Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  He cursed an oath so profane that even one of his clerics would have winced, then turned and ran back up the stairs.

  On top of the tower, Midnight stood staring at the tablet in her hands. Until now, her magic had not fatigued her. But the instant summons was complicated and demanding, and she felt slightly weakened.

  “Marvelous,” Elminster said. “Call the other one, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “How are we going to get off the roof?” Kelemvor demanded, still standing on the door. The zombies were pressing on the other side, but did not have the leverage to push the fighter off.

  “We’ll think of something,” Elminster replied.

  Midnight shook her head. “I’m tiring. Even if the incantation doesn’t misfire, I won’t have anything left to fight Myrkul.” She did not doubt the Lord of the Dead was coming at this very moment. “You summon the other Tablet of Fate, Elminster.”

  “I can’t,” the sage replied. “I haven’t studied that spell in years. But I can get us off this roof if you get the other tablet.”

  The comment reminded Midnight that, as powerful as he was, Elminster still had to study his spells and impress their runes on his mind.

  “I’ll try,” Midnight sighed, setting the first tablet down.

  She called the instant summons incantation to mind again, then pictured the other tablet and performed it. An instant later, a storm of fist-sized rocks appeared over the tower and pelted the trio mercilessly.

  “It failed!” Midnight said, feeling a little dizzy. Her body ached where a dozen stones had hit her, and her muscles burned with fatigue.

  The trap door bucked beneath Kelemvor, then it flew open, launching him into the air. He landed six feet away and rolled to his feet, still holding his sword.

  A zombie climbed out of the stairwell. Kelemvor charged, cleaving the corpse in two with a slash so vicious he nearly threw himself off his feet.

  “Myrkul!” he screamed, staring at a dark-robed man behind his zombies.

  Kelemvor’s sword suddenly changed into a huge snake and slithered around his body. The serpent’s scales were covered with a filthy green ooze, and a forked, black tongue flickered from its mouth. Myrkul shrugged. He had intended to heat the sword and burn the warrior’s hands, but he would be just as happy if a snake strangled the man to death.

  The serpent wrestled Kelemvor to the floor, then Myrkul sent his remaining zombies out onto the roof. Midnight grabbed her tablet and backed away. Elminster, however, calmly waited for Myrkul’s corpses to leave the stairway. Then he cast a spell he hoped would take them by surprise.

  To the sage’s immense relief, a swarm of fiery globes leaped from his hand, each one striking a corpse in the chest. Most of the spheres carried the zombies off the tower roof. Some exploded into miniature fireballs that reduced the corpses to piles of ash and charred bone. In an instant, the meteor swarm had destroyed Myrkul’s protectors.

  After hearing Elminster’s voice and seeing the fiery trails streak over the stairwell, Myrkul knew he would have to confront the woman and her friends alone. They had dared to hunt him, and when that failed, they had stolen a tablet off his person. The trio would continue to harass him until he destroyed them. Sighing in exasperation, the Lord of the Dead prepared a defensive spell and climbed out of the stairwell.

  Elminster was the first to see Myrkul step onto the roof. Kelemvor was being strangled by the snake, and Midnight, tablet beneath her arm, was rushing to her lover’s aid. The Lord of the Dead wore a black hood pulled over his head. Beneath the hood, he had scaly, wrinkled skin covered with knobby lesions, black, cracked lips, and eyes so sunken that his face looked like a skull. Fiery blue embers burned where his pupils should have been. The saddlebags containing the other tablet were slung over his shoulder.

  Elminster began to throw an ice storm at the avatar, but Myrkul lifted a hand and cast the silence spell he had prepared. Everything within five feet of the ancient sage suddenly fell quiet, as did the mage himself. Without the ability to speak aloud, Elminster could not complete the verbal component of his spell and it did not go off.

  Noticing what had happened to Elminster, Midnight shifted her attention from Kelemvor to Myrkul.

  “Come, my dear,” the Lord of the Dead said, his voice guttural and rasping. “Give me the tablet. I will spare your friends.”

