Shadowdale (21 page)

“There, my lord. You will rest. You will heal.”

Bane was comforted by the voice of his faithful emissary. Blackthorne had saved him. He had seen Bane weakened, near the point of death, and still he came. It made no sense to the Black Lord. Had their positions been reversed, he would have allowed the emissary to perish rather than put himself at risk.

Perhaps he feels indebted to me for the life of his friend, Knightsbridge, Bane thought. That must be the reason for his service. Now that he’s paid the debt, though, I suppose I’ll have to watch my back with him.

Bane saw a pool of his blood on the floor: crimson, with amber streaks floating through it. Though one of his lungs was ruptured and he should not have tried to speak, the god gasped as he reached out and touched the scarlet pool.

“My blood,” Bane cried. “My blood!”

“You will be well, lord,” Blackthorne said. “You can grant healing magics to your clerics. Use those same magics to heal yourself.”

Bane did as Blackthorne urged, but he knew that the healing process would be slow and painful. He tried to take his mind from the discomfort by concentrating on the memories of his rescue from Castle Kilgrave. Blackthorne’s magic had been strong enough to bring the mage to the castle, and to teleport Bane and himself away. But they had only escaped as far as the colonnade beyond the castle.

Bane had watched as Mystra took the pendant from the dark-haired magic-user. Then, an instant later, the Goddess of Magic was challenging Helm, both gods standing upon a Celestial Stairway.

The Tablets of Fate! Helm asked for the tablets!

Bane watched in complete horror as Helm destroyed the Goddess of Magic. He witnessed the last vestige of Mystra’s essence approach the magic-user and heard the warning of the goddess as the pendant was returned to the dark-haired human. Incredible magics had been released during Mystra’s battle with Helm, and Bane had seized upon them to finish the task Blackthorne had started, and gated them back to Zhentil Keep.

Bane laughed when he thought that he never would have used the stairway in Shadowdale as part of his plans had it not been for Mystra’s warning. If she had accepted her fate quietly, the events she was so worried about might never have been set into motion. So as Bane lay upon his bed, seeking to recover from the grievous injuries inflicted on him by Mystra; he began to make plans, until finally, he settled into a deep, healing trance.

The sky was a deep lavender, with streaks of royal blue and gold. The clouds were still black, reflecting the dead, charred earth below them, and the huge pillars had become trees with wilting stone branches that snaked across the ground for miles. The mantle of the earth was slick as glass in places, torn apart and filled with debris in others. The red rivers were cooling, becoming solid. Ice no longer fell from above.

The walls of the prismatic sphere that enshrouded the adventurers and their mounts vanished as Midnight rescinded the spell. Touching the blue-white star pendant that once again hung from her neck, Midnight found that there were no signs of the powers that had once resided in the item. Now it was merely a symbol of the strange, apocalyptic encounter between Midnight and her goddess.

Midnight climbed upon her horse and surveyed the shattered countryside. “Mystra asked me to go to Shadowdale to contact Elminster the sage. I don’t expect any of you to go along, but if you’re coming, we’re leaving right now.”

Kelemvor dropped the sack of gold he was loading onto his horse, “What?” he screamed. “And when did the goddess tell you this? We never heard it.”

“I expect you to understand least of all, Kel, but I have to go.” Midnight turned to Adon. “Are you coming?”

The cleric looked from the magic-user to Kelemvor to Cyric, but no one said a word. Adon mounted his horse and moved to Midnight’s side. “You are truly blessed to be given a mission like this. Thank you for asking me to aid you. I will most certainly accompany you.”

Cyric laughed as he finished packing the party’s supplies and grabbed the reigns of the packhorses. “There isn’t much left for me here. I might as well go with you. Coming, Kel?”

Kelemvor stood by his horse, his mouth hanging open with shock. “You’re all going off to follow a fever dream,” he said. “You’re making a terrible mistake!”

“Follow us if you will,” Midnight said, then turned from Kelemvor and rode off, Adon and Cyric trailing behind her.

The way was treacherous and unpredictable, and by the time the trio had begun to make headway on their journey toward the mountains in the far distance, the unmistakable sound of Kelemvor’s mount approaching grew louder, until the fighter caught up to Midnight. No one spoke for a mile or so.

