Shadowdale (33 page)

Midnight watched as the remaining pair of spiders advanced on them. Looking down at her dagger, she realized that it was going to be useless against the monsters, so she tried to remember her decastave spell. Midnight grabbed a branch from a nearby tree and recited the incantation. Suddenly a glowing blue-white staff materialized in Midnight’s hands. As Midnight attacked the spider, she was startled to find that the staff took on the properties of a scythe. She slashed open the first spider she saw, but the other went for easier prey.

It pounced on Zelanz and Welch, who fought it side by side. Their sweeping swords dispatched it quickly, but others approached. The drip of a milky white substance was all that alerted them to the spider that had been busy forming a web above them. Zelanz looked up, just in time to see the reddish mass of the spider as it descended upon them.

At the edge of the clearing, the cleric of Tymora moved forward. He touched the edge of a tree and saw Thurbrand fighting for his life against the spider that killed Gillian. He took another step and came face to face with Bohaim, a young mage from Suzail. He stumbled back to clear the way for Bohaim, but a spider’s leg burst through the mage’s chest. The man screamed as the spider pulled him up into the air and lowered him toward its hungry mandibles.

The Company of Dawn is dying, the cleric of Tymora thought. There was a slight crunch behind him. He brought up his mace and turned to face a purple and white spider. One of the spider’s legs impaled the cleric with blinding speed. The cleric formed a silent prayer to Tymora, and the world became darkness.

Not far from where the cleric fell, Thurbrand’s sword flashed and the head of the spider that killed Gillian was caved in, spilling its poisons even as the fighter turned away to avoid being soaked. Five more spiders advanced on the bald man. Just ahead of him, the other two living members of the Company of Dawn were fighting for their lives. Thurbrand ran toward the two men, ignoring the pack of spiders closing in behind him.

High above in the trees, Cyric watched with a growing fascination as the spiders climbed in the woods around him and worked their intricate art. Cyric knew he should be repulsed or angered by the sight: the sole purpose of the spider’s work was to ensnare and kill him and his friends. But the patterns of this waiting death were quite lovely to Cyric. There was such simplicity and such order in its design.

There was a sound beside him, and Cyric leaped from the tree even as a jagged set of pincers ground together in the air where he had been. The ground rushed up at him as he fell, and the thief twisted in midair, then rolled to absorb the fall’s impact as he struck the ground.

Cyric heard the telltale snapping sound of a spider breaking from the earth just before its legs rose up, snaring him in its trap.

Fifty yards away, Kelemvor rose to his feet. The sounds of the spiders engulfed his senses. Their limbs crackled, and the petrified trees shifted slightly beneath their weight. The monsters surrounded him, but they were not rushing in for the kill. Then, a huge white spider moved toward him very slowly, and all the other spiders cleared the way for its approach. It was the largest spider Kelemvor had ever seen.

A small circle was formed around Kelemvor, so that the white spider might have room to maneuver. The fighter looked up and saw a host of spiders waiting in the trees above. There was no escape for him; the other were probably all dead. Then the huge white spider rushed forward, and Kelemvor severed one of its legs just as another pierced the air beside his face. Then a third leg moved along his armor, opening the tempered breastplate and making a shallow gash across his chest.

With horrible clarity, Kelemvor saw the fourth leg sailing at him. In an instant, the leg would pierce his chest, and the spider would drag his twitching body to its hungry mandibles. Then, a piercing blue-white pain shot through the fighter’s head.

As Cyric jumped from the tree and Kelemvor started his battle with the white spider, Midnight moved against a blood-red spider as Adon stood behind her, making no move to protect himself. Midnight ran between the grasping legs and planted her magical scythe in the creature’s eyes.

As the blood-red spider lay twitching on the ground, Midnight looked around her and saw that both Cyric and Kelemvor were in terrible danger. Then, a white, milky substance struck her boot. She looked up just in time to see the huge, yellow underbelly of a spider as it plunged down at her, its legs working the air with hungry anticipation.

Midnight cast a spell to create a shield in front of the spider. As she finished reciting the incantation, her pendant suddenly crackled with energy. Bolts of energy shot from the star and struck Adon, Kelemvor, Cyric, and the three remaining members of the Company of Dawn.

