Whenever the bald man attempted to sleep, his dreams would inevitably return to the same shocking nightmare. He would wake almost the instant it began, but then he would see that his dream only reflected reality: his nightmare was only a memory of the widespread destruction he and his men had faced on their journey from Arabel to the place where Castle Kilgrave had once stood.
And somehow the bald man knew that he was now camped near the place that had been the eye of whatever supernatural storm had taken place. The effects had reached almost as far as Arabel, then stopped. The denizens of the walled city were relieved that their home had been spared, although one only had to look from the watch-towers to view the startlingly altered landscape and see how close the city had come to destruction.
The goddess Tymora had suffered an agonizing attack the day the sky had been filled with the odd lights from the north. Then the goddess had gone into a deep shock from which she had not yet risen when the bald man and his Company of Dawn left the walled city in pursuit of Kelemvor and his accomplices. Constant vigils had been held by Tymora's followers, but the goddess merely sat upon her throne, unresponsive to their calls, staring at something beyond the limited range of human senses.
Dismissing the nightmares and memories, the bald man attempted to get back to sleep. In the morning he and his men would set out from the untouched place of beauty they had found, a lovely colonnade that once may have been a shrine to the gods. The cool, sparkling water of the glorious pool had served lo refresh his men, but they had not washed away the memories of the vast destruction they had witnessed.
Although he was not a worshiper, the bald man uttered a small prayer to Shar, Goddess of Forgetfulness. Just as it seemed his prayer might be rewarded, a scream sounded in the night. The bald man sprang into action.
"There!" one of his men shouted, pointing at the fair-haired fighter who had been lifted from the ground by his neck. The flesh of the man's assailant appeared to be white as chalk, the moonlight casting an unearthly glow upon the headless creature.
"The statues," another man called. "They live!"
The bald man heard the soft crush of earth behind him and turned to face the statue of two lovers, still connected, the stone flesh of the man's hand and arm bonded to the woman's back. The stone lovers moved as one as they surged forward with a speed the bald man was not prepared for.
There were screams in the night.
The mountains of Gnoll Pass were visible behind Kelemvor and his companions, but the riders did not look back at them very often. If they had, they would have seen the mountains shimmer against the soft blue of the sky, as if the brave peaks held the consistency of little more than illusion.
The decision to follow the road north and travel on to Tilverton instead of braving the open countryside had been a unanimous one. Even Kelemvor raised no objection to the change in plans, despite his hurry to ride on to Shadowdale and put this job behind him. Before the packhorses died and their food and supplies turned to dust he might have argued, but it was clear now that they had to stop and get new supplies before crossing through the Shadow Gap and moving on to Shadowdale.
Kelemvor and Adon still shared a horse, as did Midnight and Cyric, through most of the journey. After the lack of supplies, this seemed to be the biggest annoyance for the heroes, and soon the tempers of the mounts and their riders were flaring regularly.
The heroes were at the end of a long day in the pale gray expanses of the treacherous Stonelands when they spotted travelers a quarter mile off the road. One moment the area appeared flat and safe, an inviting alternative to the plodding, twisting road before them. But upon approach, the carefully disguised ridges and falls of this area became apparent.
The travelers seemed to have journeyed from the road in an attempt to cut time from their trip, but instead blundered into a gap in the land's surface. Their wagon had been overturned, their horses crushed beneath the weight of the cart. There were bodies lying on the flat, gray lands beside the wagon, and the sobs of a woman were carried by the wind to the ears of the adventurers. Adon was the first to badger Kelemvor as the fighter turned away from the sight.
"There is nothing we can do. The authorities in Tilverton can send someone." Kelemvor said.
"We can't just leave them," Midnight said, shocked at Kelemvor's attitude.
Kelemvor shook his head. "I can."
"That should surprise me," Midnight said. "Yet somehow it doesn't. Does everything have a price for you, Kel?"
Kelemvor glared at the dark-haired magic-user.
