As the Zhentilar approached the barricade blocking the road at Krag Pool, Bane's archers were sent forward in the ranks. Before the army even tried to cross the ten-foot-tall, twenty-foot-wide wall of stone, dirt, debris, and overturned wagons, the dalesmen would have to be routed from the trees, from where they had harassed the Zhentilar all along the road east of Shadowdale. However, Kelemvor had most of his men positioned far back in the woods, so that the Zhentish archers couldn't strike at them effectively. Only when Bane's troops tried to cross the barricade, when the Zhentilar would be disorganized, would the fighter order a full-scale attack. For now, striking at the enemy with arrows from the trees across from Krag Pool would have to do.
Bane, who was riding in the rear of the line, was furious when the army ground to a halt at the wall. "Why aren't we simply going over that pile of rock?" Bane screamed as a young officer reported on the situation. "I want my troops to be in Shadowdale within the hour, so you'd best order them to breach that wall or climb over it."
The officer was shaking as he said, "But-but, Lord Bane, the dalesmen are waiting for us to try to cross the barricade before they attack. Our troops will be easy targets for them as we climb over the wall."
"Then why not go around it?" another officer said.
The Black Lord frowned. "If we go around it, our forces will have to scatter to make it through the woods. That would be fighting the dalesmen on their own terms."
The young officer from the front lines stammered for a moment. "We will lose a large number of men — "
"That's enough!" Bane screamed and lashed out with his gauntleted hand. He struck the officer in the face, knocking him from his horse. As the man staggered to his feet. Bane looked down at him, a cruel grin etched on his face. "I am your god. My word is law. We will cross the barricade now, in force."
The officer mounted his horse. "Yes, Lord Bane."
"And you will lead the first group over the top," the Black Lord added. "Now, you may go."
The officer turned and headed back to the barricade. At the wall, the archers were showering the trees with arrows, but the dalesmen still refused to show themselves. "I want a work detail to start breaking up our supply wagons and begin building a ramp so we can cross this damn thing," the young man screamed when he reached his troops.
Within thirty minutes, the Zhentilar were ready to charge over the barricade. Bane waited anxiously for his men to storm the wall and the killing to begin again. The power of the hundreds of souls Myrkul had channeled to him coursed through his veins, but the God of Strife wanted more. He wanted the power to crush Shadowdale with his own hands, as he could have done before Ao's wrath robbed him of his godhood. He wanted to kill the sage, Elminster, for his meddling ways and because he fought for justice and peace.
But most of all. Bane wanted the Planes.
The Black Lord heard the shouts of his troops as they prepared to charge over the wall, and a chill ran up his spine. Soon, Bane thought. Soon I will have the power of a god again.
At the front, Kelemvor saw that the Zhentilar were ready to cross, so he readied the dalesmen for the attack. If everything went according to Hawksguard's plan, as the first of Bane's troops reached the top of the wall, the archers from Shadowdale would hit as many of the soldiers as possible. The bodies of the men and horses killed by the archers would then slow the troops behind them down, making them even easier targets for the bowmen from the Dales.
Kelemvor and his men would take care of any Zhentish that made it over the wall. The fighter had organized the defenders into small groups, so that as more and more of Bane's troops stormed over the barricade, the dalesmen could fall back in small units and retreat through the woods back toward town.
And as soon as any Zhentilar crossed the wall and were on their way to Shadowdale, Kelemvor would signal the foot soldiers and cavalry that waited to cut the Zhentish troops down. The fighter had no illusions that the dalesmen could hold the Zhentilar back for long, as they were outnumbered by at least three-to-one, but he knew that they could cut those odds down considerably, even before Mawser sprung the trap in the clearing.
Only one hundred yards away, the young Zhentish officer mounted his horse and led his troops onto the barricade. A thick rain of arrows fell from the trees on the north side of the road, killing most of the soldiers before they'd even taken three steps on the wall. The officer made it across with only an arrow shot through his leg and into his horse's flank.
As soon as his horse jumped to the ground on the side of the wall closest to Shadowdale, however, a squad of dalesmen dispatched the Zhentish officer with little trouble. The young man died cursing Lord Bane for his stupidity and arrogance.
