by Troy Denning
The night was a moonless one. But the clouds, which were drifting into and out of different patterns of geometric precision, quivered with milky incandescence. The result was a shifting, silvery light that illuminated the land with a dusklike gleam.
The bluff overlooked the shimmering currents of the Winding Water. Ahead and to the company’s left, five stone arches spanned the river: Boareskyr Bridge. In front of the bridge, the remains of a perpetual tent city hugged both sides of the road. All that remained of it now were fire scars, a few charred horses’ carcasses, and the fire-blackened foundations of the city’s only two permanent buildings. On both sides of the deserted settlement, brush as high as a man’s head covered the river’s flood plain.
Kelemvor didn’t even wonder what had happened to the nomadic city. In these times of chaos, it could have been anything.
“The winged horses are over there,” Adon said, pointing a hundred feet east of the bridge. Two pegasi were cavorting low in the sky.
“Then let’s go,” Dalzhel ordered gruffly, urging his horse forward.
Ten minutes ago, when they had first seen the pegasi, the four had debated the wisdom of chasing the winged horses. Adon had won the argument, claiming that the pegasi were as intelligent as men and might have seen some sign of Midnight and Bhaal.
Unseen to the four riders, the objects of their search were lying hidden in the closest fire-blackened foundation. Midnight was asleep, bound and gagged, her head resting on the saddlebag with the tablet. Bhaal was watching the frolicking pegasi, his eyes burning with an appetite for their lives.
Finally, the Lord of Murder could resist the temptation no longer. He decided to go after the winged horses. If Midnight tried to flee while he was gone, it was just as well. Myrkul’s plan called for her to escape near Dragonspear Castle, but Bhaal could see no harm in letting her go earlier. The fallen god thought about taking the tablet with him, but decided against it. If the mage woke and found it gone, she would realize he had lied to her about it being worthless. Besides, it would only be in his way while he hunted.
Bhaal’s contemplation came to an abrupt end when he heard a horse nicker in the brush ahead. The pegasi were still sailing through the air, but he was sure that the sound had come from the ground. That meant someone was out there. Without making a sound, the Lord of Murder climbed out of the foundation and disappeared into the heavy brush.
A minute later, when she was confident Bhaal had truly left her unattended, Midnight opened her eyes. She sat up and began pushing her hands back and forth in her bindings. The magic-user had been working her hands against the leather thongs all day, and had finally stretched them far enough that she now might be able to free herself.
Meanwhile, several hundred feet away, Dalzhel’s horse reared at the edge of a dry gully. On the opposite bank, something rustled the spindly bushes. The Zhentish lieutenant reached for his sword, then a man’s form leaped from the hedge. The horse reared again, lashing out with its fore-hooves. Two sharp cracks sounded as it struck the attacker.
The dark form growled, then grabbed one of the horse’s forelegs. There was a hollow pop, then tendons and cartilage began cracking. When the horse dropped back to the ground, whinnying in terror and pain, it was missing a leg. Dalzhel leaped free as his mount collapsed.
On the other side of the fallen horse stood Kae Deverell’s form. He hardly looked human. His body had bloated and taken on a doughy texture made more sickening by the silvery light of the luminescent clouds. Because it had been used without regard to preserving it, the body was covered with wounds and bruises from head to toe. The fecund odor of infection hung in the air around the avatar.
The four riders immediately knew they had found Bhaal—or rather, Bhaal had found them. Choking his gorge back, Kelemvor spurred his mount forward and lifted his sword. Bhaal raised his fist and rushed forward. Kelemvor transferred his free hand from the reins to the saddlehorn so he could lean down to Bhaal’s level.
They met with a crash and Kelemvor’s sword sliced into soft flesh. However, Bhaal’s fist also found its mark. The warrior slipped from his stirrups and landed on his back. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.
Cyric came next, leaping over Kelemvor the instant the fighter hit the ground. The thief’s sword flashed. A sharp hiss sounded as its red blade bit into the avatar. Bhaal roared in anger and turned. The Lord of Murder grabbed a handful of hide, then tore a long strip of flesh off the flank of the thief’s horse. Cyric’s mount screeched in alarm and kicked, throwing its rider.
As Cyric fell, Bhaal retreated into the hedge on the far bank.
