Waterdeep (22 page)

Midnight was not sure she believed the Lord of Murder. From what she had learned, the gods were fighting over who would get credit for returning the tablets. But Bhaal’s words gave her cause for doubt.

“Are you saying it’s impossible to return the tablets?” the mage pressed.

The god pointed at the saddlebags on Midnight’s shoulder “Why do you think we’ve permitted you to keep that one? It’s useless.”

“Useless!” Midnight gasped, her heart sinking.

“We can’t get the second one. Nobody can,” Bhaal explained, waving his hand angrily. “Without both tablets, Helm won’t let us back into the Planes. That’s why you must kill him.”

“Where’s the other tablet? Has it been destroyed?”

Bhaal sneered. “In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s hidden in Bone Castle, in Myrkul’s Realm of the Dead.” He pointed at the ground. “And there it will stay until we are freed from the Realms.”

“If you know where it is, why don’t you -” Midnight stopped in midsentence, realizing her question was silly. The gods had been banished from the Planes. The Realm of the Dead, being Myrkul’s home, was undoubtedly closed to them since it was in Hades.

Bhaal allowed Midnight a moment to consider what she had learned so far. Finally, he said, “You see? We’re on the same side, we want to return to the Planes, and you want to get us out of Faerun. But you’ll need to kill Helm before that happens. Do you see that now?”

Midnight did not answer immediately. It had occurred to her that if she could destroy Helm, she could also recover the other tablet from Bone Castle. But the mage did not want to reveal her idea to Bhaal, although he claimed that he also wanted to return the tablets. Even after thirty hours in the saddle, she was not muddled enough to believe she could trust the word of the Lord of Murder.

Still, if her plan was to work, Midnight needed more information. “If I must kill Helm in order to save the Realms, then I will,” Midnight lied. If she was going to learn what she wanted from Bhaal, he had to think she was convinced. “But before I agree, you’ve got to answer some questions. I want to know that you’ve tried every other possibility.”

“Oh, we have,” Bhaal replied, using his saddle as a chair.

Midnight did not believe the fallen deity’s words were sincere, but she pretended otherwise. “The gods are barred from the Planes, not anybody else. Why haven’t you sent a mortal into the Realm of the Dead to retrieve the second tablet?”

Bhaal’s jaw dropped just for an instant, but long enough to betray his surprise. “That’s not as easy as you make it sound,” he said.

Midnight did not miss the shock on Bhaal’s face, but was unsure what to make of it. She could not believe that the Lord of Murder and the Lord of the Dead would not have thought of something so simple.

“Answer the question,” Midnight demanded. “Why haven’t you sent some mortal after the tablet? There must be ways for humans to reach the Realm of the Dead.”

“There are ways,” Bhaal conceded.

“How?” Midnight asked. She sat down facing Bhaal, now, using her own saddle for a stool.

The God of Assassins twisted Deverell’s emaciated face into a sour grin. “They can die,” he said.

Midnight frowned. That was hardly the answer she wanted. “You can try to force me to cooperate by threatening Kelemvor and Adon, but you won’t be able to trust me unless you answer these questions. Why haven’t you sent a mortal after the second Tablet of Fate?”

Bhaal studied her for a long time, malice in his eyes. Finally, he dropped his gaze and said, “We have tried. Lord Myrkul has sent dozens of his most loyal priests to Dragonspear Castle and-“

“Dragonspear Castle?” Midnight interrupted. From what she had heard, Dragonspear Castle was little more than an abandoned ruin on the road to Waterdeep.

“Dragonspear Castle,” Bhaal confirmed, nodding. “Beneath it, there is a -” He paused, as if searching for the proper word, “- there is a bridge between this world and the Realm of the Dead.”

“Then why don’t you have the other tablet already?” Midnight asked. By mentioning Dragonspear Castle, Bhaal had already told her what she wanted to know, where to find the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. It was better not to dwell on the subject, or he would quickly discover his mistake.

Bhaal shrugged and looked away. “The mortals go in, but they don’t come out. The Realm of the Dead is a dangerous place for the living.”

“In what ways?” Midnight asked and she shifted her weight uncomfortably in the saddle. “Surely, Lord Myrkul’s priests-“

“We’ve talked enough about the Realm of the Dead,” Bhaal snapped, suddenly rising and snarling in anger. “You will help us, Midnight… or your friends will suffer for your stupidity and your obstinacy,”

Midnight stared at Bhaal, feigning surprise and indignation, but said nothing. From the foul god’s sudden anger, she knew that she had asked one question too many.

