Mourngrym learned of the vicious attack against the Temple of Tymora in the hours before dawn. Elminster had been summoned, and met his liege at the gateway to the temple. Adon was still there when the sage arrived.
The bard, Storm Silverhand, soon showed up, too. She wore the symbol of the Harpers, a silver moon and a silver harp against a backdrop of royal blue. The night winds caught her wild silver hair, blowing it high into the air, giving her the appearance of a vengeful apparition rather than a human woman. Her armor was the bright silver of the Dales, and she moved past her liege and the sage without a word of greeting.
Mourngrym did not attempt to stop her. Instead he joined her in the desecrated temple, and they surveyed the destruction and the carnage in respectful silence. The symbol of Bane, painted in the blood of the victims, caught their attention instantly. Later, as Storm spoke to the guards who had found the destruction, Adon put forth the theory that it was the theft of the healing potions that had prompted the attack; the debilitating effects such an assault would have on the morale of Shadowdale's faithful was probably also a consideration. Storm Silverhand regarded the cleric very suspiciously, as she would any outsider present during such a tragedy.
"The blood upon his hands he came by in honest service, laying out the dead," Elminster said. "There is no malice in this one. He's innocent."
Storm turned to Mourngrym, seething with fury over the attack. "The Harpers shall ride with you, Lord. Together we will avenge this cowardly act."
Then she was gone, her grief at the tragedy threatening to overwhelm her steely continence. Mourngrym set his men to the grisly task of identification and burial of the dead. The old sage stood at the dalelord's side and spoke in hushed tones.
"Bane is the God of Strife. It is not surprising that he seeks to distract us, to strike at our hearts and leave us grief-stricken and vulnerable to his attack," Elminster said. "We must not allow his plan to succeed."
Mourngrym trembled with rage. "We won't," he said.
Hours later, after returning to the Twisted Tower, Mourngrym stood at the side of his friend and ally, Thurbal, as the man lay in a deep, healing sleep. Thurbal had not spoken since the night Elminster's magic retrieved him from Zhentil Keep, when he warned Mourngrym of the planned attack against the Dales.
"The horrors I have seen, Thurbal. Men of worship slain like dogs. There is a rage that burns in my heart, old friend. It threatens to sear away the frail bonds of reason." Mourngrym hung his head low. "I want their blood. I want revenge."
Such rage leaves you a mad dog, incapable of victory and easily disposed of, Thurbal had said in the past. Cool the fires in your heart, and let reason guide you to the halls of vengeance.
Mourngrym stood watch at Thurbal's side until the first light of morning broke and he received a summons to join Hawksguard in the war room.
The work details had been organized in the early hours of morning, and Kelemvor was amazed at the progress that had already been made during the past few days. He had stood at Hawksguard's side as the older warrior rallied the hundreds of soldiers who had volunteered to serve in Shadowdale's defense. Many had passed through the nightmare vistas of Gnoll Pass and the Shadow Gap to make it to the dale. They knew the fate that would befall the Dales should they fail to repel Bane and his armies. A cry of unity had resounded, and Kelemvor found himself swept up in the momentum, raising his fist in the air with the others.
Then came the drudgery, though few complained. Merchants and builders toiled side by side with soldiers as highsun approached and the lines of defense began to take shape in the area of Krag Pool, on the road to Voonlar. Wagonloads of rock and debris from the ruins of Castle Krag were brought to the edge of the main road northeast out of the dale. There the materials were used to build large fortifications.
Around the workers, on the ground and in the trees, the archers prepared to defend the road and lay siege to the Zhentish troops that would advance from the northeast. The battle might not come for days, but the archers knew they had to prepare, too.
And after their work was completed, they waited patiently, The sky above was a clear blue, and there were very few clouds. The trees around them were alive with the sounds that one could only fully appreciate after spending endless hours chopping wood, cutting down trees, sharpening spikes, digging holes and covering them up again. The woodsmen did this and more as they set traps and prepared their hiding places.
The archers were not alone in this task, though. There were work crews from the town to help, lead by a pair of city planners from Suzail Key. The planners had been visiting relatives in Shadowdale when news of the imminent invasion arrived. They helped to place the various obstacles the men of Shadowdale would put in the way of Bane's armies, and stayed to make detailed charts of escape routes through the forest. Of course, the maps would be memorized and destroyed long before the first of Bane's armies arrived.