"We can't turn our backs on them," Adon said frantically. "Some may be injured and require the attentions of a cleric."
"What good can you do them?" Cyric said sharply. "You can't even heal."
Adon looked down. "I'm aware of that."
Midnight turned to Kelemvor. "What do you say, Kel?"
Kelemvor's eyes were cold. "There is nothing to say. If you wish to indulge in such foolishness, you'll do so without me!" He looked at Midnight. "Unless of course, you wish to order me to go."
Midnight looked away from the fighter and turned to Cyric, who shared her horse. The thief nodded and they galloped off in the direction of the fallen travelers.
Adon's pleas fell on deaf ears, until at last Kelemvor leaped from the mount and waved the cleric on.
"Go if you must," Kelemvor said. "I'll wait here."
Adon looked at the angry fighter, a mixture of pity and confusion in his eyes.
"Go, I said!" Kelemvor shouted and slapped the horse, sending it into a frantic race to catch up with Midnight and Cyric.
Midnight's horse covered the distance quickly, but the sobbing woman did not seem to take notice of the approaching riders. As Cyric and Midnight got close to her, they saw that the blood on her pale blue skirt had turned an ugly brown. The woman's bare legs were deeply tanned, and her hands, even as they moved across the body of a fallen man, seemed hard and calloused. Her hair was blond and thickly matted to her face. She cradled the man to her breast, rocking him gently.
"Are you hurt?" Midnight said as she climbed down from her mount and approached the woman. The magic-user realized that the woman before her was younger than she first believed. In fact, she seemed barely old enough to deserve the honor of the wedding ring that graced her hand.
The man had been dressed in tight leather trousers, and the soles of his boots were nearly worn out. He wore a pale blue ruffled shirt, which was covered with a brownish red stain. The magic-user saw no weapons near the dead man.
Even as Adon caught up with the others, Cyric realized there was no wedding ring on the hand of the dead man.
"Turn back!" the thief screamed, and six men suddenly burst from the gray sands surrounding the heroes. The dead man grinned, gave his "wife" a quick kiss, and reached for a broadsword that had been half-buried in the darkened sands beneath him. The woman withdrew a pair of daggers from under her legs. She gracefully leaped to her feet and settled into a slight crouch as she joined the others who moved about their prey in an ever-tightening circle.
Standing by the road, Kelemvor cursed as he saw the trap sprung. Midnight's conditions say I must defend them, the fighter realized, and he rushed toward the figures in the distance. Just as his sword was leaving its sheath, though, something rushed past the fighter's ear. There was a cold breeze, and the object passed with a hiss. Kelemvor saw a steel-tipped arrow sail by him and end its flight in the sands.
Behind him, Kelemvor heard the sound of men shouting. He focused past their angry voices and concentrated on the tiny sound of bowstrings being drawn tight, then released. The fighter turned and fell to his knees, his sword flashing as it cut through two of the three arrows that would have surely brought him down.
Kelemvor faced three archers who had risen from the filthy sands at the other side of the road. Already they were notching another round of arrows. The sound of steel striking steel rang out in the distance behind him, and Kelemvor knew that Midnight, Cyric, and Adon were fighting for their lives, too.
"We have nothing!" Kelemvor shouted as the archers loosed their volley, and he rolled to avoid the missiles. The sight of a single arrow passing just over his face revealed the hopelessness of the situation to the fighter. No matter where he turned, one of the three archers would eventually anticipate his movements. His armor offered little protection against the archers' longbows, and the added vulnerability of his unprotected head presented a target the highly skilled bowmen already sought.
The archers scrambled forward, crossing the road. They dug in at new, closer positions. Then they tried a new tactic: rotating their assault. In moments Kelemvor faced a constant volley of arrows as the third archer released his arrow even as the first took aim.
