by Troy Denning
Fifteen minutes later, the first caravan driver reached the outer gate, leading a string of four frightened packhorses. Midnight saw no sign of his undead pursuers, though she had not expected to. Zombies were slow and easy to outrun—at least in the short term. The trouble was that they kept coming, eventually exhausting their prey.
Midnight went to the rear window of the tower. “They’re at the outer wall!” she called.
Adon and Kelemvor, who had just pried the heavy gates into place, drew their weapons. They stood to one side of the narrow gap. In his imagination, Kelemvor was already listening to the drivers proclaim their gratitude.
But Adon was not thinking about the drivers at all. The saddlebags containing the tablet were slung over his shoulder. He wished he had given the artifact to Midnight for safekeeping. In addition to being exposed to theft, it would only get in the way during battle. Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about that now.
Midnight returned to the front window. The ten caravan drivers were lurking at the outer gate, peering into the ward as if they feared the inside of Dragonspear Castle more than what pursued them. They were a strange crew, wearing striped, hooded cloaks that kept their faces hidden in dark hollows.
Midnight was surprised at their lack of urgency. The undead could not be so far behind that they had time to waste.
Finally, she yelled, “You in the caravan! Run for the keep!”
Without any hurry, the drivers started forward. The caravan was halfway to the inner gate when the first corpse clambered through a gap in the outer wall. The zombie wore the same striped cloak as the drivers, though its hood was thrown back to reveal a coarse braid of black hair, eyes lacking any spark of life, and doughy gray skin.
Midnight assumed a terrible creature must have befallen the caravan, slaying half or more of its number and setting the dead against their fellows. Four more zombies climbed into the outer ward and continued after the caravan. The drivers didn’t look back. Instead, they concentrated upon leading their horses toward the inner gate.
Down in the ward, Adon and Kelemvor laboriously opened the gate a little more to admit the horses as well as their masters. The zombies were pursuing so slowly that Kelemvor had no doubt that there would be plenty of time to close the gate after the drivers reached safety.
From the tower window, Midnight watched as the last zombie climbed through the outer wall. The chase seemed wrong to her, however. The whole thing had been too slow and too relaxed. Nor did she like how the drivers had responded to her offer of help—without a word of acknowledgment or thanks.
As the first driver reached the gate, an overpowering stench of decay and death filled Kelemvor’s nostrils. At first, the odor puzzled him, for the zombies were not close enough for him to smell them. Then, thinking about how slowly the caravan moved, the warrior began to suspect the drivers were not what they appeared to be.
“Close the gate!” he yelled to Adon, grabbing the beam they had used to lever the door into its current position.
“What do you mean?” the cleric demanded, confused. Like Kelemvor, he smelled something foul. But he assumed it was merely the horses—or something in their packs.
The green-eyed fighter cursed and pushed one end of the beam toward the cleric. “They’re zombies! All of them! Now, close the gate.”
Comprehension dawning in his eyes, Adon took his side of the beam and turned to position it beneath the heavy gate.
But he was too late. The first zombie pushed through the gap. Beneath the driver’s striped hood, Adon saw a bloated face and lifeless eyes. The thing’s thin lips were pulled back in a grotesque grin, revealing a set of broken yellow teeth.
It raised an arm and clawed at the cleric.
Adon ducked and grabbed his mace, but dropped the beam. For a second the cleric wished that he was still in Sune’s grace, still able to turn undead. That wish passed as two more drivers pushed through the gap.
Kelemvor grabbed his sword and hacked at the first zombie’s neck. The thing’s head rolled off its shoulders neatly, but the body remained standing. It began swinging its fists blindly. Then the next two zombies attacked, both focusing on Adon. One landed a savage blow in the cleric’s ribs, and the other backhanded him so violently that his ears rang.
“Run!” Kelemvor yelled. He slashed a zombie’s arm off, then backed away a step.
Adon started to obey, but stumbled over the beam and nearly fell. He swung his mace, hitting the closest zombie. Bone cracked and the creature’s temple caved in, but it did not fall. Two more drivers stepped forward, one to either side of the cleric.