The battle at the barricade raged for almost an hour before the Zhentilar got enough troops to the western side of the wall to drive the dalesmen back down the road. Kelemvor ordered a retreat, and the archers and soldiers ran through the forest to their final positions in the woods, just west of the clearing next to Krag Pool.
By this time, Bane was himself at the barricade. As he looked out on the retreating dalesmen and the hundreds of corpses that littered the wall, he smiled. Victory was his; he could feel the stolen power writhing within the frail form of his avatar.
The Black Lord turned and addressed his troops. "We have passed through the gauntlet our enemies prepared for us and faced the worst they have to offer. I must leave you for a time, to go to the other front. The wizard Sememmon will lead you on to Shadowdale. Your god has spoken."
A shimmering vortex of light enveloped the Black Lord, then the God of Strife vanished.
Safely hidden in the woods to the west of the clearing, Kelemvor could hardly believe his eyes. He watched as Bane's army moved right into their trap. As the soldiers massed before the clearing, the fighter gave the signal and Mawser set off the trap.
Almost fifty trees suddenly appeared in the clearing next to Krag Pool. Then all of them started to fall toward the road and the Zhentish army.
The city planners had pointed out that the best kind of trap was one you couldn't see, at least until it was too late, so Mourngrym had a work detail cut the trees west of Krag Pool so that they could easily be toppled on troops using the road. Then the trees were linked by strong ropes so that, once a single tree was knocked over, the entire road would be covered by falling timber.
The most difficult task was convincing Elminster to complete the plan. The dalelord pleaded with Elminster to throw one spell, a powerful mass invisibility spell on the trees, so they would be hidden from Bane's troops. The old sage was not happy about being dragged away from his experiments, but he agreed to help after the plan had been explained to him.
"I just hope one of the oaks knocks Bane's avatar on the skull," Elminster said. Then he threw the spell and headed back to his work.
But after the trap was set, someone had to be found that was brave enough — or foolish enough, depending upon one's philosophy — to set that first tree in motion without giving away the trap's location. Even though it was a suicide mission, someone volunteered.
Mawser.
When Kelemvor gave the signal, the worshiper of the Goddess of Luck jumped from the tree nearest to the road. Mawser had been hidden by the invisibility spell as he sat at the top of the tree, tied to it by a short rope. And when he jumped, his weight set the first tree in motion. But he also appeared in midair, as the invisibility spell was negated by the fact the trees were now weapons on the attack.
As Mawser plummetted toward the Zhentilar, fifty huge trees falling behind him, he said a prayer to the Goddess of Luck to protect him, to somehow let him survive the fall and the crush of the trap.
Kelemvor didn't see the Zhentish arrow pierce Mawser's throat. The thin man was dead before he hit the ground.
But the trap worked. The trees crashed down on the Zhentish soldiers, killing or injuring at least a third of them. Kelemvor let out a yell, and the dalesmen followed his lead. Though the plan had been carefully orchestrated, no one was ever really positive that it would work. But, now, as the fighters and archers from the Dales watched Bane's men scramble to save themselves from the incredible network of falling trees, they had no other option but to believe their senses.
Luck is with us this morning, Kelemvor thought, as he broke from his blind and signaled for the next phase of the attack to begin.
Hawksguard had stationed a group of archers in the forest behind the falling trees, and any of the bowmen who had retreated from positions farther east on the road to Voonlar also knew to fall back to the trees behind the trap. Now that the trap was sprung, the archers fired down into the tangled maze of fallen trees that lined the road. They loosed their arrows at any hint of movement in the trap, and hundreds of Zhentish soldiers who had escaped being crushed were killed or wounded by the archers. Despite the efforts of the archers, despite the fall of the gargantuan trees, Bane's troop still pressed on.
From his position in the trees west of the trap, Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the remainder of the Zhentilar. Already they were attempting to advance, even though they could do little more than crawl beneath the fallen trees or climb over them. The Zhentish cavalry that was not crushed in the attack had been rendered useless. Kelemvor's ground forces waited near the edge of the forest. He had hoped that even if the traps didn't rout the Zhentilar, the dalesmen's layered defense would at least slow the God of Strife's troops down.
