Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  As if to confirm Midnight’s suspicions, something rose into view from the other side of the wall. Huge, batlike wings sprouted from its fat feathered body. With its multifaceted eyes and protruding fangs, the creature’s head looked like a cross between a vampire’s and a fly’s.

  The tablet arrived and Midnight caught it. Immediately, she felt magic so powerful she could detect it without a spell. Something was wrong, for the other tablet had no magical aura at all. The magic-user suspected Myrkul had placed a ward or sigil directly on the artifact.

  But it hardly mattered at the moment. A dozen more denizens had risen behind the first, and a hundred more forms were approaching from the other side of the keep’s bone-white tower. Midnight did not have time to pause for a close examination of the Tablet of Fate.

  She stepped into the disk and found herself running up a short corridor of light. The last time she had cast the worldwalk spell, the mage had simply stepped through the disk and appeared on the Fugue Plain. There had been no tunnel. The mage began to fear she had spoiled Elminster’s spell by tinkering with it.

  Then, thirty feet ahead, Midnight saw a wall of water covering the end of the corridor, as though she was running up the inside of a well. Remembering how she had altered the incantation so the portal would seek the access well to Waterdeep, the mage realized the worldwalk had worked exactly as specified. On the other side of the water lay Toril.

  Midnight ran the rest of the way up the tunnel and stopped next to the wall of water. She turned around and tried to close the portal.

  The shimmering disk remained in place, and the bat-winged denizen from Bone Castle entered the other end of the corridor. Midnight tried again to close the portal, and again she failed.

  The creature smiled, baring its wicked fangs. “It won’t work,” the creature hissed, its voice like the sound of metal scraping stone. “Wherever the tablet goes, we go.”

  Two more of the monster’s fellows flew into the portal.

  “How?” Midnight gasped.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the bat-winged creature said. “Give the tablet back.”

  Then Midnight understood. The magic she detected on the tablet was one of Myrkul’s fiendish traps. He had made it impossible for anyone stealing it to escape his guards. The Lord of the Dead could have used variations on hold portal, dispel magic, gate, passwall, and a number of other spells to make the tablet a homing beacon for his minions.

  Exactly how he had done it was unimportant, though. What did matter was that when Midnight took the tablet to Waterdeep, she would unleash Myrkul’s hordes—the tablet would hold the gate open for the denizens and draw them through. She couldn’t let that happen any more than she could return the tablet to the Lord of the Dead’s vassals.

  Midnight realized she had to block the corridor, and the perfect incantation for doing so came to her. It was a prismatic sphere, a globe of scintillating colors that the denizens would never penetrate. While they clawed and scratched at its exterior, she would be tucked safely inside.

  “Last chance, woman,” the bat-winged denizen said, starting up the corridor. “There’s no escape.”

  “That’s what you think,” Midnight replied.

  She performed the incantation. An instant later, a shimmering sphere encased her, at the same time blocking access to Waterdeep.

  Midnight’s body felt like it was on fire, and her head hurt so badly she could barely think. Within the space of a few minutes, the mage had cast two of the most powerful spells known to mages anywhere. The effort had taken its toll on her body. It didn’t really matter, however. The mage was safe as long as the prismatic sphere held out. And in Midnight’s case, that could be a long time.

  After breaking free of the ice and spending a long night next to a small fire, Kelemvor had left the High Moor and walked to the caravan road on his frozen feet. At the roadside, he had stopped and built a roaring fire, then sat down to wait for the blaze to attract help.

  While his feet thawed, Kelemvor had puzzled over what to do. Midnight had fallen into the underground stream, and he had no idea what had become of her after that. But it had seemed that the mage’s chances of survival were as great as his own, especially if she had called on her magic. Therefore, the fighter had decided to assume she was alive.

  Still, Kelemvor had had no idea what Midnight might do. She might have tried to recover the tablet from the zombies, if she even knew that it had been lost. If not, the mage would have tried to go to the Realm of the Dead to recover the other tablet. There had also been the possibility that Midnight thought he was dead, in which case Kelemvor had not had the faintest idea what she would do.