Across the field of stone and sand, by the overturned wagon, the fighting had become desperate. Midnight caught a glimpse of a crossbow trained on Cyric's back. Her first thought was to throw a spell to save the thief, but there was no time to cast and there was no way of knowing if her spell would fail or succeed. She dropped to a crouch, sending one of her daggers into the throat of the assailant. The steel bolt went wild as it was loosed and flew harmlessly over Cyric's head.
Unaware of the attempt made against him by the man with the crossbow, Cyric fought on against the leader of the brigands. His hand axe had proven to be an awkward defense against his opponent's broadsword, so the thief feinted to the left to draw the man in close, hoping to disarm him. But the swordsman wasn't taken in by the ruse, and his blade came within inches of Cyric's throat. The thief rolled and drew first blood as his axe bit deeply into the brigand's ankle, nearly severing his foot. The swordsman fell, his blade thrust out to gut Cyric, but the dark, lean man rolled out of the way of the blade and brought his axe up with all his strength. The brigand made no sound as the axe was buried in his throat.
Cyric removed his bloodied axe from the swordsman, and a sharp, biting pain flushed through his system as one of the blades of the brigand's "wife" hit home.
At the periphery of the circle formed around Midnight and Cyric, Adon was dragged from Kelemvor's mount. His war hammer broke free of the bonds that held it at his side and fell to the ground as Adon fell beside it. He snatched up the weapon as a filthy boot moved to cover his hand. Adon grasped the boot and pulled hard. A moment later the owner of the boot fell to the ground, and Adon clubbed him with the hammer. Then Adon sprang forward, barely avoiding a knife thrust that would have relieved him of a portion of his beautiful, well-combed hair, as well as his scalp. Adon clubbed that attacker, too.
Adon heard movement behind him. He turned and saw a filthy man running toward him with a short sword aimed at his heart. Before the cleric even had time to react, the body of another of the brigands crashed into the man with the short sword, knocking him to the ground. Adon looked up and saw Midnight engaged in a hand-to-hand duel with a burly fighter. The man brought his knee up into Midnight's stomach and clasped his steel-gloved hands together as he brought them high over his head, preparing to crack open the skull of the magic-user with his mighty fists.
Adon remembered his long hours of study, got a running start, and delivered a blow to the small of the man's back that shattered his spine instantly. The brigand fell back, eyes wide, and Adon stepped out of the way. He helped Midnight to her feet, and she stared at him in disbelief.
"A follower of Sune must be trained to protect the gifts his goddess gave so freely!" Adon said and smiled.
Midnight almost laughed, then shoved the cleric out of the way as she released a spell that caused a new assailant to stop dead in his tracks, dropping his weapons. He shook as if something horrible were growing within him, then his eyes rolled back in his head as his flesh darkened and became stone. A single tear ran from his eye.
Midnight froze. It was a child she had struck down, no more than fifteen summers in age. She had only meant to erect a shield to ward off the blow he was about to deliver. How could she have turned him to stone?
The statue exploded, sending bits of dark stone in every direction.
Close enough to hear the explosion, Cyric fell away from the wild-eyed girl as she thrust at him again and again. He felt a warm flow of blood dripping down to his legs from the wound at his side, and the pain became worse as he moved. He fell over the corpse of the swordsman, the soft blue ruffled shirt now stained a bright crimson. The girl's slashes moved closer to his chest, so Cyric took his chance and grabbed the girl's wrist with one hand, her throat with the other.
Only a child, the thief thought, and her free hand raked across his unprotected face, her nails biting into his flesh. Cyric twisted the hand with the dagger until he heard the sound of bones snapping, and pushed the girl away, forcing her against the hard ground. Her skull made a high, cracking sound, and her eyes suddenly glazed over as the fight went out of them. A tiny trickle of blood swam from her mouth, cascading down the length of her neck until it touched the top of her breast.
She was dead.
Something dark and horrible within Cyric rejoiced at the knowledge, but a brighter part of his soul pushed the thoughts away.
