Waterdeep

by Troy Denning

  Every now and then, some mage within the defending ranks would loose a fireball or hail storm at the advancing denizens. As often as not, the spell misfired, coating the streets with snow or showering the magic-user’s own ranks with sparks and flame. Even when a spell did work, it seldom affected the denizens. Magic missiles bounced off their chests harmlessly, and lightning bolts simply dissipated into the advancing throng with no effect.

  Realizing Waterdeep had little hope of repelling the denizens unless something changed, Midnight motioned for Elminster to stand away so she could speak. Then she performed the incantation to dispel the magic on the old sage. Immediately, a wave of fatigue shot through her body and her vision darkened. Midnight collapsed, trembling, into Kelemvor’s arms, then slipped into unconsciousness.

  Kelemvor clutched her close to his body. “Wake up,” he whispered. “Please, wake up.”

  Adon knelt and touched his fingers to Midnight’s throat. “Her heartbeat is still strong,” he noted softly.

  Kelemvor slipped Midnight into Adon’s arms, then stood and went over to Elminster. “What did you make her do?” he demanded.

  “Calm thyself,” Elminster said, relieved to see that Myrkul’s spell no longer plagued him. “Midnight will recover. She did nothing more than exhaust herself.”

  The wizard went to the edge of the tower and looked down at the battle. The denizens had driven the remnants of twenty shattered companies into the line along Selduth Street. Waterdeep’s defenders had opened holes in their ranks to allow the routed troops to pass.

  “And she did so in a good cause,” Elminster said, pointing at the denizens. “They’re coming for the tablets.”

  “Why?” Kelemvor asked. “Myrkul’s gone!”

  “Apparently they don’t know that,” Elminster replied, “or they don’t care. In either case, I must stop them.”

  “How can one man stop a host of those things?” Kelemvor demanded.

  “Ye were a soldier. What’s the best way to demoralize an army?”

  Kelemvor shrugged. “Starve it or cut it off from its home. But who—”

  “Precisely!” Elminster said. “Cut it off from home.”

  He addressed both Kelemvor and Adon. “When Myrkul’s horde begins to retreat, take the tablets to the Celestial Stairway. But don’t move before that or the denizens will come after ye. Do ye understand?”

  Adon nodded. “But where is the Celestial Stairway?”

  Elminster frowned as though the answer were obvious. “Up there” he said, pointing toward the summit of Mount Waterdeep.

  “Two more questions before you go,” Kelemvor said.

  “All right, but be quick about it.”

  “First, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure,” Elminster replied. “Go to the Pool of Loss and close it off, I suppose. Since the denizens aren’t from our plane of existence, that should draw their attention away from the battle.”

  “But you’ll need hours to get there,” Kelemvor objected. “Even if you can make it back to the Yawning Portal through the battle—”

  A condescending smile creased Elminster’s lips. “My boy, have ye forgotten who I am? What’s thy second question?”

  Kelemvor frowned, not entirely satisfied with Elminster’s first answer. Still, he knew the sage wouldn’t explain himself further. The fighter asked his second question. “Why didn’t you tell us Adon was alive?”

  Elminster actually looked embarrassed. “Yes—well, Blackstaff and I discussed that matter. There’s no time to explain at the moment. Perhaps when I return.”

  With that, the sage went to the stairwell, already plotting his strategy. First, he would cross into another plane, where there would be no need to worry about the unpredictability of magic. Then Elminster intended to travel to the other side of the Pool of Loss and reseal it from there. It might be tiring, but the ancient wizard did not think it would be beyond him.

  As the sage stepped into the stairwell, Cyric slipped into a room on the tower’s top floor. The thief had been watching and listening to everything that occurred on the roof.

  It’s good you didn’t steal the tablets immediately, his sword commented. Even I could not have defended you from an army of denizens.

  Cyric did not reply. Instead, he waited for Elminster’s steps to descend well past his door. Then the thief returned to his position at the top of the stairwell, waiting for an opportunity to attack.

  A few minutes after the wizard left, Midnight regained consciousness. She immediately noticed Elminster’s absence, and feared she had dispelled the sage with Myrkul’s spell. “Elminster,” she asked weakly. “Where is he?”