  The warrior had quickly realized he could not predict Midnight’s actions. The only thing he knew for sure was that she would eventually go to Waterdeep.

  After reaching that conclusion, the fighter had considered trying to recover the tablet from the zombies. But, alone, without a weapon and disabled by frostbite, there would have been no chance of success. Besides, given the way the undead had pursued the tablet, Kelemvor had suspected the zombies were no longer at Dragonspear Castle. They had probably already fled toward their master, and the warrior had not had the vaguest idea where he might be hiding.

  In the end, he had decided to go to Waterdeep. There, he would wait for Midnight. If she did not show up, he would recruit help and start out in search of the tablet and his lover.

  Fortunately, the fighter had finished his plans before his feet thawed. When sensation had returned, it had been impossible for the fighter to think of anything but pain. He had felt as though he’d stepped into a vat of boiling water, and the torment had continued unabated for twenty-four hours.

  A company of ten fast-moving riders had come by in the middle of the warrior’s agony. They had loaned Kelemvor a spare horse and invited him to accompany them to Waterdeep.

  A day and a half later, they had come across the remains of the Roosting Gryphon Inn. For no apparent reason, the inhabitants had been slaughtered. The company had puzzled over this until a rider found the proprietor’s bloodless body. Immediately, the merchants had attributed the carnage to a vampire. But Kelemvor had voiced a suspicion that the attackers were the same zombies that had fallen upon his company at Dragonspear Castle.

  Seven days later, camped half a mile off the road, the merchants had discovered the fighter was correct. In the middle of the night, a dozen zombies had wandered into camp, slaying the sentry and half the company before they realized what was happening. Kelemvor, recognizing the zombies’ striped robes, had grabbed a sword and tried to organize a defense. But the merchants had panicked, and those who did not perish had fled into the night. The warrior, still limping from frostbite, had made his way to a horse and escaped.

  That had been three days ago. Since then, he had been playing an exhausting game of cat and mouse with the zombies. The undead were traveling toward Waterdeep, but were avoiding the road in a clumsy attempt at secrecy. Every now and then, Kelemvor rode close to them to make sure they were still moving to the northwest. The zombies kept tabs on him with scouts, and had tried to ambush him several times. The extent of their success was that the fighter had not slept since the attack on the merchants.

  Kelemvor’s lack of sleep had taken its toll. As his horse cantered along the road, he had to concentrate on the countryside to stay awake. To the right, a vast, snow-covered plain extended as far as the eye could see. Somewhere out there, Kelemvor knew, were the zombies. To his left lay a brown ribbon of sand that could only be the Sword Coast. Beyond the coast, a glistening, azure plain of water stretched to the far horizon: the Sea of Swords.

  The road topped a small hill and the horse stopped of its own accord, then snorted and stomped its foreleg. Kelemvor leaned down to pat its neck, then noticed his mount had smashed some scaled thing. The fighter’s first thought was that the scales belonged to a snake, but then he saw fins and gills.

  It was a fish.

  Kelemvor looked down
the road. On the other side of the hill, thousands of wriggling, flopping forms, all crawling inland, covered the plain. It was as if the sea had suddenly become undesirable and the fish were moving inland in pursuit of better water. Though he found the sight disconcerting, the warrior was not frightened. Like almost everyone in the Realms, Kelemvor had become accustomed to such strange sights.

  Besides, from the top of the hill, he could see Waterdeep. The road ran for only one more mile, ending at a fortified gate that sat, almost, on the beach of the Sword Coast. To the gate’s south lay the Sea of Swords, dotted here and there with the sails of great cargo ships. To the north, a small escarpment, no more than a few feet high, rose from the white prairie. As the slope continued east, it grew both steeper and higher, until it could properly be considered a cliff over much of its length.