Cyric heard a noise beside him and turned. The pain from his wound suddenly flared, and the thief tumbled to the ground, falling upon the corpse of the girl. Although he could not move, he saw Midnight and Adon as they challenged the remaining two members of the band of brigands.
There were less than forty summers in age between the two remaining attackers, so it wasn't surprising when they turned and ran to the other side of the overturned wagon. They barked out commands for their supposedly injured mounts to rise as they pulled the gently laid debris from the flanks of the beasts.
Cyric watched as Midnight scanned the area, her gaze suddenly locking on him. He reached out as Midnight and Adon rushed to his side. A moment later he was staring up at Midnight's face. His head was in her lap, and her hand was gently caressing his chest. The thief's head fell back in relief, and Midnight's hand caressed his brow. Then her expression changed.
"Kel," she said softly, and Cyric realized she was staring toward the road. He turned his head in the direction of the road and watched as Kelemvor was besieged by a small band of archers. Midnight called to Adon, and the cleric took Cyric as the magic-user stood and started to run toward the road.
"Midnight, wait!" Adon shouted. "You'll only get yourself killed!"
Midnight hesitated. She knew Adon was right. Kelemvor was too far away. Even if she had been by his side, her daggers would be useless against arrows. The only way she could save the fighter was with her magic. She thought of the child she had inadvertently slain, images of the exploding stone body etched in her mind.
When Mystra's gifts had crumbled into dust, Midnight had taken a small pouch of diamonds that had been reduced to powder. Reciting the spell to create a wall of force, Midnight reached into the bag and took a pinch of the diamond dust between her fingers. She released the dust at the correct moment, and there was a blinding flash of blue-white light. Midnight was thrown from her feet as a complex pattern of light formed in the air where she had stood. Feeling as if a part of her soul had been wrenched from her, Midnight looked to the road as the pattern of light vanished.
The wall had not appeared.
Midnight threw her head back in frustration. She was just about to loose a scream of rage when something appeared in the sky.
It was a huge rift in the air, a swirling mass, with lights of every color of the spectrum visible within it. The rift appeared in the form of a coin set on its end and thrust at the sky, and as the rift grew, it began to block out the sun.
By the road, Kelemvor stood his ground as the archers closed in. There was a roar in his ears, but he assumed it was an effect of the wounds he had sustained. Two arrows had already gotten past his defenses, but Kelemvor turned a blind eye to the pain that surged up from his right calf and his left arm.
The archers were advancing, ready to finish the fighter off, when suddenly they stopped.
Kelemvor wondered if the brigands had finally run out of shafts as they backed away, pointing at the sky. Two of the archers dropped their weapons just as Kelemvor noticed that his shadow seemed to be deepening. Then a vast, dark veil fell upon the earth, and the archers screamed in a language Kelemvor did not understand and ran in the direction of Arabel.
Kelemvor looked up. The archers, all else, was instantly forgotten. The rift was growing larger now, and Kelemvor stumbled back as something that appeared to be an incredibly huge eye looked out of the vast hole in the sky, then vanished.
Kelemvor turned and looked across the battlefield for Midnight, Cyric, and Adon. Their shapes were hard to distinguish because of the darkness that fell over the entire area, but the fighter could see that two figures were still on their feet. They seemed to be carrying someone.
Adon, Kelemvor thought. The thieves murdered poor, defenseless Adon!
Despite the blood he had lost and the pain he had suffered, Kelemvor ran to the figures in the distance.
Across the field, Cyric, too, had seen the eye. His head had lolled back as Midnight and Adon carried him to the relative safety of the overturned wagon, then set him down.
The earth shuddered.
"Don't leave me," Cyric said.
Midnight looked down at him, confused. She caressed the side of his face. "No," she said simply.
Then, just before he lost consciousness, he saw a figure approaching from the road through the blinding whirlwinds of sand and dust.
