Waterdeep (43 page)

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 also 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 unexpected 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.

As they lay on the roof, Adon watched Waterdeep’s soldiers defend the city. At first, the guard companies and watch regiments simply kept the denizens from breaking through their lines again. Then, as the attackers’ charge lost momentum, the defenders started beating the horde back. Within minutes, Waterdeep’s troops were advancing, and a short time later they were pursuing the denizens back toward the Dock Ward.

But the defeat of Myrkul’s host did little to encourage Adon. Each time he took a breath, his lungs filled with fire, and each time he exhaled, bolts of pain shot through his torso. Periodically, he fell into fits of uncontrollable coughing and wheezing. Cyric’s contemptuous kicks had broken two ribs, in addition to mangling Adon’s already injured lungs. Several times, the cleric tried to find the strength to stand and go after Cyric and the tablets. A wave of unbearable agony always forced him back to his knees.

Forty minutes later, a griffon carrying two riders approached Blackstaff s tower and landed. A tall, black-haired man leaped off the beast, examined Kelemvor’s bloodless body then inspected the rest of the scene. Finally, he walked over to where Adon and Midnight lay.