  “The Pool of Loss,” Kelemvor replied. “He went to seal it.”

  “As soon as the denizens start retreating, we’re to take the tablets to the top of Mount Waterdeep,” Adon said.

  Kelemvor turned to the cleric. “What makes you think the denizens will retreat?” the fighter asked doubtfully. “Elminster’s one man against an army.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” Midnight replied. “I need to rest anyway.”

  They turned to watch the battle. In the air, the superior number of griffon riders appeared to be holding their own against the flying denizens. The battling specks had moved no closer. On the ground, the story was different. The denizens had just reached the line at Selduth Street and were ripping through it with the force of a tidal wave.

  Waterdeep’s second rank of defenders charged Myrkul’s denizens while the foul creatures were busy destroying the first rank. Each soldier stayed long enough to slash two or three times, then quickly retreated to form a new line. At the same time, a third rank of pikesmen formed behind the second, prepared to utilize the same hit-and-run tactics.

  The strategy took its toll on the denizen army, leaving two hundred of their bloated, leathery bodies in the street. But it took a heavier toll on Waterdeep’s defenders, who lost two men for every denizen. Still, it was the only strategy that worked, so the defenders repeated it over and over, retreating farther north and closer to Blackstaff’s tower.

  Finally, the battle reached Keltarn Street, which ran west from the Street of Silver. It crossed the Street of Silks and ended, scarcely five hundred feet from Blackstaff’s tower, at Swords Street. The denizens were advancing up all three north-running avenues: the Street of Silver, the Street of Silks, and Swords Street.

  In accordance with the normal strategy, the Company of the Manticore fell back along the Street of Silver, leaving the denizens a clear path down Keltarn Street. To the Manticore commander’s surprise, the denizens turned down Keltarn Street and fell on the flank of 3rd Watch Regiment, who were defending the Street of Silks.

  Within seconds, the 3rd Watch Regiment perished. The denizens from both the Streets of Silver and Silks started down Keltarn Street toward the Company of the Chimera, the last group of defenders on Swords Street.

  “That’s it,” Kelemvor said. “We’d better run before they break through.”

  “But Elminster—,” Adon objected, waving his mace like an accusing finger.

  “Did not succeed,” Midnight interrupted. “And I doubt I’ve the strength for even one more spell.”

  Kelemvor reached down to help the raven-haired mage stand, and Adon cast a last glance over the battle. “Wait—they just might hold,” he said.

  All three companions turned just as the denizens reached Swords Street. The Company of the Manticore was charging down Keltarn Street behind the denizens. At the same time, the 5th Watch Regiment, which had been held in reserve, was rushing to reinforce Swords Street.

  Kelemvor did not think even these developments would stop the denizens. “We can’t take that chance,” he said.

  Cyric decided to make his move while the three companions were still trapped on Blackstaff’s tower. He drew his short sword and slipped onto the roof as quietly as he could, moving toward Kelemvor’s back.

  Midnight saw Cyric first. “Kel!” she
screamed.

  “What?” the warrior asked, bewildered.

  Cyric rushed forward, taking advantage of the fighter’s confusion. He wanted to finish the warrior quickly. The others he would take his time with. But as long as Kelemvor remained alive, he was dangerous.

  “It’s Cyric!” Midnight yelled.

  Kelemvor spun to face his attacker. Cyric’s blade flashed past the warrior’s chest, missing its target by a hair’s breadth. The fighter yelled in astonishment. Realizing he still had the advantage, the thief stepped forward and slipped an ankle behind the stocky warrior’s knee. Kelemvor tried to retreat and Cyric tripped him.

  As the warrior fell, Adon slipped to Cyric’s right, the saddlebags over his shoulder and his mace in his hand. Midnight stepped to Cyric’s left.

  The thief raised his sword to finish Kelemvor.

  “Stop!” Adon screamed, stepping within striking range of Cyric’s head.

  To the thief’s right, Midnight alsc stepped forward. She did not feel very threatening. Her arms quivered with fear for her lover’s life, and the mage was so exhausted it might prove impossible to lift her hands for an incantation.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Cyric snarled. “Drop your weapons or I’ll slit Kel’s throat.”