Adon spurred his mount forward, barely clearing Kelemvor as the warrior tried to rise. The horse’s hooves landed in front of Kelemvor’s nose, then Adon galloped on in pursuit of Bhaal. The cleric’s horse crashed into the hedge and slowed to a dead stop, unable to penetrate the thick brush into which Bhaal had disappeared. The horse then slipped down a steep bank and stumbled, spilling Adon onto the creek’s bed.
By the time the young cleric and his three companions recovered, Bhaal was gone. Cyric’s horse had run off. Kelemvor’s and Adon’s mounts were nervously pacing up and down the dry wash. Dalzhel’s horse lay on the ground whimpering. Its left leg had been snapped off at the knee, leaving a white, rounded knob exposed.
Approaching the wounded beast from behind, Dalzhel quickly ended his mount’s suffering. Afterward, he said, “No animal should have to face the likes of that.”
“Nor any man,” Adon replied. “But here we are.”
Cyric quickly joined them. His eyes sparkled with excitement and the blade of his sword was deep red. “Dalzhel, take the point,” he ordered. “Kel, Adon, take the flanks. We’ll flush him out.”
“And do what?” Dalzhel demanded.
The burly Zhentilar seemed a prudent and not altogether evil man, and Kelemvor had trouble understanding why Dalzhel followed the likes of Cyric. In the three days they had ridden together, Kelemvor had come to regard the man not altogether unkindly.
“We’ll kill Bhaal, of course!” Cyric said.
“You’re mad,” Kelemvor replied, shaking his head.
Cyric turned. “Mad?” he exclaimed. The thief lifted his sword, being careful not to appear threatening. He merely wanted Kelemvor to look at the blade. “Mad? … perhaps. But with this, I wounded Bhaal. Imagine, I injured a god!”
“We chased him away,” Adon said, “that’s all.” He picked something out of the sand, then held it up for the others to see. It was a dirty, bloated thing: a hand severed at the wrist. “We can hack the avatar to pieces, but we’ll never kill Bhaal.”
“No,” Cyric insisted. “I can destroy him—I can feel it!”
“Maybe we’ll kill Bhaal and maybe we won’t,” Kelemvor grumbled. “But that’s not why we’re here. We came to find Midnight.”
“Look!” Adon pointed skyward. The clouds had arranged themselves into a mass of perfect rhombuses. But that was not what had excited the cleric. The pegasi were flying away.
“They’re fleeing!” Adon said. “They must have seen Bhaal.”
Kelemvor nodded. “We’ve got to hurry!”
“Why?” Dalzhel asked. “Adon just said we couldn’t—”
“Bhaal has Midnight and the tablet. He could be leaving,” the green-eyed fighter replied.
By the time Kelemvor finished the sentence, Cyric was halfway up the bank. Kelemvor was soon close behind the thief. Adon and Dalzhel had no choice except to follow.
At the top of the gully, they split into two groups. Dalzhel and Cyric took the left flank, Adon and Kelemvor the right. In the heavy brush, the two pairs soon lost sight of each other. Kelemvor and Adon moved as quietly as possible, as much to hide their position from Cyric as from Bhaal. Midnight was here somewhere. If they found her, the thief would turn on them the instant she was safe. They preferred to make that eventuality as difficult as possible.
Dalzhel’s surprised yell announced that he and Cyric had f
ound the Lord of Murder. Kelemvor and Adon went toward the scream, moving as rapidly as possible without making much noise. When they finally reached the battle, it nearly took Kelemvor by surprise. Dalzhel’s burly form rushed past him a few yards ahead, his black armor gleaming in the glowing clouds’ silvery light. Bhaal was only four steps behind the Zhentish lieutenant. Then came Cyric, slipping noiselessly behind the foul god, maneuvering for a surprise attack.
Kelemvor started forward, but Adon quickly pulled him back. “Let them deal with Bhaal,” the cleric whispered. “We should find Midnight.”
Without warning, Bhaal stopped and spun on his pursuer, jabbing at Cyric with the sharp bone protruding from his severed wrist. The fallen god followed the jab with an openhanded strike from his other hand. Cyric barely dodged the blows, then returned the attack with a wild slash and backed away.
Dalzhel finally noticed his pursuer had turned on his commander, then stopped and turned around. Moving cautiously but quickly, he advanced on Bhaal’s back.
