic result of this construction was that a prisoner could not hold himself above the surface without forcing his comrade at the other end beneath the water. Two wet halflings already lay on shore, one dead, the other coughing weakly.
Four more Zhentish soldiers stood at the river’s edge, chuckling quietly and betting on which prisoner would survive. Another man stood apart from them, evidently uninterested in the cruel sport. He was a large man with black braided hair, a bushy beard, and gleaming blue-black chain mail.
A cloak-shrouded figure left the four wagering Zhentilar and walked toward the lone black-haired man, pulling his cape tight over his shoulders. Midnight immediately recognized Cyric.
“Come on, Dalzhel, join the fun!” the hawk-nosed thief cried.
“You’re wasting time, sir.”
Cyric looked back to the water torture. “Nonsense. The men are enjoying themselves.” He did not add that he found the diversion entertaining, too.
“What of the woman? We should ride after her.”
“There’s no need,” Cyric said confidently. “The spies in Hill’s Edge spotted her and tell me that she’s alone.” He paused and smiled. “She’ll come to us.”
A roar went up from the Zhentilar, and Midnight saw that one prisoner had broken the surface of the river, plunging his companion beneath the waves.
“Another plan, milord?” Dalzhel asked, ignoring the cheering spectators.
Cyric nodded, then looked back at the struggling halflings and chuckled. “She’s going to ride right into our arms,” he said absently.
Midnight licked her lips and tasted an angry sweat. She had nearly done just that. In fact, she might yet be captured.
Dalzhel raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “Even if she knows where to find us, I doubt she’ll trust you after you killed the halfling.”
“Trust me?” Cyric guffawed, grabbing Dalzhel’s massive shoulder for support. “I don’t expect her to trust me any longer. I’ll no longer play those games with her.”
Dalzhel frowned in puzzlement. “Then why would she join us?”
Cyric laughed even harder and pointed to the river. “The ford,” he said. “It’s the only one within sixty miles. She has to come this way.”
Embarrassment crept over Dalzhel’s face and he smiled sheepishly. “Of course, milord. We’ll ambush her.”
“Without Kelemvor to buy her time, we’ll have her bound and gagged before she casts her first spell!”
Midnight’s heart felt as though it had turned to ice. Kelemvor had been right—Cyric was a traitor. She needed no more proof. The magic-user exhaled quietly and choked back her anger. The icy feeling in her heart remained, and she vowed Cyric would pay for his betrayal.
The shower increased to a downpour. An eerie wail came down the river and the fetid rain fell as though driven by a hardy wind. Even though the air remained deathly calm, Midnight ignored the bizarre rain. Since the night of Arrival, she had seen many things a thousand times stranger.
But Cyric and Dalzhel did not share her lack of concern. The last time they had heard that wail, in the Haunted Halls, they’d lost several good men. Both men frowned and looked skyward.
“I’ll check the sentries,” Dalzhel said.
Midnight’s scalp bristled with alarm. She had seen no sentries, and the fact that she remained undiscovered proved they had not seen her. Something was wrong.
“I’ll finish with the halflings,” Cyric grumbled, turning back to his men and prisoners.
Midnight saw that the soldiers had forgotten about the halflings. They, too, remembered what had happened the last time they heard a wail like the one that echoed around them now. Several of the Zhentilar held their hands on their hilts, nervously glancing in every direction, expecting Bhaal to appear at any moment.
As Dalzhel turned away, Cyric called out a last instruction. “If Midnight doesn’t show within the hour, we’ll go to Hill’s Edge.”
“Aye,” Dalzhel replied, “assuming we’re not fighting for our lives.”
“You will be,” Midnight whispered. “I promise.” Though she did not understand the source of Cyric’s distress, she intended to use it to maximum effect.
Her first order of business, however, was to free the halflings. Though fearing her magic might misfire, she had no choice except to rely upon it. She summoned the words and gestures for telekinesis magic to mind. A normal telekinesis spell simply moved objects horizontally or vertically. The magic-user was gambling she could manipulate the ends of the ropes with enough dexterity to loosen them.
Midnight immediately performed the incantation. To her astonishment, all the ropes in the area, not just the ones binding the halflings, immediately loosened and began to unravel of their own accord. The two halflings on the torture device came free and floated down the river. Then their ropes began swimming for shore, as though they were snakes. The cord lashing the poles came undone, too, and crawled onto the log, coiled itself, and struck at one of the Zhentilar.
Cyric’s men voiced astonished shouts and angry curses. The thief started toward the river. “Kill the prisoners! Kill them this instant!” He pulled his short sword. In the gray light, its pink blade seemed especially threatening.
His men immediately moved to obey, drawing their blades. The halflings swam as fast as they could, and the men lunged after them clumsily, hacking and swinging—sometimes at the escapees, and sometimes at the ropes squirming past them. The halflings were exhausted and it was all they could do to keep their heads above the water. Still, the current was a fast one, and it seemed possible the river would carry them out of danger’s reach. Cyric growled angrily and waded into the river to intercept one of the escapees.