  Atop this cliff ran a high city wall, dotted at regular intervals by sturdy towers. It was broken only in the center of the escarpment, where the cliff was so tall and steep that no man could possibly scale it. Behind the wall, a hundred stalwart towers proudly held their turrets just high enough to be visible from outside the city. The fighter had no doubt that, at long last, he was looking upon the City of Splendors.

  Beyond Waterdeep, a small mountain lifted its crown seven hundred feet above the plains, watching over the city bearing its name. At the top of Mount Waterdeep stood a lone tower, around which flocked birds of enormous size. Even from this distance, Kelemvor could see their bodies and the shape of their wings.

  The fighter urged his horse forward. It moved reluctantly, picking its way through the fish migration as though walking down a muddy street and not wanting to soil its hooves.

  As he neared the gate, Kelemvor saw that the huge birds over Waterdeep were not birds at all. While they had the wings and heads of great eagles, their bodies and feet were those of lions. They were griffons, and upon their backs they carried men. The fighter could not help but imagine how much easier his journey would have been if his company had possessed such mounts.

  In his weariness, Kelemvor was so absorbed by the griffons that, when his horse suddenly stopped, he almost did not realize he had reached the gate. Two men-at-arms stood in front of him, both wearing black scale mail embossed with an upturned, gold crescent moon surrounded by nine silver stars. Behind them stood another man, this one wearing a mixture of green leather and black chain mail, with only the gold crescent moon for a device. Over a dozen similarly dressed men stood in the gate, attending to other travelers.

  “Halt and state your name and your business,” said the first guard. He avoided stepping too close to the grimy warrior. Though accustomed to unbathed travelers, this one appeared more sullied than normal.

  “Kelemvor Lyonsbane,” the fighter sighed. He knew he smelled bad. Being cold, hungry, dirty, and exhausted, he suspected he looked even worse.

  “And what’s your business?”

  Kelemvor began to chuckle. The only response that came to mind was that he had come to save the world. He wondered if the guards would believe him.

  The other guard stepped forward, irritated by what he perceived as disrespect. “What’s so funny?”

  Kelemvor bit his lip, trying not to laugh. The euphoria of exhaustion had settled over him and he found it difficult to control his mirth. “Nothing. I’m sorry. There are these zombies that I was following—”

  The two guards snickered, but the man wearing green armor stepped forward. “Zombies?” he asked. His employer had told him there might be trouble with zombies in the weeks to come.

  “They attacked us and killed one of my friends,” Kelemvor responded.

  “Your name again?” the guard asked.

  “Kelemvor Lyonsbane.” The fighter realized he sounded incoherent, if not completely insane.

  The guard’s eyes widened. This was one of the people for whom he was waiting. “Where are the other two—Midnight and Adon of Sune?”

  “I told you,” Kelemvor yelled, suddenly angry at having to repeat himself. Though he knew his moods were a result of his fatigue, he could not control them. “Zombies attacked us! Adon’s dead and Midnight’s gone! She’ll be here somewhere—I’ve got to find her!”

  “Relax—you’re safe now,” the guard said, realizing his employer would be more adept at handling the traveler’s incoherence. “I’m Ylarell. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have?” Kelemvor asked. His mind abruptly shifted gears. “There are zombies out there—you’ve got to find them!”

  “We will,” Ylarell murmured. “The zombies won’t hurt you in here. Now come with me—there’s somebody who wants to see you.” The guard took the reins to Kelemvor’s horse and led the way through the gate.

  After passing through a vacant plaza of snow-covered grass, Ylarell led the fighter to another wall. He said a few words to the guards here, and then took Kelemvor into the city proper. Though the warrior had seen many cities in his time, Waterdeep’s size and magnificence stunned him. The streets bustled with carts and pedestrians, all intent on some task that must have seemed important to them. The briny odor of the harbor drifted over the rooftops on the left, where sturdy warehouses were interspersed with shabby tenements. To the right, a thicket of inns and stables stood shoulder to shoulder, packed so close Kelemvor did not see how caravans reached the ones deeper in the ward.

  As they passed farther into the city, merchant shops and fine inns lined the streets. Then they entered a residential neighborhood, where grand houses and even a villa or two stood along winding avenues. Finally, Ylarell stopped before a large tower.