Midnight ran toward the fighter as he struggled across the sand, and with her help, Kelemvor reached the overturned wagon. Just then, a huge part of it was sheared off by the wind. The oak planks creaked horribly, then snapped and sailed off into the air. "We've got to get out of here!" the fighter screamed, but he was barely able to hear his own voice of the whine of the wind.
"Cyric's been wounded. We can't leave him," Midnight cried.
"Cyric!" Kelemvor yelled in surprise, and a wall of dust rushed toward him. The fighter turned his face away from the winds. "Can he be moved?"
"No!" Midnight shouted. "Adon is tending to his wounds as best he can!"
There was a slight hiss as the ground beside the couple turned into vapor. The air beside them crackled with a rim of tiny white stars, and a hole the size of a man tore through the air just as Midnight raised her hands and prepared to release another spell.
An old man exited from the portal, a large staff in his left hand. His face, although lined with wrinkles, held a sharpness that spoke volumes on his barely contained annoyance. Beneath his frown, the man's pure white beard reached down to play against his chest. The man wore a large hat and a simple gray cloak. He looked to Midnight.
"Why have ye summoned me?" he said.
Midnight's eyes widened. "I didn't summon you!"
The old man looked up at the growing rift in the sky. Strange lights had begun to play across the opening. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the rift. "Are ye responsible for this?"
"I didn't mean to — "
Raising his hand to indicate silence, the old man shook his head and turned from Midnight. "There are far easier ways of getting my attention, ye should know. Ye could have come to Shadowdale, for example."
"Elminster!" Midnight cried, and suddenly the winds cut her off from the old sage. The dust cleared, and she caught a glimpse of movement from Elminster's direction. The gray mist parted and revealed the seemingly frantic movement of hands, coupled with the sage's unmistakable voice rising to levels that cut through the winds. Then the mist engulfed Elminster once more. A moment later a section of the mist faded and the sage stood before her.
"Do ye know what that is!?" Elminster said, his impatience all too evident as he gestured at the growing rift in the sky. He did not wait for a reply. "That is the direct effect of Geryon's Death Spell. Spells of this sort are directly forbidden, although it is difficult to punish transgressors as they are usually dead before the spell reaches this stage!" Elminster let out a deep breath. "Besides that, Geryon himself died over fifty summers ago."
The roar from above became worse.
"Can you stop it?" Kelemvor shouted.
"Of course I can stop it!" the old sage shouted. "I'm Elminster, aren't I?" Elminster looked back to Midnight. "Is this spell written some place?"
"No," Midnight said.
"Can ye recall it again, through any other means?"
Midnight shook her head. "No," she said. "I summoned it by accident."
"Very well," Elminster said. "Consider thyself warned. A spell of this type is very dangerous."
The rift seemed to be lowering. Elminster looked up and stood away from Midnight and Kelemvor, concentrating his attentions on the hole in the sky.
The fighter and the magic-user found themselves staring at the old man, speechless.
The aged hands of the great mage moved with surprising speed, and he chanted in a deep, resonant voice. A field of sparkling energies surrounded him, a flood of stars that pierced the heavy veil of grayish winds. Sweat was beginning to form on Elminster's brow as he worked his spell, then a web of tiny, glowing eyes began to form in the space between his fingers. Just before it reached completion, the web collapsed inward and a silver, spinning disc hung in the air.
Elminster issued a command, and the spinning disc shot up into the air, growing in size. It shattered in a blinding display, and the rift in the sky slowly tilted down. The hole descended like a kite with its strings cut, floating to the ground at a leisurely pace, moving back and forth on the winds erratically.
"Goddess!" Midnight screamed as the rift engulfed the entire area, robbing her of her senses. When sight and sensation returned, she found that she was still standing in the same spot, but night had fallen.
Elminster let out a deep sigh.
The rift was gone. The only source of light came from the glowing blue-white portal behind Elminster. The mage looked at Midnight.
"No more of this," he said solemnly.