The work proceeded at a brisk pace throughout the morning, but as the day wore on and the dalesmen worked the defenses back toward the town, they were forced to leave more and more men behind to guard their elaborate traps and ensure their proper deployment. With each man lost to man a trap or watch for advance scouts, the construction of new traps slowed down. But even the dalesmen left in the woods tried to be useful as they waited for the battle to begin. The archers, especially, took the time to learn the small part of the forest they would defend.
These archers, the first who would engage the enemy, spent hours learning every sound of the forest, becoming completely attuned to the intricate flow of nature. Any sound or scent that was out of the ordinary would be instantly detected. They rarely spoke, and instead practiced hand signals that would be used to relay word of the enemy approach, if the attack came during the day. Other measures, like signal lanterns, had been taken on the chance that the armies would arrive at night.
For now there was nothing to do but experience the elegance of nature as they waited.
Patiently.
As the day wore on, Kelemvor was sent to rally the many smiths who had been working for days hammering out shields, swords, daggers, and armor for those who would fight with nothing but their bare chests and their resolve if it were necessary. With the help of two assistants, the fighter supervised the loading of the weapons onto wagons. Then Kelemvor checked on the fletchers and wood carvers who were busy making arrows and bows for the archers.
At the crossroads outside of the Old Skull Inn, other preparations were being made. At Jhaele Silvermane's farm and on the opposite side of the road slightly further east, at Sulcar Reedo's farm, movable walls made of straw were being constructed to take the brunt of the attack from the Zhentish archers when they reached the town. The warehouse of Weregrund the Trader had been emptied. A small force of men would emerge from the warehouse when the Zhentilar began to fight at the crossroads, hopefully taking the enemy by surprise.
Mourngrym hand-picked the lookouts who would lay signal fires on Harper's Hill and the Old Skull to herald the arrival of the enemy. Only men who had no families to mourn them, no wives to be made widows, were chosen for this task. Before he sent them to their posts, the dalelord checked to be sure they were properly outfitted and supplied should their wait be a long one.
The disbursement of supplies had started in the early hours of the day, but it was an endless task. Jhaele Silvermane and her workers had delivered rations of meat, sweetbreads, and fresh water to each group of men. They gathered tents and bedrolls, too, but these were distributed sporadically.
At the other side of the township, Cyric arrived at the Ashaba bridge and discovered the two-fold resentment of "his" men almost immediately. First, not one of the men had volunteered his assignment; each had desired to see the glory of battle at the front lines instead of guarding the bridge on the chance that a second force of soldiers would be sent to take Shadowdale from the west. Second, and most importantly, they resented taking orders from an outsider. It was a well-matched union, as Cyric despised having to give orders to what he considered a group of ill-mannered, loudmouthed cretins.
But before Cyric could even consider getting his troops organized, he had a large number of refugees to deal with.
The refugees had gathered by the river. The boats that would take them down to Mistledale had not yet arrived and Cyric ordered a handful of soldiers to see to the well-being of the old people and children as he tried to organize the work details. In time, he walked among the families and was struck by the wellspring of strength he found in their eyes.
Imbeciles, Cyric thought. Didn't they understand that they would probably be leaving their homes forever? The thief found that he couldn't help but toy with the idea Marek had placed in his head: turning and joining the enemy if there was no other option but death. After all, what did he owe these people? If it were not for Midnight, he would have left long ago.
The majority of the refugees were children, or those too infirm either by age or by disability to fight. They all stood and stared as the soldiers dug trenches at either end of the bridge. They knew that these men would likely die to defend homes they no longer lived in, but they knew, too, that running away would have killed most of the soldiers quicker than any Zhentish arrow or sword could.
But as the refugees watched, the men working at the bridge slowed their digging. Most of the men complained loudly, criticizing the dark-haired man who moved among them, barking orders with an ever-shortening temper.
Then a dozen men suddenly threw down their shovels and rose from the half-formed ditch they had toiled in for hours. The leader of the men, a giant of a man named Forester, called out to Cyric, who was busy digging with the soldiers at the other end of the bridge.
"Enough!" Forester screamed, the sweat matting his long, stringy hair to his face. "Our brothers stand ready to lay down their lives at the eastern border to protect the dale! I say we join them! How many are with me?"