The Lord of Murder ignored the other Zhentilar and moved toward Cyric. The god’s attention was focused intently on the red blade, as if it was his only concern. The thief stopped, then made a foolhardy lunge. Bhaal dodged easily, but Cyric followed the blow with a ferocious kick and caught the avatar in the ribs.
Bhaal did not fall. Instead, he grabbed Cyric’s leg and grinned. Remembering what Bhaal had done to Dalzhel’s horse, the thief turned and tried to dive away. Luckily, Cyric pulled his leg free and landed in a somersault. Bhaal sneered and advanced, moving out of Dalzhel’s striking range just as the Zhentilar lifted his sword.
Afraid to take the time necessary to stand, Cyric continued forward with a series of rolls. Bhaal followed three feet behind, prepared to strike the instant the thief stopped moving.
“They need help!” Kelemvor whispered.
“Do you think they’d help us?” Adon objected.
“No, but—”
“Save your strength,” the cleric insisted. “Whether it’s Bhaal or Cyric, there’s no doubt we’ll have to kill the winner.”
If Cyric had been fighting the God of Assassins alone, Kelemvor would have honored Adon’s wish without hesitation. The thief deserved to die. But so far, Dalzhel had treated them fairly. Kelemvor did not like standing by while the Zhentish lieutenant risked his life.
Sensing his friend’s thoughts, Adon suggested a more compelling reason to stay out of the action, “Now’s our best chance to free Midnight … while Cyric keeps Bhaal busy.”
Kelemvor sighed and nodded. “Then let’s go find her.”
Adon started crawling around the melee.
Only two hundred feet away, Midnight had finally pulled a hand free of her bindings. A few moments earlier, she had heard a scream in the brush and knew that Bhaal was attacking someone. Though Midnight had no idea who the victim was, the magic-user wanted to help him. She freed herself from the leather thongs and her gag, gingerly laid the saddlebags over her raw shoulder, then peered over the edge of the foundation.
As Kelemvor and Adon circled around the battle, the warrior could not help pausing to watch. Dalzhel finally caught Bhaal and swung with his mightiest stroke. His blade whistled straight for the avatar’s neck.
The Lord of Murder ducked the attack with casual ease. He turned and met Dalzhel with his stump, plunging the sharp bone deep into the soldier’s shoulder. Dalzhel screamed and dropped his sword, but did not fall or retreat. Instead, the Zhentilar stepped forward to wrestle the god, tearing at the avatar’s eyes with his left hand.
Cyric used this respite to good effect, standing and moving toward Bhaal. Once again, the avatar had turned his back to the thief. Cyric lifted his sword and charged, hoping to take advantage of the distraction Dalzhel provided by wrestling with the fallen god.
Adon grabbed Kelemvor’s shoulder, tearing his attention away from the battle. “Who’s that?”
The cleric pointed at a dark silhouette creeping toward the battle on its hands and knees. Through the heavy brush and in the dim light, Kelemvor could not see the shadow well enough to see who it was, or even if it was a man or a woman.
“I can’t tell,” Kelemvor said softly. “But whoever it is, he’s interested in this fight.” He glanced back to the battle.
Cyric was at Bhaal’s back. The thief attacked with a vicious slash he hoped would cleave the avatar down to the breast bone. But Bhaal heard him coming and, easily breaking free of Dalzhel’s hold, pivoted out of the way. The God of Assassins caught Cyric’s arm, then used the thief’s own momentum to throw him ten feet into the brush.
As Cyric sailed past, Dalzhel snatched his sword off the ground, then plunged the blade into the avatar’s rib cage. Bhaal snarled and kicked the Zhentish soldier in the stomach. Dalzhel fell backward and landed with a crash.
The Lord of Murder casually plucked Dalzhel’s sword from between his ribs and tossed it aside. Then he leaped onto his opponent’s prone form, thrusting the splintered stump of his wrist into Dalzhel’s throat. Dalzhel screamed once, then fell quiet.
Cyric scrambled to his feet, shaking his head. He had heard Dalzhel’s scream and knew that Bhaal had killed his lieutenant. Though the thief did not feel anything resembling grief, there was a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Dalzhel had been a valuable aid, and Cyric would miss his service.