Midnight shook her head frantically. She heard a groan and saw Kelemvor sitting on the ground, holding his head.
Elminster stepped into the portal, and Midnight screamed at the top of her lungs for him to stop. He poked his head from the glowing rift. "What is it!?"
"The goddess Mystra," Midnight said.
Elminster looked at her sadly.
"The goddess is dead," she finished.
Elminster tilted his head. "So I've heard." Then he darted back inside the portal, and the opening burst apart in a shower of spiraling flames.
Midnight stood in the darkness. "But she had a message," she said, alone and in shock. "A message for you." The mage walked forward, to the spot where the portal had been.
"Elminster!" she cried, but her desperate call remained unanswered.
Lighting torches to pierce the absolute pitch-black of the night sky, Midnight and Kelemvor went in search of Cyric and Adon. Twice they had ventured south, to the road, the stars misleading them, and their calls had fallen upon deaf ears. But now they stood before their fallen comrades.
Adon's back was turned to Midnight and Kelemvor as they approached, and the cleric jumped as Midnight touched his shoulder. Turning to address his comrades, Adon nearly screamed his welcome. When Midnight inquired about Cyric's condition, the cleric stared at her in surprise. As she continued to speak, his expression changed to one of panic.
In moments it became clear that Adon was deaf. Most of his attempts to read his friends' lips met with failure, adding to the cleric's panic, but Midnight managed to calm Adon by holding his palm open and tracing her words, letter by letter, with the gentle touch of her index finger.
It was easy enough for Midnight to figure out that the rift's collapse had somehow caused Adon to lose his hearing. Adon was left in the middle of the storm, protected only by the disintegrating wagon, while she was near Elminster, who must have been protected from the effects of the storm somehow.
When Midnight examined Cyric, she found that, although his breathing had become regular, she could not wake him. As the magic-user had no means of examining the extent of the damage the brigand's blade had caused, she covered the wound and hoped for the best.
While Midnight tended to Adon and Cyric, Kelemvor searched for any horses, either their own or the brigands', that might have survived the sandstorm. The fighter found Midnight's horse and one of the brigands' mounts still alive. He brought them back to Adon. The cleric knew what to do with the animals without Kelemvor having to mouth one word at him.
As Adon tended the horses by torchlight, Kelemvor and Midnight sat in the darkness with Cyric. "Your debt must be paid," Kelemvor said.
Midnight turned on the man. "What? We have far to travel before we reach Shadowdale."
"That was not our agreement," Kelemvor said quietly. "I was to accompany you until you spoke with Elminster of Shadowdale. You've already done that."
"He wouldn't listen!" the magic-user cried.
"Nor will I," Kelemvor said harshly. "Every debt must be paid."
"Very well," Midnight said. "My… true name…"
Kelemvor waited.
"My true name is Ariel Manx."
There was a cough, and Midnight and Kelemvor both turned to see Adon help Cyric raise his head. "Cyric," Midnight said as she went to the man's side.
Cyric cried out when he tried to sit up, but his body slowly relaxed as Midnight eased him back to the ground. Kelemvor stood watching, a sharp uneasiness biting through him.
"How will we move him, Kel? His wound is serious," the mage said.
Kelemvor looked away. "I had not considered…"
"Surely you didn't mean to leave him — "
"Of course not!" Kelemvor said. "But…"
"Another reward?" she said. "Doesn't what we've been through together make any difference to you? Do you really care about any of us, or is it only the reward you care about?"
Kelemvor said nothing.
"I need your help getting Cyric to Tilverton and seeing that he is well enough to ride on to Shadowdale. After that, I don't care what you do." Midnight took out the purse of money she had earned with the Company of the Lynx. "I'll give you all the gold I have left."
After a few moments, Kelemvor lifted his head and spoke. "We can make a wooden frame from the wreckage of the thieves' wagon, wrap the canvas of our tent around it, and make a stretcher. The wheels are intact, and we can pull Cyric behind us as we ride."