The majority of the soldiers on Forester's side of the bridge threw down their shovels at once and rallied behind the wild-haired fighter. Some of the soldiers on Cyric's side of the bridge had yelled out their support for Forester's plan, and threw down their shovels, too.
Cyric gripped the handle of his shovel and gritted his teeth. "Damn!" he hissed, and when he turned to rise from the ditch, he saw that all of the refugees were staring at him. His gaze locked on that of a young mother, who stood no more than twenty paces from Cyric, her eyes filled with concern not for her children, but for herself.
Thoughts of his own parents abandoning him as a baby came to Cyric as he averted his gaze and climbed out of the ditch. Forester and his men were already coming across the bridge, weapons drawn, when Cyric barred their way on the other side of the bridge. Although he would have been happy to let these men rush off to their deaths, he would not allow his authority to be questioned.
"Stand aside!" Forester called. "Else you'll be entering the river without benefit of a ship beneath you!"
"Go back to work," Cyric said coldly. "We have orders from Lord Mourngrym to secure this bridge."
Forester laughed. "Secure it against what — the setting sun? The wind at our backs? The battle will be to the east. Move aside."
Forester was closer now, and still Cyric did not move.
"You coward," Cyric said.
Forester stopped suddenly. "Brave words from a corpse," he said as he raised his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, but still, Cyric did not move or draw a weapon.
Cyric's lips drew back. He pointed at the refugees. "Look there."
The refugees stood huddled on the bank of the Ashaba. Fear glittered in the eyes of every one of them.
"You wish glory? You wish to lay down your worthless lives? Alright. But will you seek it at the cost of their lives?"
Forester's blade wavered. The murmur of voices began to rise.
"Leave this place and who will protect them? Daggerdale is infested with Bane's Zhentilar! Allow this bridge to fall and you deliver them and Shadowdale into the hands of the enemy!"
Cyric turned his back on Forester. "Stand with me and you stand with Shadowdale! How say you? How say all of you?"
Silence. Cyric waited for the blade of the giant to pierce his back.
"For Shadowdale," a voice called.
"For Shadowdale!" more voices cried. Then a chorus of loud, angry voices picked up the call. Even the refugees joined in.
"For Shadowdale!" a voice called directly behind Cyric. He turned, and Forester raised his weapon high overhead as he chanted with the others.
"Aye," Cyric said at last, and all fell silent. "For Shadowdale. Now get back to work."
The efforts of the soldiers redoubled, and in the far distance Cyric saw the first of the ships that would carry the refugees to safety.
"For Shadowdale," a woman said to the thief as she headed for a boat, her eyes positively aflame with Cyric's words, tears streaming down her face. Cyric nodded, although he felt nothing but contempt for these weak-willed sheep who sought to hide behind their belief in their gods or their country to justify their actions rather than confront life head on. He turned from her as he took his place in the ditch, his patience for dreamers and cowards at an end.
He had convinced the others that staying behind was the correct choice.
Now all he had to do was convince himself.
As Cyric got the refugees loaded onto boats and on their way down the Ashaba, and drove his men on as they dug their trench at the bridge, Adon was cloistered in Elminster's tower. After the cleric and the sage had returned from the Temple of Tymora early in the morning, Elminster set Adon to work in the cluttered antechamber that Lhaeo normally occupied.
"You are to find all references to the following names," Elminster said. "Then study and learn the spells set forth by each of them in their lifetime. They are all contained in these volumes. Make lists that we might access them again."
"But my spells fail me," Adon said. "I don't know — "
"Nor do I, but as the Realms depend on us all, I think now's the time to find out, do you not agree?" Then the sage was gone, and the cleric poured over the tomes until Midnight arrived and they left for the temple.
By the time Adon, Midnight, and Elminster reached the Temple of Lathander, a purple haze was drifting across the evening sky, and it was already time for eveningfeast. The sage, the cleric, and the magic-user passed through a nearly empty town, though they could hear Cyric's men digging to the west and the soldiers building fortifications to the east.
As they approached the building, Adon and Midnight could see that Lathander's temple had been constructed in the form of a Phoenix, with huge stone wings rising up on either side of its gate. The wings curved and became turrets. In the center of the building there were huge double doors that had been left unattended, and Elminster rapped at them impatiently. A window opened three stories up, and a handsome, square-jawed man with wavy hair looked out.
"Elminster!" the cleric said in awe.
"I might still be by the time ye get thyself down here and open this door!"