If Bane's troops pushed past the tree trap, Kelemvor's men would rush out and attack. Then, if things went badly, they would pull back and the archers would provide covering fire for them. If things went well, the Zhentilar might be forced back to the wall made by the fallen trees, where the archers from the dale could continue to cut them down with little fear of return fire. If Bane's men were foolish enough to enter the forest to get at the archers, they'd be wiped out by Kelemvor's troops, who knew how to fight in the forest far more effectively than the Zhentish.
Kelemvor had not planned for the power of the wizard Sememmon, however. The information Mourngrym had received from Thurbal indicated that Bane had placed a prohibition on the use of magic, as magic was unstable and thus unreliable in so important a conflict. Few magic-users would even be allowed to march against the Dales, and those powerful mages that were allowed to fight, like Sememmon, were made officers.
Now, Sememmon stood in the easternmost section of the road hit by the tree trap. One of the trees hung just over his head, as if it had been stopped by a wall of force. The top section of the tree, past the magic-user's defenses, had fallen to the ground, its trunk shattered. Then the wizard walked out from under the tree and released his spell. The oak crashed to the ground, and Sememmon turned and called out to his men.
"We must use magic to push through this trap or we'll be slaughtered," he cried. "Bane be damned!" Then the mage quickly spoke an incantation and threw another spell.
Ten massive fireballs blasted a path through the tangle of trees before Sememmon, killing the Zhentish soldiers trapped beneath them and setting the tangle of trees ablaze. "No!" the wizard screeched. "That isn't the spell I called!" He attempted another spell. The ground seemed to shake, as if an earthquake had been called into existence. A symphony of cries erupted from the frightened soldiers surrounding the magic-user.
"You'll kill us all, you fool!" someone shouted.
Sememmon recognized the voice, despite the cacophony of sound from the road. "Knightsbridge," he said in hoarse wonder. "You survived — "
Before the shocked wizard could finish his sentence, Knightsbridge struck him with the flat of his sword. The tremors stopped as Sememmon fell.
"Onward for Bane!" Knightsbridge yelled. "Onward for glory!"
A cadre of archers from Bane's army fired flaming arrows into the trees where the archers of Shadowdale had been stationed. Some of the dalesmen fell, others managed to make their pre-arranged retreats. Waiting with his men, Kelemvor felt a moment of panic as he watched the fire the Zhentish had created. If the flames spread in the forest, a blaze of unimaginable proportions could begin. If the woods burned, it would only be a matter of time before the fields of the dale were caught in the inferno, and all of Shadowdale would be destroyed.
A young lieutenant named Drizhal, a boy less than twenty winters old, stood at Kelemvor's side, sharing the fighter's concerns. The gangly youth was running a hand nervously through his bright yellow hair as he listened to the veteran warrior.
"If only there was a magic-user at our side," Kelemvor said. "I finally understand Mourngrym's frustration at Elminster's decision not to join the battle at the front. We're faced with this blaze while that old relic is off preparing some 'arcane defense' of his own."
"It isn't fair," Drizhal said, his voice cracking.
Kelemvor looked to the younger man. "Are you afraid?"
Drizhal said nothing, his expression telling all.
"Good!" Kelemvor said. "Fear keeps you sharp. Just don't let it get in the way."
The youth nodded, his terror seeming to lessen.
On the besieged road, Knightsbridge led the Zhentilar through the smoldering gauntlet of fallen trees. As the troops passed him, the wizard Sememmon rose on uncertain legs and attempted yet another spell. The men on every side of the wizard scattered as best they could, fearful of the unpredictable effects of magic.
Bolts of flaming red energy left the wizard's hands, then went wild as an arrow from one of the archers of Shadowdale pierced the mage's shoulder. Sememmon fell, and the bolts of energy flew over Knightsbridge's head and carved a path into the trees near Kelemvor. The wizard screamed in pain as a pair of soldiers dragged him to safety.