“We haven’t even split our shares of the booty,” Kelemvor said at last.

“I see,” Midnight said, a slight smile playing across her face. “Quite so. I am in your debt.”

“Aye,” Kelemvor said as he reminded her of her words in the castle. “That you are.”

As they made their way across the nightmarish landscape left in the wake of Mystra’s destruction, the heroes saw that the devastation grew worse. The roads were gone, and huge craters filled with smoking black tar barred their path, forcing them to double back and circle around to pass some areas. But by nightfall, the mountains came into view, and they made camp overlooking Gnoll Pass.

A caravan of merchants with wagons loaded with wares appeared on the road below the adventurers’ camp. The caravan was heavily guarded, and when Adon sprang from cover and attempted to warn the travelers of what lay ahead, he was met with a volley of arrows. The cleric leaped to the ground.

The caravan passed, and soon faded from view. Adon returned to the campsite only to find a roaring fire and Midnight preparing something that appeared to be meat, but smelled quite awful. She seemed intent on the task before her, ordering Kelemvor to turn the meats at certain times as she sliced vegetables with her dagger.

The meal was not turning out well, and it seemed that the party would go hungry that night when Cyric held up a small pouch he had found with Mystra’s gifts and motioned for quiet. He reached into the bag and pulled out entire loaves of sweetbread, armloads of dried meats, tankards of ale, blocks of cheese, and more. And yet the pouch seemed empty at all times, even as more food was taken from it.

“We won’t hunger or thirst again!” Kelemvor said as he drank his fill of the mead before him.

Later, as they ate a meal taken from the pouch, Kelemvor felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. The food was dreadful, and he seriously questioned the wisdom of eating any food taken from a magical source during this time of instability in the art. The heroes finished their meal without conversation, but the looks on their faces conveyed their thoughts quite well. Then Midnight broke the silence in the camp with a wish that Adon’s healing spells would return at the earliest opportunity to settle their upset stomachs. The comment met with a hearty round of approval from both Kelemvor and Cyric.

As the meal was ended, Kelemvor and Adon stopped to examine the gifts that Mystra had given them, while across the camp, Midnight was helping Cyric clean up after their meal.

“Will you ride all the way to Shadowdale with me?” the magic-user asked Cyric as they gathered the leftovers.

Cyric hesitated.

“We have supplies, healthy mounts, and enough gold to make us wealthy for the rest of our lives,” Midnight said. “Why not come along?”

Cyric struggled with his words. “I was born in Zhentil Keep, and when I left, I vowed never to return. Shadowdale is far too close for my liking.” He paused and looked at the magic-user. “Still, my path seems to lead in that direction, no matter how much I desire it to be otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do something you didn’t want to,” Midnight said. “The decision is your own.”

Cyric let out a deep breath. “Then I will go. Perhaps from Shadowdale I’ll buy a boat and travel the Ashaba River for a time. It would be peaceful, I think.”

Midnight smiled and nodded. “You’ve earned the chance to rest, Cyric. You have also earned my gratitude.”

The magic-user heard noises from the other side of the campsite, where Kelemvor and Adon were still taking an inventory of Mystra’s gifts. Adon had promised to keep Kelemvor honest, which met with a laugh and a powerful slap on the back from the fighter.

Midnight and Cyric continued their conversations about far-away lands, exchanging knowledge of customs, rituals, and languages. They discussed their past adventures, though Midnight spoke more on this subject than Cyric.

“Mystra,” he said at last. “Your goddess…”

Midnight wiped her dagger clean and returned it to its sheath. “What of her?”

Cyric seemed surprised by Midnight’s response. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Perhaps,” Midnight said. She thought about it for a moment, then went back to the small pit Cyric helped her dig to bury their refuse. “I’m not a child, not like poor Adon. I am saddened by Mystra’s passing, but there are other gods to give thanks to, should the need arise.”

“You don’t need to hold back with me —”

Midnight stood up. “Finish this,” the magic-user said as she gestured to the pit and walked off. Cyric watched her back as she left, then turned to the Job before him. He remembered looking up at the warring gods and the childish glee that filled him as their blood was spilled. Ashamed of his reaction to Mystra’s death, Cyric then turned his thoughts aside and concentrated on cleaning up.