When Midnight noticed that the living ropes were crawling toward her, she backed into the brush, moving closer to the river. The ropes adjusted their course and kept crawling toward her.
One of the Zhentilar noticed what the animated ropes were doing and pointed at them. “Look!” he yelled. “They’re after something!”
Cyric glanced at the ropes. “See what it is!” he ordered. At the same time, he adjusted his position to intercept his prey.
Midnight backed away again, through the bushes. If the Zhentilar’s attention had not been focused in her direction already, the resulting rustle would have gone unnoticed. But the squirming ropes were crawling straight toward Midnight’s hiding place, and it was impossible for the soldier to miss the noise. An instant later, he saw Midnight’s form huddled in the brush.
“There’s someone in there!” He yelled, stopping. “A woman!”
Midnight stood, ready to flee.
In the same instant, Cyric turned toward the brush and saw the mage’s familiar black cloak. “Midnight!” he called. “You’re here at last!” Without looking away from the thicket, he reached out and snagged the halfling who was drifting by.
“I am,” she growled. In that instant, the raven-haired magic-user decided not to run. As of yet, Cyric and his men had made no move toward her, but they would obviously give chase the instant she fled. The longer Cyric tal
ked, the longer Midnight had to develop a plan of escape. “And I know you for what you are.”
Cyric shrugged. “What’s that?” Moving smoothly and casually, he pulled the half-drowned halfling to him and slit his throat.
“Monster!” Midnight yelled, taken by surprise. “You’ll pay for that!”
An instant of doubt flashed across Cyric’s brow. He let the halfling’s body slip into the water, then waded toward shore. His men started after Midnight, but he waved them back. “No,” the thief said. “You won’t make me pay. We were friends once, remember?”
“That’s over!” The magic-user thought of killing Cyric and the appropriate incantation came to her, but she did not cast it. Before he died, Midnight wanted Cyric to know what she was punishing him for. “You betrayed me, Cyric. You betrayed all of us, and by Auril’s blue skin, I’m going to—”
“Be careful by whom you swear,” Cyric cautioned, stepping onto the riverbank. “The Goddess of Cold is more of my persuasion than—”
The thief’s eyes suddenly bulged in terror and his lips pursed to form a single word. “No!”
Cyric’s unexplained fright caused Midnight to hesitate. She sensed movement behind her—then the ambusher was upon her. A vicelike hand clamped over the mage’s mouth, burning her lips where it touched them, and a steely arm snaked around her waist, causing her intestines to churn in revolt.
Midnight tried to cast her death spell, but found that she could not. The thing held her immobile; she could not voice the words or make the gestures to execute the incantation. The iron-gripped attacker lifted the mage off her feet and retreated into the brush.
When that day became night, it did not grow dark. The sky twinkled with a thousand different colors, as though the heavens were filled with glittering gemstones. Kelemvor could not deny that the flickering light cast a certain macabre beauty over the land. But he would have been happier with the customary stars and moon overhead, and he envied Adon for having found a retreat from the eerie night.
Adon sat cross-legged before the small fire, his attention focused on the yellow flames. Though he knew Kelemvor sat beside him, that it was night and they were camped on the bank of the River Reaching, he was not “aware” of these things. His mind had retreated into itself, following the convoluted pathways of prayerful meditation.
“Anything yet, Adon?” the green-eyed fighter asked. Though he was not well versed in these matters, it seemed to him that something should have happened by now.
The interruption shattered the trance and Adon came spinning back to the world with dizzying speed. The cleric closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, digging his fingers into the cold mud.
He had been sitting before the fire since dusk, without eating, drinking, or so much as shifting his weight. His back ached, his legs were numb, and his eyes burned. Irritated with Kelemvor’s intrusion, Adon asked, “How long has it been?”
“Half the night, maybe more,” the warrior muttered, doubting the wisdom of interrupting the cleric’s meditation. “I’ve been to gather wood a dozen times.”
He didn’t add that someone was watching them. If he told Adon now, the cleric would react with surprise and the mysterious figure would know that she’d been discovered.
Adon rolled his neck, letting his aggravation drain away with his stiffness. He could not blame Kelemvor for being impatient, and the interruption had not changed the trance’s result. “I found nothing,” the scarred cleric reported. “Sune cannot hear me … or will not answer.”
Adon wasn’t surprised by this fact or even disappointed. Attempting to contact Sune had been Kelemvor’s idea. Even though it was a desperate plan with little chance of success, the cleric had agreed because they stood to lose nothing by trying.
The fighter, however, was disappointed. He snapped a stick and threw it into the fire. “Midnight’s lost, then,” he said sadly.
Adon laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
Kelemvor shook his head. “She’s been gone four nights. We’ll never catch her.”
The cleric could say nothing. When she had abandoned them, Midnight had ridden north, well into the gorge of the River Reaching. Mounted on her sturdy mountain pony, Midnight could have taken no more than three or four hours for the first leg of her escape. But on foot, it had taken Adon and Kelemvor a full day to reach the clearing where she had left their mounts. By the time they had returned to the main route, Midnight had a head start of a day and a half.