Midnight heard several dull thuds as her friends’ weapons struck the zombies, then ran to the window overlooking the inner ward. She saw Kelemvor hacking at three of the undead that surrounded Adon. Two more drivers were pushing through the gate, and the mage knew plenty more were approaching outside.
Kelemvor slashed, tearing the cloak from the head of a driver. Its eyes were dull and lifeless, and its skin doughy and gray. The fighter slashed again and the driver lost an arm—then pressed forward to counterattack.
Midnight knew her misgivings had been justified: Adon and Kelemvor were as good as dead and the tablet lost, unless she could pluck them from the midst of battle. Remembering the heavy chandelier in the middle of the room, the mage went to the wall and released the rope. The chandelier crashed to the floor. She drew her dagger and cut the rope free, then hastily coiled it.
Down in the courtyard, Adon thought he was doomed. The cleric was surrounded by three zombies that seemed impervious to his mace—or at least immune to the damage he was dealing with the weapon. More undead were entering the courtyard every few seconds. He smashed a driver’s ribs and felt them break, then cringed as the zombie raked at his face with four filthy fingers.
To Adon’s left, Kelemvor’s sword found a target, beheading a zombie and temporarily clearing a small path between the warrior and the cleric. Adon seized the chance to fling the tablet to Kelemvor.
The saddlebags struck the fighter in the shoulder, then tangled around his left arm. Intent upon recovering the artifact, the zombies turned toward the tablet and left Adon alone. Although Adon and Kelemvor did not know this, before his destruction, Bhaal had told Myrkul where Midnight kept the tablet. Accordingly, the Lord of the Dead had instructed the zombies to recover any saddlebags the heroes carried with them.
Although Adon did not know the source of the zombies’ information, it took him only an instant to realize they wanted the tablet and knew where it was. “Run!” he called to Kelemvor, stepping forward and cracking a corpse’s skull. “Get out of here!”
Kelemvor thought his friend was merely being noble. “No!” the fighter cried, slicing into a zombie.
The thing did not fall, then two more stepped to its side. All three undead lashed out at the warrior, and he had no choice except to back away. Nevertheless, still having failed to notice that Adon was no longer under attack, Kelemvor yelled, “I got you into this, and I’ll get you out of it!”
“I doubt that,” Midnight yelled. She stood atop the wall behind Kelemvor, the hastily coiled rope in her hands. The magic-user dropped one end of the rope toward the courtyard. She ran the other end through an arrow loop in the closest merlon and began tying it off.
Kelemvor slashed at a leg, slicing deep into an attacker’s knee. The zombie pressed forward, completely unaffected by a wound that would have crippled a living man. The fighter’s other two attackers landed powerful blows in his ribs, then two more zombies crowded around and began flailing at him. The warrior retreated another few steps, and a moment later his back was pressed against the wall.
Seeing what Midnight intended and realizing that he could do little to help Kelemvor, Adon screamed, “Up the rope, Kel! I’m safe!” With that, he turned and ran for the nearest stairway.
Midnight finished her knot, then returned to the wall’s edge. The rope ended eight feet off the ground, easily within Kelemvor’s r
each. However, the warrior was so busy fighting zombies that he could not start climbing.
The magic-user climbed onto the rope and slid down, stopping a foot before its end. Midnight knew she lacked the strength to pull the warrior out of battle, but she hoped that with her aid, Kelemvor could grab the rope and quickly climb out of the zombies’ reach. “Kel, give me your hand!” she cried.
The warrior glanced up and saw Midnight’s outstretched hand, then the zombies landed several blows. He swung his sword viciously, buying himself a foot of breathing space. Immediately, he lifted the saddlebags and placed them in Midnight’s hand.
“Take it!” Kelemvor yelled.
At first, Midnight didn’t want to obey. But then the zombies turned their attention to her, simply trying to walk over the warrior. She accepted the saddlebags, slung them over her shoulder, then started up the rope. The warrior stayed on the ground and continued slashing at zombies.