Down the path, away from the campfire and Cyric, Midnight felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the thin mountain air. There’s no point in grieving over Caitlan’s and Mystra’s passing, Midnight thought. She silently cursed Cyric for mentioning the goddess and scolded herself. There was no malice in the man that she could judge, only a lifetime of hardship that made him uncomfortable with any form of communication except the exact science of words.

Kelemvor, on the other hand, was Cyric’s opposite in this regard. His actions and his unspoken declarations excited Midnight. Only when he tried to hide his feelings behind his curtain of ill-conceived and ill-timed banter did he assume the appearance of an infuriating lummox, betraying his many strengths. Perhaps they had a future together.

Only time would tell.

She approached Kelemvor and Adon, and the two were still bickering.

“We split it up equal!” Kelemvor snarled.

“But this is equal! You, me. Midnight, Cyric, and Sune, without whom —”

“You’re not going to start about Sune again!”

“But —”

“Four ways,” Midnight said coolly, and both men turned. “Do what you like with your share, Adon, Give it to your church if you will.”

Adon’s shoulders slumped. “I wasn’t being greedy…”

Kelemvor seemed ready to question this.

“Perhaps you need some rest,” Midnight said, and the young cleric nodded.

“Aye, perhaps this is so.”

Adon walked away, the flickering light of his torch showing him the trail that led to the campfire beyond. Sliding on one of the rocks, then righting himself, Adon mumbled something else about Sune and was gone.

“How do you feet?” Midnight asked. “Were the tender mercies of this woman’s cooking to your fancy?”

“Shall I speak plainly?” Kelemvor said.

Midnight smiled. “Perhaps not.”

“Then I feel fit to carve a kingdom from these rocks.”

She nodded. “I feel that way myself.” She motioned to the riches before them. “Shall we?”

“Aye. It’s always a pleasure to work with a keen mind and a level head when it comes to such matters.”

Midnight stared at him, but he did not take his gaze from the treasure. Before them the gold lay in piles on the stump of a huge tree. There were rubies, bits of jewelry, and a single, strange artifact that Midnight bent low to examine. She cried out in joy, picked up the magical item, and grinned at Kelemvor.

“We will be splitting this five ways it seems!”

Kelemvor sat back, “What do you mean?”

“This is a harp of Myth Drannor. Elminster is a known collector of these. If all else fails, we may use it to gain his audience.”

Kelemvor thought about it. “But what’s it worth?”

Midnight refused to be discouraged. “We won’t know until someone makes an offer, now will we?”

“Oh. Aye, good thinking.”

“Each of the harps is said to possess magical properties,” Midnight said as she handled the object. The harp was aged, although it had once been a thing of shining beauty. The finely wrought ivory and gold inlays had been realized by a true artisan, and the dark red wood reflected the fire from the torches as if it still retained its original polish. Midnight plucked at the strings without skill, and the sound that issued forth was a strange, discordant flow of reverberating notes that grew louder and caused Kelemvor’s armor to shake as if an unseen force was attacking him.

“MID —”

Suddenly each and every tiny clasp that held it in place popped open, and Kelemvor’s armor fell to the ground.

“— NIGHT.”

Kelemvor sat, covered in nothing but a chain mail tunic, his armor spread around him in a heap. Midnight’s mouth was open wide as she worked her jaws soundlessly, then she fell over in a fit of laughter.

“See here!” Kelemvor frowned.

“Please!” Midnight said, discouragingly.

“No, I meant…” The fighter looked down at the armor and sighed.

Midnight sat up and took a deep breath. “This must be Methild’s Harp. It is, as I remember, known to part all webs, open all locks, break all bonds… all of that.”

“I see,” Kelemvor said, his mild agitation giving way to Midnight’s infectious grin. “Perhaps now is the time for the reward we discussed. What say you?”

Midnight stood up and backed off. “I think not,” she said, her heart suddenly pounding like a trip hammer.

Midnight turned around. She heard Kelemvor stand and felt his hand touch her shoulder. The mage bit her lip as she stared at the torch in front of them. His other hand gently encircled her waist and she trembled, fighting her own desire.

“We’re only talking about a kiss,” he said. “One kiss. Where is the harm in that?”