  Midnight had no time to bandy promises with the god. She called a simple magic missile to mind, dropped the tablet, and performed the incantation. A dozen golden bolts leaped from her fingers and struck Myrkul—then dissipated harmlessly, leaving a golden aura clinging to the Lord of the Dead’s putrid form.

  Myrkul lifted a hand and examined his new radiance, then laughed at her botched spell. “How you taunt me, mortal!”

  Midnight found herself trembling and feverish. Although the incantation was normally a rudimentary one, its potency had increased with her power. It had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

  Myrkul held out his hand. “Once more, give me the tablet.” He turned toward Kelemvor and gestured at the snake. The serpent drew tighter around the warrior’s throat and his face immediately turned purple. “You have only a little time before your friend dies.”

  Even for an instant, the mage did not believe Myrkul would keep his word and spare her lover. She had no intention of doing as asked, but neither could she bear watching Kelemvor die. Hoping the appearance of indecision would buy her time to think, Midnight tore her gaze away from Myrkul and looked out over the city.

  To the south, great pillars of black smoke rose from the city’s North Ward. Midnight could even hear distant screams and faint clashes of steel. Dozens of griffon riders were battling tiny forms in the air. A few griffons rode over other quarters of the city, acting as messengers or scouts trailing enemy groups that had broken through the line. One griffon, carrying two riders, was flying toward Blackstaff’s tower.

  The riders were too distant for Midnight to identify and she had no idea why they were coming toward the tower. Whatever their reason, she did not think they would arrive in time to save her and her friends, or to prevent Myrkul from getting both the Tablets of Fate.

  “What is your decision?” Myrkul demanded.

  “You win,” Midnight said, kneeling to retrieve the tablet at her feet. At the same time, she summoned the most powerful spell that came to mind: temporal stasis. The incantation was so difficult it would probably drain her, perhaps even burn her up completely, but she had no choice. If it worked, Myrkul would be trapped in suspended animation. Then she and her friends could deal with him at leisure. If it did not work, Myrkul would win.

  Midnight cleared her mind, then performed the incantation. A wave of fire rushed through her body and she collapsed to the roof. Her muscles ached and her nerves tingled as though she had fallen onto a bed of needles. The mage tried to breathe, but lacked the strength to open her mouth. A curtain of darkness descended over her eyes.

  Midnight forced herself to stay alert, the curtain to draw back, and her lungs to expand. Gradually, her vision returned and, weak as she was, the mage could see again. Myrkul stood motionless, the saddlebags containing the other tablet still slung over his shoulder.

  Without its creator’s will to guide it, the snake wrapped around Kelemvor seemed confused and uncertain. It was squeezing less fiercely now, its attention turned toward the Lord of the Dead’s motionless form. The warrior also seemed dazed, but managed to slip an arm inside the coil squeezing his throat, preventing the serpent from choking him.

  Midnight stood and, carrying her own tablet, stepped toward the motionless god. The embers that served as Myrkul’s eyes flared.

  “I—I’m not finished quite yet,” the Lord of the Dead croaked through quivering lips. The avatar’s whole frame was shaking. He was breaking free of the spell.

  As she looked into the Lord of the Dead’s eyes, Midnight’s heart sank. It seemed nothing could stop him. Then the mage noticed a gray streak plummeting out of the sky.
The griffon she had noticed earlier was diving to attack Myrkul’s back. Midnight dropped her eyes to the roof, not wanting to alert the evil god to the bravery of the griffon riders. Although the attack would stun Myrkul, it would not kill him. The magic-user knew she had to find a way to take advantage of the surprise.

  While Midnight and Elminster, who was still under the influence of the silence spell, prepared to take advantage of the griffon attack, Kelemvor took several deep breaths and recovered some of his strength. He thrust his other arm through the coil around his neck, then grabbed the snake’s head. Locking one hand onto the upper jaw and the other onto the lower, he pulled in opposite directions with all his might. An instant later, bone popped and the warrior ripped the jaws apart. The serpent’s body slackened and it began writhing in pain. Kelemvor slipped out of its grasp. He pitched the slimy, squirming thing over the side of Blackstaff’s tower, then turned toward Myrkul.