Knightsbridge saw the dalesmen scattering from where Sememmon's bolt had cut through the trees and ordered the Zhentilar to attack while the enemy was still in confusion. If Bane's army was fatigued from the night of marching through enemy territory, facing death with every step, it didn't show as they charged toward Kelemvor's men. The Zhentish seemed renewed, hungry to finally pay back some of the agonies that had been inflicted upon them during the trek from Voonlar.
Near the western edge of the forest, Kelemvor quickly gathered the leaders of his assault teams. Drizhal remained at the fighter's side.
"There's no chance of dragging them into the woods," Kelemvor said. "All we can do is face the enemy directly and try to keep them from breaking through to Shadowdale too quickly. We'll implement a layered defense right here and try to slow them down."
The leaders hurried to their men and informed them of the plans as Kelemvor watched Bane's army emerge from the opening the wizard had created in the fallen trees.
The last of the refugees had left down the Ashaba, and none of the soldiers had left their posts at the bridge to join their brothers at the eastern front. Nevertheless, Cyric skirted the length of the bridge every hour, checking and rechecking its defenses and keeping the men alert.
The thief was on Forester's side of the bridge, opposite from Shadowdale, when the sounds of the battle in the west reached him. The men on the other shore started talking loudly. Cyric turned to Forester.
"Keep to your position," the thief said. "I'd better go warn the others to settle down."
Cyric climbed up onto the bridge. He was almost to the gateposts when he heard the sound from the road to the west — riders approaching at a gallop. The thief scrambled back to the ditch and signaled the fighters at the other bank. Then he readied his long bow.
"You wished for death and glory, you might get it yet!" Cyric whispered, and Forester smiled as he drew his sword. Then the thief turned to the other men near him. "Follow the plan. Wait until the last of them is upon the bridge, then move on my signal."
It seemed an eternity before the Zhentilar arrived. But at last the sounds of the riders crossing the bridge filled the dalesmen's ears, and Cyric watched as two dozen armored warriors passed overhead, nervously looking over their shoulders. No other troops were in sight on the road, so Cyric signaled the attack.
The Zhentilar had no chance. Cyric's bow laid out two of the soldiers, and a squad of men surged up from the trenches on either side of the river and attacked. Forester backed away at the Zhentilar with glee, and as the last of the enemy fell, Cyric heard his men shout "For Shadowdale! For Shadowdale!"
There were sounds from the road to the west, and Cyric turned in time to see horsemen breaking from the trees in the distance. An army of riders led by a red-haired man on a beautiful warhorse was charging toward the bridge. Cyric saw that there were at least two hundred men heading their way.
"Ride on!" Fzoul shouted, and the wall of attackers closed on the bridge.
As Cyric ran, the eastern end of the Ashaba Bridge seemed to be moving away from him, not getting closer. The bridge was a little more than a thousand feet long, but it seemed like miles to the thief as he ran across it, an army closing in from behind. Forester and a handful of men were at Cyric's side as he ran.
The eastern bank was ahead of them when they heard the sound of Bane's army moving onto the other end of the bridge. Cyric saw that none of the Zhentilar were stopping on the western bank of the river, so the men that were hidden at the base of the bridge, right beneath the Zhentish troops, were safe. Everything was going according to their plan. That frightened Cyric. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan.
"Do you think it will work?" Forester said as they reached the eastern bank.
How should I know? Cyric wanted to say. Instead, he said, "Of course," and jumped for the bank.
Fully expecting an arrow to pierce his back just as he left the stone bridge, Cyric suddenly felt moist earth beneath his feet and realized he had made it across. Forester and the others were still beside him.
"Now for the hard part," Cyric said, almost out of breath. The thief turned and faced the oncoming horde and heard the telltale sounds of metal pulleys creaking beneath the bridge.
"At least two hundred are on the bridge. Mostly cavalry," Forester whispered.
There were more sounds. Men grunted as they pushed away the stones concealing their hiding niches in the pillar supports. Cyric hoped the splashes as the heavy stones hit the water wouldn't alert the Zhentilar on the bride to the trap.
"They're more than halfway across!" someone screamed.
"Do it, Cyric!" Forester hissed.