Then, just at the white spider brought its leg down on Kelemvor, just as Cyric landed on the trap, just as Adon stared uncaring as a gray spider descended toward him, they all disappeared.

Midnight felt as if the air were being ripped from her lungs. A brilliant flash of blue-white light blinded her for an instant, and when her vision cleared, she found herself standing on a long road. For a moment she thought she had gone mad, then the mage realized that she had teleported from the woods.

Kelemvor lay on the ground in front of her, holding his head. “What did you do?” the fighter groaned, then he tried to stand up, but couldn’t. He looked down and saw that the cut on his chest was still bleeding slightly. “Not that I mind, whatever it was.”

Cyric and Thurbrand helped the fighter to his feet. “Yes. Whatever you did, we owe you our lives,” the bald man said. “And that certainly fulfills your debt to me, fair daffodil.”

Midnight opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. She just looked around, wide-eyed.

“Gillian, Brion, they’re all gone,” one of the remaining members of the Company of Dawn said as he helped cover his friend’s wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Midnight said at last. “I don’t even know how I got us here, even if I got us here.”

“Wherever ‘here’ is,” Cyric said as he looked around.

Adon, who was standing a few yards away, staring up the road to the north, turned around and said quietly, “We’re a half day’s ride south of Shadowdale.”

The doors leading to Bane’s throne room burst open wide and Tempus Blackthorne rushed inside to answer the call of his god. Bane gripped the edge of his throne, his talons scratching the surface.

“Close the door.” Bane’s voice was cold and measured. Despite the latitude that Bane had granted his emissary, Blackthorne felt a momentary flicker of fear.

“You wished to see me, Lord Bane?” Blackthorne said, his voice deceptively steady.

The Black Lord rose from his throne and gestured for the mage to come closer. The taloned hand of the fallen god flashed before the eyes of the emissary. Blackthorne made no move to defend himself as the God of Strife grabbed his shoulder roughly.

“The time has come,” Bane said.

Blackthorne’s heart skipped a beat as he saw that Bane’s lips were pulled back in what he could only call a smile. It was a horrible thing to see.

“The time to unite the gods is upon us,” the Black Lord cried. “I want you to take a message to Loviatar, the Goddess of Pain. I believe she is in Waterdeep. Tell her I wish to see her… immediately.”

Blackthorne’s body tensed. The taloned grip upon the emissary’s shoulder tightened as Bane registered the change in Blackthorne’s stance.

“You have a problem with this order, emissary?” the God of Strife growled.

“Waterdeep is halfway across the Realms, Lord Bane. By the time I return, your campaign against the Dales will be a part of history.”

The Black Lord’s smile vanished. “Aye, if you travel as a normal man would travel,” Bane said. “But with the spell I’ve given you, you will be in Waterdeep within a few days.”

Blackthorne lowered his eyes, and the Black Lord removed his hand from his shoulder. “What if the goddess does not wish to accompany me on the journey back to Zhentil Keep?”

Bane turned his back on the emissary and folding his arms. “I will trust you to convince her otherwise. That is all.”

“But —”

“That is all!” Bane screamed as he whirled on his emissary, his dark eyes flashing.

Blackthorne took a step back.

The eyes of the Black Lord blazed as the seething anger Bane felt intensified. “You disappoint me,” Bane said, although his tone suggested disgust rather than anger. “Do as I say and win back my favor.”

Bowing before his lord, Blackthorne murmured the first prayer he had ever learned — a prayer to Bane. Then the mage stood up and raised his arms as he began to chant the emissary spell. He visualized his destination, remembering a visit he had paid to Waterdeep in his youth. A moment later, Blackthorne’s body began to shimmer and change as he tried to assume his raven form. But something was wrong. His flesh was being pulled in every direction as it turned charcoal-black. The emissary’s clothing shredded and fell to the floor.

Blackthorne screamed and held out one partially transformed arm to his god. “Help me,” was all the mage had time to say before he imploded in a shower of black sparks. Where Blackthorne had stood only a moment before, a small black gem dropped to the floor next to his breastplate and shattered.

Bane watched in complete shock. “The spell,” he said absently as he stumbled back into the shadows near the entrance to his private chamber.

The guards who rushed into the room didn’t see their god as he stood in the shadows. They looked down at the lettered remains of Tempus Blackthorne and shook their heads.