Midnight handed the bag of gold to Kelemvor. "Take this now. I want to be certain that you honor your promise."
Kelemvor took the gold and waded into the pile of wreckage that was strewn about the plain, where he found a small lantern that was still in one piece. Once the lantern was lit, Kelemvor looked at Midnight's face and noticed the tears running down her face.
In Zhentil Keep, a criminal had been dragged through the streets, hands and feet bound. His body bounced against the pavement of the torch-lit streets, and his screams echoed for all to hear. The mangled body had been deposited at Bane's feet and the Black Lord was surprised to find the human still clinging to life, though by a gossamer thread at best.
The man was Thurbal, captain of arms and warden of Shadowdale. He had somehow entered the city undetected, then tried to join the Black Network under an assumed name. Fzoul had caught on to the man instantly, and although he advised Bane to feed the man false information then allow him to return to Shadowdale, the god could not suffer the affront so casually.
Thurbal had been subjected to endless sessions of interrogation, and he claimed he knew nothing of Bane's plans. The Black Lord did not wish to take chances, and so he ordered his men to drag the spy through the streets and then bring him to the temple to be executed. Invitations had been sent by messenger to Bane's elite, and the execution had become a standing room only event.
As the time of execution arrived, Bane left his throne to stand over Thurbal, then attempted to torment the aging, half-dead warrior at his feet. The man's eyes were sharp and alert, and Bane suspected they would continue to look that way, even after the spy had passed into Lord Myrkul's domain.
The throne room was crowded with officials and their wives. They raised a toast to their dark lord and chanted his name as his taloned hands reached down toward Thurbal. Just before the tip of a single nail from Bane's gauntlet could reach the eye of the dying man, there was a flash of blue-white light and Thurbal vanished. Bane was stunned for a moment. Someone had teleported Thurbal away, presumably to a place of safety.
The chanting ceased.
Bane studied the eyes of his worshipers. He noticed surprise and confusion in their expressions. Until this moment, the loyalty of Bane's worshipers had been unswerving. He did not want them to know that his will could be thwarted this easily.
"And now only a memory remains," Bane said as he rose and allowed his talons to unfurl with practiced grace. "I have sent the interloper into Myrkul's Realm, where he will pay for his crimes with an eternity of suffering!"
Then the chanting started once more. The Black Lord was relieved that the lie had been accepted. Still, he was troubled for the rest of the evening by the victory that had been snatched from him.
Hours later, when Bane was alone in the chamber, he sat and brooded.
"Elminster," Bane said aloud. "No one but you would dare interfere with my plans." Bane's goblet was crushed in his grip. "You will take Thurbal's place soon enough, and your agonies will be legend throughout my kingdom! For this I will not only see you dead, but after I secure the Celestial Stairway, I will reduce your precious Shadowdale to a smoking pit. I swear it!"
The Black Lord felt the wine that had escaped the ruined goblet stain his leg. He stared at the goblet and cursed at it, but it did not regain its shape. He threw it across the room and called out for Blackthorne to bring him another.
"Milord," Blackthorne said, lowering his head.
"The assassins?"
"They have departed, Lord Bane. We await word of their success."
Bane nodded and became silent as he stared off into space. Blackthorne didn't move, as he had not yet been dismissed. Bane and his emissary stayed like this for close to thirty minutes before Blackthorne's leg cramped and he involuntarily shifted his weight. Bane looked up slowly.
"Blackthorne," Bane said, as if he had forgotten about the other man's presence. "Ronglath Knightsbridge."
"Yes, milord?"
"I wish to have Knightsbridge lead one of the contingents from the Citadel of the Raven in the attack on Shadowdale. He has much to atone for, and he may be willing to do what others are not and without hesitation," Bane said.
"There may be some resentment on the part of his troops, Lord Bane. He is seen as having failed the city — "
"But he hasn't failed me!" Bane said. "Not yet, anyway. Go about your duty and do not question me again."