The window snapped shut, and Elminster wandered away from the heavy doors. Midnight continued to harangue him about the temple, and the role she and Adon were to play in the battle.
"Simply remember what I taught ye and do as I've said!" Elminster said wearily.
"You're treating us like children!" Midnight snapped. "After all we've been through, a simple explanation should not be out the question."
Elminster sighed. "Ye wouldn't mind if an old man rests his sorry frame while ye pound at him, would ye?"
Elminster sat down. It wasn't until Midnight was halfway through her argument about the Tablets of Fate that she noticed he was sitting in midair and the air about him crackled with mystical energies.
Midnight stopped.
"A Celestial Stairway," she said.
"Aye, like the one your lady Mystra used in her bid to regain the Planes."
Midnight backed away in horror. "Then Bane…"
"He doesn't want the dale," Elminster said. "He wants the Planes."
"But Helm will stop him, possibly slay him — "
"And Shadowdale will be reduced to a smoking pit, a black mark on the maps of travelers for all time."
Adon ran his hands over his face. "Just like Castle Kilgrave. But what can we do?"
Elminster tapped at the air beside him. "Destroy the Celestial Stairway, of course!" He reached out to Midnight. "Help me up!"
Midnight assisted the sage to his feet. "How can we destroy that which the gods created?"
"Perhaps ye will tell me," Elminster said. The door to the temple opened and the blond-haired man appeared. He was dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim.
"Elminster!" the man said. "I had not realized the time. You are expected, of course."
Rhaymon gestured for the old sage to come inside. "Would you like me to give your assistants a tour before I go?"
"That will not be necessary," Elminster said.
Rhaymon was halfway to the door when Adon stopped the priest.
"I don't understand," Adon said. "Where are you going?"
"To join my fellow priests and the faithful who worshiped here," Rhaymon said. "To the last man they will be joining forces with the army of Shadowdale, preparing to lay down their lives in defense of the Dales."
Adon took the man's hand. "Make them pay for what they did to the worshipers of Tymora."
Rhaymon nodded and was gone.
"Let's get inside," Midnight said as she gently touched Adon's arm and guided him from the doorway, then closed and locked the doors to the temple behind her.
It was night, and memories plagued Ronglath Knightsbridge. The soldier had not learned of the death of Tempus Blackthorne until after his arrival at Voonlar. The wizard Sememmon had laughed as he informed Knightsbridge of the emissary's fate.
"Have no worries," Sememmon said. "You will be joining him soon enough. You will lead the first battalion against the dalesmen."
Knightsbridge had said nothing.
The journey from the Citadel of the Raven to Teshwave had been trying. The soldiers he had commanded were openly hostile and rebellious. The mercenaries who had joined them in the ruins of Teshwave knew nothing of the failure of Knightsbridge in Arabel, and cared only about the gold they had been given to report on time and prepared for the march. Knightsbridge had not been in Voonlar for more than a few days before the order came from Lord Bane to gather the men and ride out.
There had been no attacks on their supply wagons on either the first or second day of their journey, and this made Knightsbridge particularly suspicious. Either the defenders of Shadowdale had not perceived the greatest weakness of Bane's five-thousand-man army, or they did not have the manpower to spare to even make the attempt on the food supply. For every ten miles of road they conquered, almost fifty men had been left behind to protect the road against attackers. Though Bane might not approve, Knightsbridge would not leave their rear unguarded, even if it used up a quarter of his troops to do so.
Knightsbridge was surprised again when the army reached the forest northeast of the dale. He expected the woods to have been set ablaze. It seemed the people of Shadowdale would not die quietly after all. They wanted to fight.
As night fell, Knightsbridge expected to camp at the outskirts of the forest, but Lord Bane sent up orders to the contrary. They would march into the forest under the cover of night, where presumably they would have the advantage of surprise if they were to meet any resistance.
They would not be allowed torches.
Bane's magic-users had been given strict orders not to use magic under any circumstances, as the art had become unstable and could easily backfire upon them. That meant there would be no spells cast to enhance the night vision of the soldiers as they stomped noisily through the woods.
As Knightsbridge led his frightened men into the forest, it became clear that at least a few shared his opinion of Bane's strategy. The oldest and most experienced, Mordant DeCruew, rode beside Knightsbridge. Leetym and Rusch rode beside him.
"This is suicide," Leetym said.