A few seconds later, Adon arrived at the top of the wall and helped Midnight climb up the last few feet. After she was safely on the wall, she turned and yelled, “I’m safe, Kel. Come on!”
The warrior immediately sheathed his sword and, ignoring the zombies, turned and grabbed the rope. He pulled himself to the top of the wall as quickly as he could. Midnight cut the rope behind him, then said, “Follow me!”
She led the way back to the tower, entering the first doorway she came to. Though this room lacked an iron chandelier and an age-worn desk, it was similar to the one from which she had taken the rope.
As soon as they were inside, Adon asked, “What now?”
“We’ve got to think of a plan,” Midnight replied, sheathing her dagger. “And we’d better do it before the zombies find a way to get up here.”
Kelemvor went to the window and watched the zombies stumble around the ward. “I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said. “I just thought—oh, damn it, I just didn’t think.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Adon responded, gripping the fighter’s shoulder. “Those zombies would have attacked no matter what you did. Somebody sent them after the tablet.”
“It was Myrkul,” Midnight sighed. “I told you that he and Bhaal were working together. Well, he must have tried to contact Bhaal and discovered that I had escaped with the tablet.”
“Whether Myrkul sent them or not,” Kelemvor grumbled, “I should be skinned and roasted alive.” He took the saddlebags from Adon and started to remove the tablet. “Maybe I can trick them into following me.”
The scarred cleric pushed the tablet back into a saddlebag. “No, Kel. We stand a better chance of surviving if we stick together.” Adon had purposely left the tablet in the warrior’s hands. In the coming battle, he thought it best to have it protected by their most capable fighter.
Kelemvor frowned and, when Adon did not take the saddlebags back, threw them over his shoulder.
Sensing the fighter’s mood, Adon added, “It’s better things worked out this way. Otherwise, the zombies would have attacked us by surprise.”
“Adon’s right,” Midnight added, touching Kelemvor’s arm. There was nothing to be gained by making the warrior feel bad, and she did not enjoy watching him vilify himself. “Let’s just see if we can find the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. After all, we were headed here anyway.”
“Where do we start?” Kelemvor asked, peering out the window. To his alarm, the warrior saw that many of the zombies had stumbled onto the stairs and had reached the top of the wall. Worse still, they were coming toward the tower.
The fighter stepped away from the window, saying, “We’d better get out—”
A loud clatter rang through the room, startling all three of the companions. Midnight grabbed Kelemvor’s arm and jerked him out the window, then pointed at an arrow lying on the floor. On the stone wall was a fresh scratch where the arrow had struck the stone. Kelemvor nonchalantly picked it up. “Zombies don’t use bows,” he said. “Where’d this come from?”
“We’ll figure that out later,” Adon said, fearing the zombies were only one part of Myrkul’s trap. “Let’s get out of here!” He led the way down the stairs.
They descended the spiral staircase past three rooms, not pausing until they reached ground level. Here, the heroes took a moment to peer into the room on the ground floor. Its only door was the one they were now standing in.
“We’d better go down to the basement,” Adon noted frantically, continuing down the dark staircase.
“Wait! We’ll be trapped!” Kelemvor objected.
“We’re already trapped,” Midnight replied, following the cleric.
“And the zombies will probably go up first since they saw you and Midnight go up the wall,” Adon added. “Maybe we can sneak out when they climb the stairs.”
Kelemvor nodded and Adon led the way down into a dim, dank basement. The muffled whisper of running water echoed from the walls, though no one could identify the source of the sound. High in the middle of the inner wall, a small window opened into the inner ward at ground level. The little light the room received entered through this opening.
Adon briefly considered trying to escape out the window, but quickly rejected the idea. It was large enough to provide ventilation and light, but far too small to accommodate Kelemvor’s broad shoulders—or even Midnight’s, for that matter.
The room contained only moldering debris. There were sacks of spoiled grain and casks of rancid wine—obviously left by wanderers who had used the tower as temporary lodging—empty, rotting barrels and a coil of moldy rope attached to a worm-eaten bucket. The room’s wooden floor was decayed and spongy.