Blackthorne lowered his eyes.
"Deliver my word on this matter personally," Bane said. "While you are there, survey the readiness of our troops and the hiring of mercenaries."
"How should I travel, Lord Bane?"
"Use the emissary spell, you fool. That is why I taught it to you."
Blackthorne waited.
"You may go," Bane said.
Blackthorne frowned as he spread his arms wide and recited the emissary spell. The mage knew that, with the instability of magic in the Realms, it was only a matter of time before the spell failed. He might be struck in the form of a raven or changed into something far worse. It could even kill him. But as the magic-user finished the spell, he was transformed into a large raven that sailed at the wall then vanished. This time the spell worked as planned.
Alone in the chamber, Bane found that he had much to think about.
Ronglath Knightsbridge thrust his sword into the floor, then knelt down on one knee before it. He lowered his head and gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands. He had been given private quarters in the Citadel of the Raven, despite the recent overcrowding. When he ate his meals, no one else sat at his table. When he trained with his sword or mace, only his trainer arrived for the sessions. At most times, he was left completely alone.
Knightsbridge was just past forty winters, with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, azure eyes, a moustache, and deeply pitted, sunburned skin. His features were strong and distinctive. He was almost six feet tall, with a very impressive build.
All of his life he had served Zhentil Keep, but now he was in disgrace, and would have gladly taken his own life, but for the interference of Tempus Blackthorne.
Blackthorne, because of his well-meaning sentiments of friendship and loyalty, had damned Knightsbridge to a far greater punishment than death would have afforded him. Knightsbridge turned those thoughts away.
He had others to direct his hate against. There was the wizard Sememmon, for instance, who addressed Knightsbridge as "the chosen" and laughed at the spy, taunting him before the others whenever possible. Knightsbridge knew that the wizard resented the tie he had to Bane through Blackthorne. If only the wizard knew how greatly Knightsbridge desired to sever the bond himself, he would have laughed at the irony.
Then there was the man who was truly responsible for all that Knightsbridge faced: Kelemvor Lyonsbane.
If it had not been for the interference of the fighter, Knightsbridge would not have been found out, and the torments he had undergone would never have occurred. If not for Kelemvor, his plan to disgrace the city of Arabel might have succeeded.
Knightsbridge clutched the hilt of the sword tightly, until his knuckles became white. Suddenly he threw his head back and released a scream of rage that echoed through the passageways of the fortress he had been assigned to serve in. The scream had been the first sound Knightsbridge had uttered since he came to the citadel.
No one knocked upon the door to see if he was hurt. No one came running, as they should at an officer's cry.
The echoes of the scream faded away, and Knightsbridge heard a sound behind him.
"Ronglath," Tempus Blackthorne said. "I bring word from Lord Bane."
Knightsbridge stood and yanked the sword from the floor. He said nothing as Blackthorne relayed the Black Lord's message.
"Come with me, and we will make the announcement together!" Blackthorne said, oblivious to the searing hatred in the eyes of his childhood friend. "You will march from the citadel to the ruins of Teshwave, where mercenaries wait to join our ranks. The armies will gather at Voonlar, to await the signal to attack the dale. Of course, there are other troops being sent in different directions, but you will not have to concern yourself with that."
Knightsbridge felt his hand shake. The sword had not yet found its sheath.
"Kelemvor," Knightsbridge said, testing the sound of his own voice as he sheathed his sword and followed the emissary out of the room.
Blackthorne turned. "What did you say?"
Knightsbridge cleared his throat. "A debt I must settle," he said. "I pray I get the chance."
Blackthorne nodded, and he led the spy to the assembly hall, where a crowd had already begun to gather. Knightsbridge looked out into the sea of faces, and hope began to flicker in his heart.
I can redeem myself in this battle, Knightsbridge thought. And then I will have my revenge.