Much to the shock of the other officers, Knightsbridge nodded.
Rusch raised his sword. "Our lord and god has given us a commandment."
"Which he has made impossible for us to keep!" Leetym protested. "He has driven us like livestock before the slaughter house. I am among those who has seen our 'god' eat and drink like a human. As a temple guardian, I have seen him cry like a simpering child. He has lied to us from the beginning!"
"We shall win this day," Rusch said, gesturing with his weapon.
"Stay your sword," Mordant said. "Our enemies will not expect us to move against the forest until the morning. They will not expect us in Shadowdale until late the following day. We will take them by surprise."
"Mordant is correct," Knightsbridge said. "Our fight is not with each other. The true battle lies ahead. If death is our destiny we will meet it like men, not like cowering animals. If the pair of you cannot accept that, I'll gut you right now."
The troops were silent as they rode deeper into the woods.
Connel Greylore, the first of Shadowdale's archers to hear the approach of the soldiers, took a moment to question his senses. He had climbed into position in the trees to take the watch for his fellows. Five hundred yards behind him, another archer had done the same. The pattern continued all the way back to Krag Pool. Each of the sentry archers had chosen a position where a clear beam from their signal lanterns could be seen by the next sentry, closer to the town. This way, they could signal the sentry behind them without revealing their position to the approaching enemy.
The noises came again. This time it was accompanied by an unmistakable cry of pain.
Connel raised his lantern so quickly that it slipped from his sweaty hands. He nearly fell from the heavy branch that supported him as he grabbed at the lantern. His heart was thundering as he felt the surface of the cold metal and forced his hand to relax.
The archer looked ahead. He could see the Zhentilar now as they struggled in the net of twisted branches that covered the width of the road. The trees had been made to fall in three directions, allowing the aggressors to walk or ride into the trap. Yet even if they tried to go through the forest, around the tangle of branches, the Zhentilar would find the flanking woods similarly set.
Connel gave the signal. A single flash from the other direction told him that it had been received. He climbed down from the tree and quickly woke three other archers who stealthily assumed their positions in the trees somewhat closer to the road. The sound of men hacking away and attempting to crawl under or push through the branches filled the night, covering any sounds the archers might have made as they readied themselves, moving to their blinds and readying the quivers of arrows that had been left at each position.
Someone sent these men like cattle to the slaughter, Connel thought. Then the leader of the four archers gave the order to fire on the Zhentilar.
Suddenly the shouts of annoyance and fury became the screams of the dying as a hail of arrows erupted from the trees, skewering Bane's troops. More archers arrived from the contingents behind the first group, taking up temporary positions in the trees beside the road.
A few of the Zhentilar pressed through the barriers, some using the corpses of their fellow soldiers as shields from the rain of arrows from above. They yelled curses as they rushed forward and did not see the huge wooden stakes that had been planted in the road, aimed chest high, until they impaled themselves.
Connel and the first group of Shadowdale archers began to fall back, climbing from their positions to the safe route through the woods that would put them behind the next line of defense, a series of pits in the road that had been carefully camouflaged. The pits were three feet deep, with a single stake rising up from their center.
The second group of archers was climbing down behind the first, preparing to follow them back toward town, when Connel Greylore thanked the gods that none of the Shadowdale archers had yet been killed by the Zhentilar. He didn't hear the notching of arrows from behind on the road as the Zhentish archers loosed a volley of arrows over the wall of branches. Suddenly there were hundreds of arrows sailing through the air. Almost all of them struck trees or became imbedded in branches or fell harmlessly to the road.
Connel Greylore didn't even feel the arrow that pierced his back and split his heart, killing him instantly.
Bane's men fought for hours in the darkness as they hacked through the myriad defenses of the road. Each time they found a stretch that seemed to have been left defenseless, Bane insisted on his troops reforming their line. The foot soldiers would march out in front, and inevitably be the first to fall back and break the line as they discovered new traps hidden in the road. The soldiers died as they fell into the pits or were pressed into caltrops by the press of the troops behind them.
Bane was ecstatic. With each death his power grew, just as Myrkul had promised. The body of the Black Lord glowed with a red aura, a visible result of the soul energies he absorbed. The intensity of the aura increased as more men — both Zhentilar and dalesmen — died, and the Black Lord had difficulty suppressing his delight.