“I suppose that had to happen sooner or later,” one of the guards said.

“Aye,” the other guard said. “Any idiot knows that magic is unstable.”

Bane rushed forward and killed both guards before they even knew he was there. Then Bane turned and stripped off his bloodied armor. A moment later, he was sitting upon his throne, staring at Blackthorne’s ruined breastplate on the floor.

I will not grieve, the god decided coolly. Blackthorne was merely a human. A pawn. His loss is regrettable, but he can be replaced.

Then Bane thought of his endless talks with Blackthorne. He remembered the strange emotions that coursed through him when he had realized that Blackthorne had saved him, and aided in his recovery.

The Black Lord looked at his hands and noticed he was trembling. Then the God of Strife screamed a cry of grief, loud and long. All over Bane’s Dark Temple, people covered their ears and shivered at the sound of the Black Lord’s pain.

When his scream ended, the God of Strife looked down through tear-clouded eyes and saw a figure standing before his throne.

“Blackthorne?” Bane said, his voice harsh and rasping.

“No, Lord Bane.”

Bane wiped his eyes and looked down at the red-haired man who stood before him. “Fzoul,” he said. “All is well.”

“Milord, there are dead men surrounding you in the temple —”

Bane raised his taloned hand.

The red-haired man hung his head. “Yes, milord.” Then Fzoul picked up his god’s scattered armor and helped Bane to his feet.

“All is in readiness,” Fzoul said as the Black Lord finally put on his bloody armor again. “When shall we begin to prepare for the battle?”

A fire crackled in the eyes of the Black Lord and Fzoul stepped back from the angry god. Then Bane’s lips curled back in a frightful grimace. There was fire behind the God of Strife’s pointed teeth, too, as his eyes narrowed and he said, “Now.”

Shadowdale

The time for eveningfeast had passed, but the travelers walked on, determined to reach Shadowdale before the night was through. The spell that had spirited them from certain death in Spiderhaunt Woods had deposited the adventurers almost two days’ journey ahead on their route.

Midnight, Kelemvor, and Thurbrand walked together, as did Cyric and the other surviving members of the Company of Dawn, Isaac and Vogt. Adon walked alone, thinking of everything he had lost.

“They died bravely,” Kelemvor said to Thurbrand at one point.

“That is little comfort,” Thurbrand said, memories of the last quest he had shared with Kelemvor edging into his thoughts. It had been many years ago, but the results had been much the same: Thurbrand and Kelemvor had lived. Everyone else had died.

Cyric had a confused, haggard look as he walked through the dale. It was as if he’d been forced to confront some great truth, and the knowledge had left him weak and trembling. When he spoke, it was in a soft, almost quavering voice.

Adon, on the other hand, didn’t speak at all. There was nothing for him to do as he walked, nothing to fill his head but his own unwelcome thoughts. And as he walked on through the night, the cleric’s relentless fears drove him down into a white-faced, trembling shadow of the man he’d once been.

But not all of the adventurers were grim-faced and mournful as they walked toward Shadowdale. Midnight and Kelemvor behaved as if the worst was behind them.

They laughed and exchanged taunts as they had earlier in their journey. Every time they smiled or laughed, though, one of their companions would frown at them, as if they were interrupting a funeral with their mirth.

Eventually, however, most of the heroes relaxed as they trekked through the countryside south of Shadowdale. The green, flowing hills and rich, soft earth of the dale’s outlying districts were wondrous to behold. Even the air was sweet, and the harsh winds that had plagued the heroes ever since they entered the Stonelands became light breezes that caressed the travelers, enticing them to walk ever faster in their pursuit of sanctuary.

It was very late when they reached the bridge that spanned the Ashaba and led into Shadowdale. The tiny, sparkling lights they had seen in the distance now revealed themselves to be glowing fires set at the far end of the bridge. Guards armed with crossbows and wearing bright silver armor walked back and forth on the bridge and warmed their hands by the fires from time to time.

Kelemvor and Midnight walked beside Thurbrand as the party approached the bridge. As they got close to the river, however, something moved in the bushes. The heroes turned and reached for their weapons, but stood still when they saw six carefully aimed crossbows sticking from the bushes on both sides of the bridge. The steel-tipped arrows gleamed in the moonlight.