  “You’ll do it anyway,” Adon replied. “At least you’ll die, too.”

  The cleric raised the mace over his head, but Midnight shook her head. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “The same thing I’ve always wanted,” Cyric replied. “The Tablets of Fate.”

  “So you can become a god,” Midnight mocked. “Ao will never make a god of a thief and a murderer.”

  Cyric burst out laughing. “Why not?” he asked. “This is the same overlord who created Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul!”

  Midnight frowned. It had never occurred to her that Ao might be an evil god or one who did not care about good or evil. However, that didn’t matter at the moment. She stepped back, summoning a magic missile incantation.

  “He dies!” Cyric screamed, recognizing the look of concentration in Midnight’s eyes. “The tablets, now!”

  Midnight looked at Adon. “Let him have them,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides.

  “No!” Kelemvor exclaimed. “He’ll kill me anyway.”

  The fighter started to rise, and Midnight knew Cyric would strike. Midnight’s only hope of saving her lover lay with her magic. She quickly performed an incantation, pointing her fingers at the thief.

  Twenty golden bolts flashed from her fingers—then missed their target and arced away into Waterdeep. An instant later, the ground rumbled. Twenty different buildings shot into the heavens, leaving long plumes of golden flame in their wakes.

  Midnight’s knees buckled and her head began to swim. She stumbled backward two steps, but did not allow herself to fall. Her magic had failed her.

  The misfired incantation astonished the men, but only for an instant. “Bad luck,” Cyric sneered. He turned his attention back to Kelemvor, who was rising to his knees.

  Adon stepped forward, swinging his mace. Cyric’s anger changed to fear. Kelemvor had forced him into a mistake. The thief swung his right leg up and thrust his heel into Adon’s ribs, using the bloodstained hole in the cleric’s shirt as a target. His foot connected with a satisfying thump.

  The cleric bellowed in agony and dropped his mace and the tablets, then doubled over and collapsed. His lungs burned with each breath, and he felt as though another arrow had pierced his ribs.

  Kelemvor lunged, hoping to topple Cyric before the thief regained his balance from kicking Adon. But Cyric anticipated the attack and sidestepped the lunge easily. As the fighter flew past, the thief stepped around behind him.

  Cyric could not help smiling. From his position, and with both Adon and Midnight all but helpless, he could easily wound the warrior, yet spare his life. Instead, the thief thrust his sword into Kelemvor’s back, putting all his weight behind it, burying the blade as deep as possible.

  As Cyric plunged his weapon into the fighter’s back, Midnight saw that the wound did not bleed, and that the sword was drinking her lover’s blood. A sick, guilty anger came over her. Screaming in rage and anguish, the mage pulled her dagger and found the strength to charge.

  The fighter felt his life draining away. “Ariel,” he whispered through the pain. As his vision blurred, Kelemvor Lyonsbane wondered if, perhaps, he’d done enough good in the short time he was without his curse to be remembered as a hero. Then he died.

  At the same time, Adon tried to stand. However, his body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. When he pressed against the roof, his arms simply quivered and jets of agony shot through his torso.

  Cyric calmly pulled his sword out of Kelemvor’s back and turned to meet Midnight’s attack. He blocked the magic-user’s wild stab, knocking the dagger from her hand and sending it off the tower. Turning his parry into an attack, the thief dropped his blade beneath the mage’s arm and lunged.

  But Midnight was quicker than Cyric expected. She sidestepped his attack, then raked her fingernails across his face. The mage had forgotten about the denizens, the tablets, and even her own life. At the moment, all she wanted was to make Cyric pay for killing Kelemvor.

  The hawk-nosed man screamed, then knocked Midnight down with a powerful kick. She landed flat on her back six feet away. The thief’s face stung, and he could feel blood dripping down his cheek. “You hurt me!” he snarled, more astonished than angry.

  “I’ll kill you,” she said, standing up. Her words were calm and even.