Bhaal pointed at the ground next to her saddle. “Sleep while you can,” he grumbled. “We leave as soon as the horses are rested.” With that, he turned away - then allowed himself a satisfied grin. So far, everything with the mage had gone as Lord Myrkul had predicted.

Kelemvor kept a wary eye turned toward the forest on the south side of the road. A hundred inky shadows hung in rust-colored boughs, ferociously chittering at a dark thing skulking in the underbrush. As the warrior watched, a lone squirrel dropped out of a tree and bounced out to the middle of the dusty road. It had tufted ears, a bushy tail, and eyes darker than its fur. Where the morning sun’s yellow rays touched it, the creature’s dark fur absorbed the light. The rodent looked more like a tiny demon than a squirrel.

Kelemvor continued to ride toward the little animal. It stood its ground, studying the warrior and his horse with ravenous eyes.

“Strange creatures,” Adon commented.

“They certainly don’t seem natural,” Kelemvor agreed.

Inside the wood, a stick snapped with a loud pop. The mass of squirrels gathered in the trees shrieked in anger and dropped to the ground. Within seconds, a man rose, cursing and screaming as the rodents swarmed him. Kelemvor and Adon could not see the man well enough to tell whether he was a huntsman or someone else with a less honorable reason to lurk in the wood.

“Too mean,” Kelemvor added, referring to the squirrels.

The fighter hoped Adon would not insist upon chasing the beleaguered man down. The cleric was making a habit of interrogating strangers, and it was beginning to annoy Kelemvor. Twenty-four hours ago, they had discovered Midnight’s pony near the ford at Hill’s Edge. They had also found close to forty dead halflings, and signs of the torture that had occurred behind the inn. Though unsure of how to interpret these signs, Kelemvor and Adon had decided to assume Cyric had captured Midnight.

They had been in the saddle ever since, looking for their enemy at every campfire they passed. Kelemvor had grown tired of this methodical search. He knew that Cyric was increasing his lead while Adon wasted their time harassing honest merchants.

But the cleric was convinced that, at last, they had caught up to the thief. “After that man!” he ordered.

Kelemvor made no move to obey. “Why waste more time. Cyric’s ahead of us, and we won’t catch him by chasing woodcutters.”

“Woodcutters!” Adon exclaimed. “Why would a woodcutter be so far from town?”

“A hunter then,” Kelemvor responded.

“So you’re certain that isn’t Cyric’s sentry?”

“No,” Kelemvor said. “But-“

“Then we’ve got to go after him.”

“No,” Kelemvor insisted. “We can’t look behind every rock for Cyric. We’ll lose him for good if we keep this up!”

Adon saw the wisdom of Kelemvor’s argument, but believed the fleeing man was more than a hunter. “All right. But hunters don’t lurk at roadsides. Trust me.”

Kelemvor sighed. Lately, he’d found it increasingly difficult to disagree with Adon for long. Warily eyeing the black squirrels, the warrior spurred his mount into a gallop. The sturdy caravan horse easily broke through the thicket at the forest’s edge. A dozen rodents leaped from the trees, attacking Kelemvor and his mount with tiny claws and teeth.

The horse ignored them and continued forward while Kelemvor swore and ripped the creatures off his body. By the time they were free of squirrels, the warrior and his horse were deep within a multihued world of shadows and autumn light.

Adon followed close behind, cursing and ripping black rodents off his body.

The man they were chasing was nowhere in sight.

“What now?” Kelemvor asked.

Adon flung the fast squirrel into the forest then said, “We argued too long. He’s gone.”

To their left, Kelemvor heard the muffled patter of hoofbeats. He turned his horse to pursue, motioning Adon to follow. The sooner they caught the fellow, the sooner the cleric would let them get back to chasing Midnight.

As he rode, Kelemvor kept an eye turned toward the forest floor. Several minutes later, he stopped. He hadn’t seen a single hoofprint, scuffed rock, or freshly broken stick upon which he could base a trail.

“Where is he?” Adon asked.

Kelemvor hushed his friend then listened carefully. The hoofbeats were gone. But deep in the forest, he heard something else - the nicker of a tired horse.

He turned his mount toward the sound and rode slowly ahead. “Follow me… quietly.”

A minute later, the warrior heard the soft murmur of a voice. Kelemvor dismounted and gave his reins to Adon, then crawled through the thick underbrush with his sword drawn. He had to go slowly, for the ground was littered with dried twigs and leaves that made it nearly impossible to move silently.