Nevertheless, Bane feigned anger at the incompetence of his troops for not being able to overcome such simple defenses as he drove them on to their deaths.
"Not a speck of dust should be left in this temple that we don't know about," Elminster said. He was quite serious, though he knew he was asking the impossible. "Any items of a personal nature must be removed from this hall, as well. There's no telling what may prove useful to our enemy."
After the horrors Adon had encountered in the desecrated Temple of Tymora, he was reluctant to participate in Elminster's plans for the Temple of Lathander. Ultimately, though, the cleric was forced to think of the temple in the most base terms. It was brick and mortar, stone and steel, glass and dripping wax. A different configuration of these elements and he might have been standing in a stable or an inn.
If it had been Sune's temple, Adon wondered, could he have been so cold and calculating? He touched the scar that lined his face.
He didn't know.
And so he busied himself with the tasks that had been laid out for him. The windows facing the invisible stairway on every floor of the temple were opened, their shutters removed. The windows that faced in all other directions were nailed shut. However, as he moved around the temple, Adon couldn't keep himself from noticing the small items that had been left behind in every room he visited. This was a place of fierce devotion and belief, and yet it was also a place where men and woman laughed and cried over the joys and sorrows life had brought to them.
One of the beds was unmade. Adon stopped his work and set about the task of making it before he realized what he was doing. He drew back from the bed, as if the power of the priest who had lay there that morning would reach up and destroy him.
As Adon stepped back from the bed, he noticed a black leather journal hidden beneath a pillow. The journal lay face down and open. Adon turned it over and read the final entry. It read:
Today I died to save Shadowdale. Tomorrow I shall be reborn in the kingdom of Lathander.
The journal fell from his hands and Adon ran from the small room, the window he was supposed to nail shut still open, its curtains blowing gently in the gathering winds that caressed the temple as if they were alive.
The cleric returned to the main chamber, and Midnight was surprised by the pale, worn look on the cleric's face as he approached. She knew that he had been struggling to maintain his resolve, even in the face of his grief and confusion, but there was little she could do to help him.
Or herself, for that matter.
But as the magic-user thought about the battle that was to come, she could not help but think of Kelemvor. And although Midnight regretted the harshness of her final exchange with the fighter, she knew that Kelemvor had found her out. No matter what she might say, she loved him. Perhaps, she thought, he loves me, too.
Midnight had long ago discovered that Kelemvor had a vulnerable side; his posturing was meant to draw attention away from the dark secret of his curse. He was more intelligent and caring than he would ever be willing to admit. And that gave Midnight hope.
Perhaps, she thought.
The sound of Adon yelling grabbed Midnight's attention, and she let the possibilities of her relationship with Kelemvor slip away. The cleric was standing next to the old sage, repeating the same phrase over and over, but Elminster was ignoring him.
"It's done!" the cleric screamed.
The sage of Shadowdale turned a page in the book he was studying.
"It's done!" Adon yelled again. Elminster finally looked up, nodded, mumbled, and went back to the crumbling tome he poured over, gingerly turning the pages so they would not become dust and cheat him of some secret bit of knowledge that might turn the tide in the battle with Bane.
Adon walked off to sulk in a corner.
Midnight watched the old man, and absently fingered the pendant. The great hall of the temple had been cleared, the pews moved off to the sides of the room. The dark-haired magic-user had given up her efforts to fathom the sage's reasoning. All would be made clear, he had promised. There was little she could do but place her trust in the wizened sage.
"Do you wish to use the pendant now, good Elminster?" Midnight said as she walked to the sage's side.
Elminster's face was suddenly plagued with a half-dozen new wrinkles. His beard seemed to draw up slightly. "That trinket? What use have I for that? Ye may keep it. Perhaps it will fetch a pretty penny at the fair in Tantras."
Midnight bit her lip. "Then what would you have me do here?" she asked.
Elminster shrugged. "Fortify this place, perhaps."
Midnight shook her head. "But how? You didn't — "
Elminster leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Do ye not remember the rite of Chiah, Warden of Darkness?"
"Of Elki, of Apenimon, draw from thy power — "
Elminster grinned. "The dream dance of Lukyan Lutherum?"
Midnight felt her lips tremble. She recited the incantation perfectly, yet Elminster stopped her before she could finish.