  Myrkul saw Elminster coming toward him and turned stiffly to meet the attack. But the old sage stopped five feet away, confusing the Lord of the Dead. Then Myrkul realized he could no longer hear.

  Midnight, still trembling from the effort of the temporal stasis spell, summoned the incantation for disintegration and another for a dimensional door. If she could destroy the avatar’s body, the god’s essence would disperse. Then, through the dimensional door, the mage could shift the explosion high over the Sea of Swords, where it would do far less harm.

  An instant later, the griffon struck. Because of the silence surrounding Elminster, Myrkul did not hear the whisper of its wings and was taken by surprise. The god fell onto his left side, and the saddlebags with the tablet slipped off his shoulder. The beast followed the god to the roof and sank all four claws into the avatar’s body. One of the griffon riders jumped off the creature’s back. Even as the man’s feet touched the roof, the great beast flapped its wings to rise again.

  Myrkul squirmed and grabbed at the saddlebags, barely clutching them into his grasp.

  Seeing what was happening, Kelemvor charged across the roof. As the griffon lifted the god into the air, the warrior threw himself after the tablet. His hands clutched the bottom of the saddlebags, then Kelemvor pulled the tablet from Myrkul’s grasp. He landed on the roof and rolled away.

  Pain shooting through his avatar’s body, Myrkul felt himself being lifted off the roof. He made one last grab for the saddlebags as Kelemvor rolled away, but the griffon had already carried him too far into the air.

  Myrkul twisted around so he could look up toward the rider. “You will all pay for this!” he cried, shaking his bony fist.

  As she watched the griffon carry Myrkul into the air, Midnight prepared her incantations, but stopped short of performing them. If she destroyed the avatar, the rider was certain to die in the mayhem that followed. The magic-user went to the edge of the tower and watched the griffon fly over Blackstaff’s courtyard, Myrkul still struggling in its claws. The great beast continued flapping, all but ignoring the writhing body in its grip.

  Then the Lord of the Dead stopped struggling and pointed at the griffon rider. An instant later, the soldier slumped over. He slipped out of the saddle and plunged toward the cobblestoned street below.

  Midnight performed the disintegration incantation. A green ray shot from her hand and touched Myrkul. The avatar’s body gleamed briefly, then a brilliant golden flare erupted over the city. Midnight quickly cast the spell for a long range dimension door and transferred the dying avatar to a spot high over the Sea of Swords, far from Waterdeep.

  There was a loud crack as the avatar fell into the door, and another burst of light washed over the city from the west. The explosion caused by Myrkul’s death was like a second sun rising over the sea west of Waterdeep. When it died away, there was no sign of the griffon, its rider, or Myrkul. A brown murk hung in the air east of the tower, where the avatar had been seconds earlier.

  The murk settled over a two block area. Wherever it touched, plants withered and people fell to the ground choking. Whether they were built of stone or wood, the buildings turned to dust and collapsed, and even the streets themselves crumbled. Within moments, two square blocks of Waterdeep had been turned into a desolate, brown waste.

  Midnight sank to her knees, shivering with exhaustion and remorse. Hundreds of people had died when Myrkul’s essence settled on them. She could not help feeling responsible for their deaths.

  Somebody walked up behind her.

  “I had to destroy Myrkul,” she whispered, still staring at the poisoned area. “What else could I have done?”

  “Nothing else,” answered a familiar voice. “You cannot be blamed for saving the Realms.”

  Midnight stood and, ignoring the wave of dizziness that rushed over her, turned around. “Adon!” she cried.

  Cyric stopped just inside the stairwell and concealed himself in the shadows. The overhead trap door opened onto a circular roof, where several people were talking. Though the voices were muffled, he suspected that two of them belonged to Kelemvor and Midnight. The thief had watched them follow Myrkul into the tower.

  Cautiously, Cyric went up the stairs and looked out onto the roof. Elminster was picking up one of the Tablets if Fate and putting it into the saddlebags Kelemvor and company had been using as a carrying case since Tantras. The thief could not believe who was standing next to Midnight. “Adon!” he hissed, his voice barely audible.

  I thought you killed him? his sword said, the words forming within his mind.