Eventually, he came to the edge of a small clearing, where a rider in Zhentish armor held the reins of a winded horse. Beside the rider stood a large, black-bearded man. Behind the horse, hidden from view, stood a third man. A hundred feet to the trio’s right, seven Zhentilar were sleeping on the ground, their armor stacked neatly beside them.

Adon was right, Kelemvor realized. The man at the roadside had been a sentry.

“You’re sure they couldn’t follow you?” asked the bearded man.

“I’m certain,” replied the sentry.

The unseen man spoke. “We can’t take chances, Dalzhel. Stupid as he is, Kelemvor has a certain cunning.”

The voice was Cyric’s.

Kelemvor’s heart pounded with anger and excitement. “Stupid!” he muttered under his breath. “We’ll see who’s stupid when my sword creases your neck!” The only thing that kept the warrior from attacking immediately was that he did not see Midnight. He would not risk her life to vent his wrath.

Cyric continued speaking to Dalzhel. “Wake the men.”

“But they’ve slept less than three hours!” Dalzhel objected.

“Wake them,” Cyric snapped. Turning to the sentry, he added, “And you ride back over your trail. Be sure the two men didn’t follow you.”

As Dalzhel and the sentry turned to obey, Kelemvor started to back out of his hiding place. He intended to reach Adon before the sentry did. The stocky warrior, however, was not accustomed to skulking in the bushes. In his rush to beat the Zhentish soldier, his scabbard caught on a bush and rustled it loudly. Kelemvor cursed under his breath and froze, hoping Cyric and his men would not notice the sound.

But Cyric, Dalzhel, and the sentry all stopped and turned to look in the fighter’s direction.

Kelemvor realized he had two choices - attack or retreat. He made the same choice he always did, he leaped from his hiding place and charged. The sudden assault took his opponents by surprise.

Dalzhel was first in Kelemvor’s path. The huge Zhentilar’s weapon had not even cleared its scabbard when Kelemvor leveled a vicious slash at his undefended side. The Zhentilar stepped forward and blocked the slash by smashing his fist into Kelemvor’s elbow.

The blow nearly knocked the sword out of the stocky warrior’s hand. Dalzhel grabbed for Kelemvor’s wrist, but the green-eyed fighter pulled free and stepped back. This allowed the huge Zhentilar to draw his weapon, but it also freed Kelemvor to attack again.

The exchange occurred so rapidly that Cyric and the sentry didn’t have time to react. If Dalzhel’s reflexes had not been so quick, Kelemvor would have killed all three men with their weapons still sheathed. The initial melee was over, however, Cyric and the sentry drew their swords.

Kelemvor studied his opponents. Though it wasn’t his battle style, he knew he would have to fight carefully and cautiously. Dalzhel lifted his sword into a high guard, inviting a lunge. The warrior refused the bait. He had no intention of closing within arm’s length of the black-haired Zhentilar.

While Kelemvor and Dalzhel stared at each other, Cyric slipped around the sentry’s horse and stopped out of sword reach. The sentry advanced and stood to Kelemvor’s right, much too close for the fighter’s comfort.

“Kel, my friend!” Cyric said. “Meet Dalzhel. Alone, he might be your match. But at three-to-one-“

While Cyric bragged, Kelemvor evened the odds. His blade flashed once, opening a deep gash in the sentry’s abdomen. Screaming in agony, the man stumbled away and collapsed.

“Two-to-one,” Kelemvor corrected, bringing his sword back to guarding position.

Back with the horses, Adon heard the scream of the wounded sentry. He wrapped Kelemvor’s horse’s reins around a limb, then lifted his mace and urged his horse through the underbrush.

Dalzhel allowed his annoyance to flicker across his face. Kelemvor was truly dangerous, he realized. Cyric would be wiser to let him handle this fight alone. But the burly Zhentilar did not dare say that. Cyric was far too vain to accept such a suggestion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kelemvor noticed that the seven sleeping Zhentilar had awakened. They were pulling on their helmets and gathering their weapons. Being careful not to ignore Dalzhel, Kelemvor addressed Cyric, “Before I kill you, tell me where Midnight is.”

A sneer crossed Cyric’s lips. “If you’ve come for her, you die in vain. You, Dalzhel, and I together couldn’t save her.”

At that moment, Adon reached the clearing. To his right, Kelemvor faced Cyric and one other man. In the middle of field, seven Zhentilar were preparing to go to Cyric’s aid. Adon decided to make sure they never arrived. The cleric knew his friend had survived two-to-one odds many times, but eight or nine-to-one would have been a challenge for even Kelemvor. The cleric kicked his mount into motion and charged.