"Read for me now, from the sacred scrolls of Knotum, Seif, Seker…"
The words erupted from Midnight and suddenly a blinding flash of light filled the room. Then, a beautiful, intricate pattern of blue-white light raced across the walls, floor, and ceiling. It burst through the partially opened doorway leading to the antechamber. In an instant, the temple was ablaze with eldritch fires. Then the pattern sank into the walls of the temple and was absorbed.
Midnight was stunned.
"That wasn't so difficult, now, was it?" Elminster said and turned away.
"Wait!" Midnight cried. "How can I remember what I've never learned?"
Elminster raised his hands. "You cannot. It is time to prepare for the final ceremony. Go and ready yourself."
As Midnight turned and walked away, Elminster felt a wave of trepidation pass through him. From the night of Arrival, he had been preparing for this moment. His sight had revealed that he would be met by two allies in this battle, but the identities of his champions had startled him at first, filling him with a dread he would have to be a madman or a fool to ignore.
Of course, Elminster had not survived more than five hundred winters in the Realms by being either a madman or a fool, though many claimed he was both. Still, though, he would soon place his very existence in the hands of an inexperienced magic-user and a cleric whose faltering belief not only in the gods he worshiped but in himself might bring about the downfall of the temple's only defenders.
Midnight had quite accurately identified her plight as that of a pawn of the gods, and Elminster sensed that the magic-user was intrigued by the attention, as if she believed she had been singled out for some purpose. Such vanity, Elminster thought. Unless, of course, it was true. He had no way of telling.
How he longed for the assistance of Sylune, who had had the sense to leave the Realms before they could fall into such a horrid state, or even the Simbul, who had not responded to any of his communications.
"Elminster, we are ready," Midnight said.
The sage turned and faced the dark-haired magic-user and the cleric. The main doors of the temple had been propped open, waiting to release the energies that might consume them all.
"Perhaps ye are at that," Elminster said as he studied Midnight's face. There was not a trace of doubt to be found in the magic-user; her primary interest was the safety of the Realms. Elminster knew that he had no choice but to trust her. "Before we begin, there is something ye must know. Mystra told ye of the Tablets of Fate, but she did not tell ye where ye can find them."
Understanding dawned on Midnight. "But you can. The spells I helped you perform in your study, to locate intense sources of magic in the Realms — "
"One of the tablets is in Tantras, although I cannot give ye the precise location," Elminster said. "The other eludes me completely. Although, given time, I could certainly find it.
"Now let us begin," Elminster said. "This ceremony will take many hours…"
The signal fires had been lit. Bane's armies were breaking through the defenses of the eastern woods. They would arrive at Krag Pool within hours.
It was nearly dawn, and like most of the troops, Kelemvor had been asleep when the fires had been spotted. The blaring horns that accompanied the signal fires woke him up instantly, however.
"Those fools must have ridden all night," Hawksguard said, shaking the effects of sleep from him.
"Madness," Kelemvor said, refusing to believe any general would try so foolish a trick.
"Aye," Hawksguard said. "But we are dealing with the Zhentilar, after all." The fighter smiled and patted Kelemvor on the back.
In the days spent preparing the defenses near Krag Pool, Kelemvor and Hawksguard had become virtually inseparable. They had come from similar backgrounds, and Hawksguard had known stories of Lyonsbane Keep and of Kelemvor's father in the man's glory days, long before he had degenerated into the soulless monster Kelemvor had known as a child. Hawksguard also knew of Burne Lyonsbane, Kelemvor's beloved uncle.
But knowledge of the past was not all that bound the two fighters together. They shared similar interests in sword-play, and dueled each other nightly to keep their skills as finely honed as their blades. Hawksguard introduced Kelemvor to many of the men on the detail, and soon they all spoke as long-lost friends. Hawksguard often deferred some of his authority to Kelemvor, and the men followed the fighter's orders without hesitation.
In fact, as Hawksguard's place was defending Lord Mourngrym in the battle, Kelemvor was given command of the defenses at Krag Pool. Hawksguard's men accepted the change of command readily, and were glad to know that Kelemvor would be at their front during the battle.
The defensive position Kelemvor commanded was impressive, considering the small amount of time the dalesmen had to prepare it. The road leading to the east from Shadowdale was now completely blocked off just west of Krag Pool. The final load of rocks and debris had been laid along the road, and then the wagons had been overturned to help block the way. Trees had been cut down and laid across the road before the barricade, adding to the inaccessibility of the road. In addition, archers lined the trees to the north of the obstacle.