Upon hearing the terrible scream, Midnight knew Bhaal had killed again. Then, through the brush, she saw the avatar rise and turn toward another victim. The magic-user could not see who Bhaal was attacking, for the evening’s silvery light was too dim to reveal his face at this distance. But whoever it was, Midnight did not want to abandon him to the fallen god.
The magic-user summoned the incantation for a lightning bolt. Since imprisoning Bhaal at High Horn, she had not used her magic successfully. There was no reason to believe it would work now, but that did not matter. She could not help Bhaal’s victims any other way, and if she did nothing, the Lord of Murder would kill them anyway. As soon as the proper gestures and words came to mind, the magic-user stood and pointed at the avatar.
Adon and Kelemvor both saw the silhouette rise, then they heard a feminine voice reciting an incantation.
“Magic!” The men hissed the words in the same instant. They pressed their bodies flat to the ground. Neither knew what to expect, but both were sure it would be hazardous.
Midnight finished her incantation and a lightning bolt shot from her finger. Then, it abruptly gathered into a brilliant ball of sputtering light. The bright sphere rose over the thicket, hanging behind Kelemvor and Adon like a tiny star. The shining globe illuminated the ground within a hundred yards as clearly as if it were the midday sun.
In the bright light, Kelemvor and Adon immediately recognized the dark-haired spellcaster. “Midnight!” they cried, rising simultaneously.
Bhaal and Cyric also noticed the tiny sun’s appearance, but could not see what had caused it. The globe hung between them and Midnight. All they could see was a circle of brilliant light.
Cyric swore, then focused all of his attention on the avatar. He did not know what had caused the light. What he did know was that, without Dalzhel’s aid, he was no longer a match for the Lord of Murder. The thief wasted no time cursing Kelemvor and Adon for abandoning him. He knew he’d been a fool for expecting them to come to his aid.
After squinting at the miniature sun for a moment, the Lord of Murder nonchalantly turned back to the thief and advanced. Cyric slashed. Bhaal easily dodged, slapping the thief’s sword hand aside. Cyric kicked, hoping to keep his attacker away. The avatar blocked the foot, then stepped in close and clipped his opponent’s jaw with a fist as hard as stone.
Cyric’s ears rang and his head swam. He tried to swing his sword, but Bhaal hit him once more. The thief felt his body going limp. The Lord of Murder struck his jaw again, then his stomach, then continued pummeling Cyric until he dropped his weapon and flopped to the ground in a half-conscious heap.
While
Bhaal battered Cyric, Adon and Kelemvor rushed toward Midnight. The magic-user’s miscast lightning bolt hung at their backs, its overpowering glow casting their faces into deep shadows. It did not matter. Midnight recognized their voices and rushed to meet them.
“How did you find me?” the raven-haired mage cried, hugging Kelemvor. She spun him around so the miniature sun was at her back and she could see his face. “Never mind. It’s just good to see both of you. I’m so glad you’re still—”
The magic-user broke off in midsentence. She was going to say “alive,” which returned her thoughts to whoever was currently fighting the God of Assassins. She still had not seen his face.
“Who’s fighting Bhaal?” she asked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. She still could not take her eyes off Kelemvor’s face.
Kelemvor and Adon looked toward the fight, squinting against the glare of the miniature sun. “Cyric,” Kelemvor answered. “We’re working together—”
Midnight raised an eyebrow. “Together?”
“It’s a long story,” Adon said. “We don’t have time to explain—”
The miniature sun flared brilliant white, sending daggers of pain through the eyes of both Kelemvor and Adon. Then a thunderclap sounded and a shock wave knocked them to the ground.
After the blinding flash, the thicket grew relatively dim. Only the silvery incandescence of the geometric clouds lit the brush. Bhaal dropped Cyric, battered and bloody, and looked to where the globe of light had been.
Fifty feet away, Midnight was picking herself up off the ground, but her two companions still lay holding their hands over their eyes.
“You escaped,” Bhaal called to the mage. “I’ll have to punish you for that.”
Without responding, Midnight looked from Bhaal to Cyric’s bruised and bloodied body, then back to the avatar’s face. Without taking her eyes off the vile god, she retrieved the saddlebags from where they had fallen, then laid them over her shoulder. To her friends, she hissed, “Get up!”