  “So did I,” Cyric whispered.

  The thief frowned and shook his head. He had seen the arrow sink into Adon’s ribs with his own eyes, then watched the cleric tumble into a dark cavern. It hardly seemed possible that the scarred cleric was alive.

  Your old friends have an uncanny knack for survival, the red-hued sword observed.

  “I know,” Cyric replied. “It’s beginning to irritate me.”

  Midnight was more surprised than Cyric to see Adon. “You’re alive!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the cleric. The magic-user was still too fatigued to be standing on her own, however, and her knees buckled.

  Adon dropped his mace, caught the mage, and gently lowered her to a seated position. “Are you well?”

  Midnight nodded wearily. “Yes—just fatigued.”

  Kelemvor joined them and cradled Midnight’s head in his lap. “This business has taken its toll on her,” he said.

  “I’ll be fine,” Midnight replied. “I need rest, that’s all. Now what happened to you, Adon?”

  “I don’t really know. After Cyric’s arrow hit me, I fell into an underground stream and was carried away. The next thing I remember is waking up in the care of a gnome named Shalto Haslett—he claimed I’d been clogging up his well.”

  “How did you get to Waterdeep?” Kelemvor asked, remembering his own harrowing journey. “You couldn’t have healed quickly enough to walk.”

  “Shalto had a crow carry a message to Waterdeep. Then somebody named Blackstaff sent a griffon for me.”

  “Blackstaff!” Kelemvor and Midnight said simultaneously.

  “I wonder how long Elminster has known you’re alive?” Midnight asked, glancing toward the ancient sage.

  “And why he didn’t tell us?” Kelemvor added.

  Adon shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. All I know is that I’m glad I arrived when I did.”

  Elminster approached, the saddlebags in his hands. Both Midnight and Kelemvor turned to the wizard and angrily began asking their questions, but no words came out of their mouths. Myrkul’s silence spell still clung to the sage, deadening the sound of the pair’s voices. But from their irritated expressions and the gestures directed at Adon, Elminster could guess what they wanted to know.

  He and Blackstaff had decided not to tell Kelemvor and Midnight of their companion’s survival for good reason. The wizards had not wanted to distract the pair from the task at hand. Shako’s message had only said that Adon was alive and needed transport to W
aterdeep. Without knowing what condition the cleric was in, the wizards had not wanted to raise Midnight’s and Kelemvor’s hopes.

  Elminster tried to explain these things via gestures, but only succeeded in confusing and angering the fighter and the mage further. Finally, he simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

  To his alarm, he saw that his work was not yet over. Myrkul’s denizens did not seem to have noticed the destruction of their lord, and were still savaging the troops in the Dock Ward. Elminster gave the saddlebags to Adon, then turned to Midnight and went through the somatic motions for a dispel magic spell.

  Midnight quickly understood what Elminster wanted. But, despite wanting to hear why he had not told them about Adon’s survival, she was hesitant to call on her powers again. The fatigued mage was loath to risk the danger of a another misfired spell. Besides, she was still weak and feared that casting the incantation would drain what little remained of her strength. Midnight shook her head.

  Elminster urgently pointed toward the south.

  Midnight and the others turned. The battle had drawn closer. The city was burning as far north as Piergeiron’s Palace. Between Blackstaff’s tower and the palace, a hundred separate battles raged in the sky. The combats were graceful, looping things that seemed to move in slow motion. The dark specks circled each other, trying to climb higher than their opponents one moment, then swooped down to attack in the next. Midnight could tell Waterdeep’s guardsmen from Myrkul’s denizens only by the size of the griffons.

  Every now and then, a speck plummeted out of the sky and disappeared into the maelstrom in the streets below. On the ground, the battle had progressed much farther north. Midnight could clearly see companies of black-armored guardsmen and green-armored watchmen lined up to make a stand along Selduth Street, which ran east and west. In front of their lines, approaching along the north-south running avenues, were thousands of the grotesque denizens common to the Fugue Plain in Hades. As the denizen horde moved northward, it drove before it the battered and bloodied remnants of dozens of guard companies that had already thrown themselves against the swarm.