The final piece of inspired tactics came from the city planners from Suzail Key, and it centered on the trees that stood sentinel along the road to the west of Krag Pool. Though Kelemvor found both of the planners unlikely military minds — being slight of build, very refined, and having no experience at all with weapons — he had to admit that their trap was nothing short of brilliant. Even Elminster had been persuaded by the plan's originality to help in setting the trap. Kelemvor could hardly wait until the Zhentish troops stumbled into it.
However, there was nothing for Kelemvor to do now but wait. More fighters were responding to the horns, leaving their homes for perhaps the last time, and rushing to fill out the lines. But once they arrived, they just sat behind the barricade, nervously leaning on drawn swords or plucking bow strings in anticipation.
Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before anyone spoke. Many of the men had to fight to push their fears away. They were brave men, but none of them wanted to die, and the size of Bane's army was suspected to be ten thousand men strong, although other estimates cut that number in half.
As the soldiers sat waiting for the sound of battle to get close, Hawksguard stood up and yelled, "Morningfeast, men!" His words cut through the nervous silence like arrows, startling everyone from their morose thoughts. And even Kelemvor was surprised when Hawksguard began to beat on his metal bowl. "Bane be damned!" the fighter shouted. "If I'm going to die this day, it certainly isn't going to be on an empty stomach!"
The men began to voice similar sentiments, and soon that which had been unthinkable just moments before consumed the attentions of the entire company of fighters.
Only one man in Kelemvor's company didn't follow Hawksguard's lead. He was a very thin man, with an odd gleam in his eye. He sat beside Kelemvor and Hawksguard as they ate. His name was Mawser.
The defenders of Shadowdale needed a volunteer for the final trick they would play on Bane's forces before engaging them one on one. The thin man, a devout worshiper of Tymora, had leaped at the chance to set off the trap, even though his own death was practically assured. Mawser believed that his goddess would protect him by endowing him with enough good luck to escape with his life.
The thin man looked at the clearing to the west of Krag Pool and grinned.
"I don't understand Bane's strategy," Hawksguard confessed. "He's given us time to get a full night's rest and a meal in our guts. In the meantime, he's run his own troops the entire night. They'll be exhausted and starved by the time they reach us."
Kelemvor shook his head. "I wish Midnight were here," he said as he pointed to Krag Pool. "Her sorcery could change that water into steaming acid. I'm sure of it. Then we'd only have to force the Zhentilar back and victory would be assured."
Hawksguard smiled. "Actually, Kel, I was thinking you could just run out over the barricade and chase Bane's troops away all by yourself. We all might as well go home."
The fighters ate the hastily prepared meal, gave thanks to the gods they worshiped, then settled back to wait for Bane's army. Hawksguard moved among the men, saying his farewells, wishing them victory.
Kelemvor thought of Midnight. His initial reaction to the dark-haired magic-user had been anger. There she was, a woman attempting to make a name for herself in a man's game, but she didn't seem willing to make the sacrifices necessary to play by the rules. After all, Kelemvor had met warrior-women before. They subverted their sexuality and behaved in a repressed, masculine manner to fit in. They were usually quite loud and quite boring. Midnight, on the other hand, expected to be accepted for what she was — a woman.
And even Kelemvor's myopic vision allowed him to see that she really was worthy of respect as a warrior. She proved again and again on the trip that she was capable and dependable. And perhaps she didn't need to give up her femininity to achieve her goals, Kelemvor thought. She was attractive and strong, and her generosity, warmth, and humor made her irresistible.
If they both survived the battle, Kelemvor wondered, would it be different between them, or would there always be some excuse for them not to be together?
Kelemvor heard a shout, and he turned just in time to see Mawser running down the road to his battle station. Kelemvor smiled as he imagined what the Zhentilar would see as they approached from the northeast: As had been the case for the last few miles of their trek, trees would line the right side of the road — with the exception of the small path to Castle Krag. The trees stretched for a little way down the road, then the forest opened onto the town. On the Zhentilar's left, Krag Pool bordered the road for a while. One hundred yards past the pool, also on the left of the road, they would see what appeared to be a clearing. Covering the entire road right in front of the pool was a large barricade, the last major obstacle on the road before Shadowdale.
At least, that's the way it seemed.
Kelemvor could barely contain his excitement as the first Zhentilar appeared on the road.