While Adon and Kelemvor listened to the zombies ascend the stairs, Midnight explored the room, occasionally picking away pieces of plank with the tip of her dagger.
After five minutes, Adon shook his head and cursed. “The zombies aren’t doing what we’d hoped, Midnight. The ones from the courtyard are still on the ground floor.” The cleric paused and looked at Kelemvor. “We’re trapped.”
“I’ll lead the way up,” the fighter growled. “Maybe we can fight our way out.”
“Not yet,” Midnight said, puzzling over the floor. The other rooms in the tower had not had any rot, and she didn’t understand why this one should be any different. Then she thought of the bucket and the rope, which were similar to the ones used in wells. She went to the center of the room. “Kel, use your sword to pry up one of these planks! Quickly!”
Although puzzled, the warrior did as asked. A section of floor three feet square came up. The thin, muffled whisper echoing from the walls changed to a quiet roar.
“What is it?” Kelemvor asked.
“An underground stream!” Adon answered, kneeling next to the warrior.
Pointing at the bucket and rope, Midnight added, “It’s an emergency water supply, used in case of siege.”
Adon smiled and pointed into the hole. “The zombies won’t follow us down there!”
“If we have the courage to go ourselves.” Kelemvor stuck his head into the blackness.
“What do you see?” Midnight asked.
“A cavern,” he muttered. “But it’s dark. I can’t see the bottom.” He pulled his head out.
Midnight kneeled next to her friends and looked into the hole. She could see nothing but darkness, but it sounded as though the stream running under the tower was fairly large.
Kelemvor grabbed the rope and bucket. “I guess we’ll have to trust this thing.” He tied one end of the rope around a beam on the ceiling, then grabbed it and pulled himself off the floor to test the strength of his knot.
Adon scowled. “Perhaps we’d be wiser to look for something—”
The room grew a shade darker, as though something was blocking the light. Without finishing his sentence, Adon turned toward the cellar window and saw a man’s form kneeling on the ground outside. The man had a familiar hawkish nose.
“Look out!” Adon screamed, realizing he was the only one who saw Cyric. The scarred
cleric lunged at Kelemvor and shoved him to the ground.
Midnight turned. Something buzzed past her ear and struck Adon with a wet thump. The scarred cleric groaned loudly and dropped to his knees beside her.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Midnight asked.
Adon didn’t answer. His eyes rolled back into his head, then he pitched forward into the hole. Midnight lunged and caught him by the shoulder and the bloody shaft that protruded from his ribs. The stick snapped and the cleric’s body slipped from the mage’s grasp. A moment later, she heard a distant splash.
“Adon!” she gasped, unable to comprehend how she had come to be holding a broken arrow shaft in her blood-smeared hand.
Kelemvor understood perfectly. He was looking at Cyric, who was nocking another arrow. “I’ll kill you!” the fighter roared, rushing to thrust his sword out the window.
“You missed your chance,” the thief replied, easily retreating out of Kelemvor’s reach. “But you should know that I was aiming for you just then. That foppish cleric got in the way.”
“I haven’t missed my chance,” Midnight hissed, turning to face the window. At the sound of Cyric’s voice, her heart had turned as cold as ice, and she had thought of the perfect way to kill him. The incantation for a cone of cold appeared in the mage’s mind. She pointed her finger at the window and called upon her magic.
Cyric hit the ground and rolled, expecting to meet some hideous magical death. Instead, a wave of black frost rolled out of the window. As the thief cringed on the ground, the frost coalesced into a black ball and zipped past him, ricocheting from one of the keep’s walls to another. Wherever it touched, the stones sprouted hoarfrost and icicles, then crumbled to dust. The ball finally bounced over the wall and, leaving a trail of icy destruction in its wake, went bounding off into the High Moor.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the hawk-nosed thief scrambled away from the window. Now that Kelemvor and Midnight knew he was on their trail, it would be much more difficult to kill them.