  “Whom may I say is calling?” The voice came from the base of the tower, though Kelemvor saw no window or door there.

  “Ylarell of the Watch, with Kelemvor Lyonsbane.”

  A door suddenly appeared where none had been before, and a tall, black-haired man stepped out of the tower. “Well met, Kelemvor! I am Blackstaff Arunsun, friend and ally of Elminster. Where are your companions?”

  Ylarell interceded on Kelemvor’s behalf. “He’s in bad shape, milord.”

  Blackstaff nodded in understanding and retreated into the tower. “Bring him in.”

  Ylarell helped Kelemvor dismount and took him into a small sitting room. A moment later, Blackstaff led another man into the room. Though ancient, the second man looked every bit as robust as Blackstaff. A full head of hair and a beard as heavy as a lion’s mane framed his sharp-featured face.

  “Elminster!” Kelemvor growled. In his exhausted state, the fighter had no trouble blaming the ancient sage for the hardships he and his friends had endured. It was apparent to the warrior that Elminster had reached Waterdeep well ahead of him and with a lot less trouble.

  “I ought to slit you gizzard to gullet!” Kelemvor snarled.

  “I lack the gizzard,” Elminster replied, not intimidated. “Now tell me what has become of thy friends.”

  Kelemvor related the events that had occurred at Dragonspear Castle, making the necessary digressions to explain about Bhaal and Cyric. When he finished, both Blackstaff and Elminster sat in dumfounded silence, pondering the effect of the fighter’s report upon their plans.

  Finally, Elminster groaned in frustration. He had not counted on Midnight finding her own entrance into Myrkul’s realm. “If she went after the second tablet alone, the Realms may be in serious trouble.”

  Kelemvor was heartened by Elminster’s unspoken assumption that Midnight had survived the underground stream. But he was far from encouraged by the sage’s concern about Midnight going after the second tablet alone.

  Blackstaff stood, already formulating a plan to control the damage. “Ylarell, fetch Gower and meet us at the Yawning Portal Inn. Then gather a patrol to look for the zombies who attacked Kelemvor—we’ll need to recover that tablet right away.”

  Elminster also stood. “The Pool of Loss, my friend?”

  Blackstaff nodded. “Gower will show us the way.”

  The two mages did not say any more. They bot
h knew what had to be done. Located deep under Mount Waterdeep, the Pool of Loss was the closest access well to Myrkul’s realm. They were going into Hades to retrieve Midnight and the tablet—if that were still possible. Elminster and Blackstaff quickly turned to leave without any further explanation.

  Kelemvor wondered if they had forgotten he was in the room. “Wait for me!” he demanded.

  Blackstaff regarded the fighter with equal parts of aggravation and forbearance. “This is beyond you, friend. You’ve done well to get this far.”

  “I’m coming,” Kelemvor replied, irritated at being patronized.

  “You’re barely coherent!” Blackstaff objected.

  “I’ll follow you anyway,” the warrior threatened.

  Blackstaff looked to Elminster, who studied Kelemvor with cool scrutiny. “He might prove useful,” the sage said at last. “Give him a restorative.”

  Blackstaff lifted his hand and a vial of murky green fluid appeared. He gave the potion to Kelemvor, then noted, “This will numb your fatigue … for a while.”

  Though curious about the vial’s contents, Kelemvor did not ask. The wizards were obviously not in a cooperative mood, and he thought it wiser to save his questions for more important things. The fighter drank the potion down. As Blackstaff had promised, he immediately felt refreshed.

  Without paying Kelemvor any more attention, the two mages walked south through a maze of twisting alleys and streets, stopping only when they reached a sizable inn. The sign over the door read “The Yawning Portal.”

  Blackstaff and Elminster entered and, oblivious to the attention of the patrons, went directly into the office. Kelemvor followed, taking a seat at the office’s single table. Without being asked, a serving wench brought them each a mug of ale, then left and closed the door.