  “I don’t think so.” Moving so quickly and so smoothly that Midnight did not see the blow coming, the thief rushed forward and drove his sword into her abdomen.

  Midnight felt a sharp pain, as if Cyric had kicked her again, and her breath left her lungs. She looked down and saw the sword hilt protruding from a gash in her robe, the thief’s hand still wrapped around it. Her intestines began to burn, then the sword began sucking her life away. Too shocked to resist, the magic-user clutched at the hilt and tried to pull it out.

  Cyric pushed, keeping the blade imbedded in the wound. “Just a few seconds longer,” he said, “and you’ll be with Kelemvor.”

  Midnight began to feel detached from her body, as though she and it were separated by miles.

  “I won’t die,” she hissed.

  “Won’t you?” Cyric asked, twisting the blade.

  “No!” Midnight cried.

  She released the sword, then straightened three fingers and jammed them into the thief’s throat as hard as she could. The strike nearly smashed his larynx. Choking and gasping, he stumbled away, pulling the sword out of the mage’s body.

  Midnight collapsed into a sitting position. She held her hands over her wound, which had begun to bleed.

  Cyric swallowed and cleared his throat several times, attempting to restore the normal passage of air. Finally, he lifted his sword and started toward Midnight again. “For that, you die in pain,” he gasped.

  Barely capable of focusing on the thief, Midnight raised a hand and pointed it at him. She tried to summon an incantation that would kill him, but the pain in her stomach clouded her head and she could not think clearly. Her mind simply filled with a jumble of nonsensical words and meaningless gestures.

  Just then, a fierce round of battle cries came up from Swords Street. Watching Midnight over his shoulder, Cyric went to the edge of the tower to see what had happened. Just a hundred yards from the base of Blackstaff’s home, the Company of the Manticore and the 5th Watch Regiment were engaged in a confused, whirling melee with Myrkul’s horde. Human and denizen bodies alike lay stacked two and three deep, and blood ran down the gutters in streams. The buildings lining the street were scorched and half-destroyed from the desperate magic that wizards had flung into battle without regard to misfires or precision.

  As Cyric watched, a group of denizens broke through the line. Five mages directed spells at them, resulting in a spray of colors, an unexp
ected rain shower, and two miniature tornadoes. But one of the spells went off correctly, and a fireball engulfed Myrkul’s warriors. To Cyric’s surprise, the magic reduced the denizens to charred lumps. A dozen of Waterdeep’s soldiers gave a rousing cheer, then rushed over to seal the gap the attackers had been trying to exploit.

  And from what Cyric could see from the tower, the battle was going badly for the denizens all across the city.

  The battle was turning, though Cyric could not see the reason. In fact, Elminster had finally reached the other side of the Pool of Loss and closed the portal. The loss of contact with Hades was demoralizing the denizens. It was also weakening much of their invulnerability to spells, fire, and weapons, which was due to magic emanating from Myrkul’s realm.

  Cyric decided that it was time to take the tablets and find the Celestial Stairway. He turned back to the middle of the roof, where Midnight barely sat upright. The mage continued to point her hand in his general direction. Her face was too masked in pain for the thief to tell whether or not she was concentrating on magic.

  Cyric considered stabbing Midnight again. But then he looked at her wound and the pool of blood in which she sat. Recalling some of the incredible things he had seen her magic do, the thief decided it would be wiser to let her bleed to death on her own. Besides, with the tide of battle turning, he did not think there was much time to waste.

  The thief went over to Adon and pulled the saddlebags out of the cleric’s grasp. Adon feebly tried to rise and stop him, making it as far as his knees.

  “Thanks,” Cyric said cheerfully. Taking aim at the bloody spot on the cleric’s shirt, the thief kicked him as hard as he could—twice. “I’d kill you, but I don’t have any time to waste.”

  Then Cyric threw the saddlebags containing the Tablets of Fate over his shoulder and left the tower.

  After Cyric left Blackstaff’s tower, Midnight collapsed and fell unconscious. Adon dragged himself to her side. He tore a ragged piece of cloth off the mage’s sleeve and used it to stanch the bleeding from her wound. The bandage did not work completely, but at least the flow slowed to a trickle.