Her desertion would have been disturbing in itself. But when they found Midnight’s trail again, Kelemvor had also discovered the hoofprints of a dozen horses following her. He and Adon had both agreed the horses could only belong to Cyric and his men.
“Well, what should we do now?” Kelemvor asked.
Adon didn’t have a single idea to offer, and he wished Kelemvor would stop looking to him for answers. Still, he knew someone had to make a decision, and, with Midnight missing, Kelemvor would not be the one. So Adon stood and unfolded the map Deverell had given them. After a moment of thought, he placed a finger on a dot a few miles down the river. “We’ll go to Hill’s Edge,” he said. “Midnight will need a strong horse to cross the plains, and so will we.”
Adon started to kick dirt on the fire, but Kelemvor stopped him. Placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, the fighter turned toward the river. Fifty feet away, the woman who had been watching them was approaching.
The cleric followed Kelemvor’s gaze. “Is that you, Midnight?” he called.
The woman continued to approach. “No, it’s not,” she replied, her voice soft and melodious. “May I approach your camp anyway?”
Having spent the night staring into the fire, Adon’s eyes were unaccustomed to the dark. Even in the eerie light of the sparkling sky, he couldn’t see the mysterious woman clearly. Nevertheless, he was the one who replied. “You’re welcome here.”
A few seconds later, she stepped into the firelight and Adon gasped. The woman stood as tall as Kelemvor, with silky brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her complexion was fair, though the glittering sky cast over it a multihued tint that lent an ethereal quality to her beauty. Her face was oval-shaped, with a leanness that contrasted the fullness of her striking figure. In contrast to the eloquence of her beauty, she wore the rugged clothes of one who lived in the wilderness.
A wave of hope washed over Adon. Perhaps his prayers had been answered. “Sune?” he asked meekly.
The woman blushed. “You flatter me.”
Adon could not help frowning as his momentary excitement faded.
Noticing the cleric’s disappointment, the woman feigned disappointment herself and said, “If only the Goddess of Beauty is welcome in your camp—”
Kelemvor raised a hand and said, “Don’t be offended. We didn’t expect anybody to wander into our camp, especially you—er, I mean a beautiful woman.”
“A beautiful woman,” she repeated distantly. “Do you think so?”
“Certainly,” Adon said, bowing. “Adon of—well, just Adon, and Kelemvor Lyonsbane at your service.”
The woman bowed in return. “Well met. Javia of Chauntea at yours.”
“Well met,” Adon replied. If she served Chauntea, the Great Mother, that meant the woman was a druid. That explained her presence in the wilderness.
“I’ve been watching your prayer fire,” Javia explained. “Was it Sune you were praying to?”
“Yes,” Adon responded glumly.
Javia stared at the scar on the cleric’s cheek. Her compassionate eyes showed that she understood the remorse the blemish would bring to a follower of the Goddess of Beauty.
Adon turned his head to hide the scar.
Javia blushed and smiled shyly. “Forgive me. I don’t often meet travelers here and I forget how to act.”
“What are you doing out here?” Kelemvor asked.
Sensing the fighter’s suspicion, the woman said, “Perhaps I’m interrupting your ser
vice—”
“Not at all, Javia,” Adon protested, taking her by the hand and guiding her to a log beside the fire. “Sit. Please.”
“Yes,” Kelemvor said moodily. “Praying wasn’t solving our problems anyway.”
Javia arched her eyebrows in alarm. “Don’t say that!”
“I didn’t mean—,” Kelemvor began, recoiling from Javia’s vehement response. Then he decided it was better to be honest and explain what he meant. “In our case, it’s true.” He pointed at Adon’s cheek. “All the praying in the world didn’t get rid of that scar, and Adon got it in Sune’s service.”
“Surely not in Sune’s service!” Javia exclaimed, her voice sharp with reproach. “She is no goddess of filthy war.”
“Do you think that’s why she let me suffer?” Adon asked, his grief working its way to the surface again. “Because I fought in the wrong cause?”
Javia’s face softened and she turned to Adon. “Your cause may have been right enough,” she said. “But expecting a goddess to serve a worshiper …” She let the sentence trail off as though Adon ought to know better than to expect something like that.
Adon felt his anger rising. “If not a worshiper, then who?” he demanded.
Javia looked puzzled for a moment, as if she had never considered the question. Finally, she answered, “Herself—who else?”
“Herself,” Adon echoed indignantly.
“Yes,” Javia replied. “Sune, for example, cannot concern herself with the welfare of her followers. The Goddess of Beauty must think only of beauty. If she contemplates ugliness, no matter how briefly or for what purpose, then she brings ugliness into her soul. If that happened, we would no longer have a pure ideal—all beauty would contain some ugliness.”
“Tell me,” the cleric demanded angrily, “what do you think worshipers matter to the gods?”
Kelemvor sighed. To the warrior, many things were worth arguing about—but religion was not one of them.