"Retreat!" Cyric screamed at the top of his lungs. Then Cyric and Forester ran as if Bane himself were chasing them, and they split up as they ran to the Twisted Tower so as not to present an easy target.
"Any time now," Cyric whispered.
Nothing happened.
Forester stopped before he reached the tower. Cyric stopped as well. "They didn't hear you," Forester cried.
"They must have heard me!" Cyric snapped.
They both turned toward the bridge. The main body of the army was approaching the eastern bank, and a few horsemen had already made it across. Cyric and Forester ran for the bridge.
"Retreat!" they screamed.
Still nothing happened.
Cyric cursed himself. If he had not listened to the men from Suzail Key, this situation would not exist. He wanted to set more reliable traps, but they wouldn't listen.
"Retreat!" Cyric cried again.
Either the men under the bridge heard him this time or they got tired of waiting for the command and took matters into their own hands. Whatever the reason, though, they started to remove the flat-hewed logs that had been placed inside the holes where the keystone supports had once been. Then the men at the center of the bridge swung out from under the bridge on ropes, and their weight exerted the force necessary to break the weakened center support. Finally, the other supports for the bridge shattered and collapsed, too. The Zhentish soldiers shouted in surprise as the bridge fell away and the wildly churning Ashaba loomed up toward them.
Even Fzoul was stunned by the sight of the massive bridge falling. The red-haired man, who had already reached the eastern bank, turned in his saddle and stared. In seconds, there was nothing left of the bridge. Less than twenty of Fzoul's men had made it to the eastern bank. On the western bank, many were attempting to slow their mounts before they were pushed into the gaping hole left by the collapse of the bridge. Over three-quarters of the force had been tossed into the Ashaba and drowned in their heavy armor.
There were less than twenty archers in the Twisted Tower, but the soldiers who rode or stood beside Fzoul didn't know this. Even when the arrows began to fly and the soldiers at the front were slain, there was no realization that so few could have brought down so many. There were only the cries of the wounded and the frightened as Fzoul slid from his horse and fell to the ground, taking cover from the archers as his men died around him. Some of the soldiers were backing away, falling into the river. Fzoul realized that the corpses of his men and their mounts would block the edge of the bridge, and their movement would be slowed until they were killed one by one from the tower. The Zhentilar had lost the battle before they'd even met sword to sword with one dalesman.
On his hands and knees, Fzoul crawled back through the ranks of his dead and dying troops and started to strip off his armor.
The men who had sapped the bridge climbed up onto the western bank and attacked the remaining Zhentilar. The archers from the tower also moved out toward the road and began to move forward.
Cyric took his bow from his back and grabbed an arrow from the quiver of a nearby archer. The thief had not taken his gaze from the red-haired commander who was attempting to make his escape from the shattered bridge. The man was crawling away and taking off his armor. Obviously the coward was going to try to leap into the river.
Cyric notched a single arrow and braced himself. As the commander stood up and prepared to dive off the edge of the bridge, the thief screamed "Red hair!"
Fzoul locked eyes with Cyric for a moment, then tried to jump. At the same instant, Cyric loosed the single shaft with unerring accuracy. The arrow pierced Fzoul's side as he fell into the river.
The slaughter of Bane's men continued, but the battle at the western front was over. Cyric gathered most of the men together and headed for the eastern front. As they approached the center of town, though, they heard the sounds of a battle in progress — steel clashed against steel, and commanders screamed out orders. Cyric and his men charged into the nearest group of Zhentish soldiers. When they had driven them off, Cyric quickly asked a commander what had happened.
"The Zhents came from the north, too. Just as we'd expected. We slowed them down a bit with the traps and ramparts we'd set up in the farms they had to pass, but they got here anyway."
Then another group of Zhentilar charged Cyric and he was once more lost in the battle.
In the furious fighting that covered the crossroads of Shadowdale, few noticed the squad of Zhentilar cavalry break off and head down the road to the east.
Kelemvor knew they would face impossible odds. Still, he gave the order to advance without hesitation. As commander of the entire movement, Kelemvor's place was in the third line of defense. Those who charged out in the first line would account for the heaviest percentage of casualties in the attack on Bane's armies, but there wasn't a soldier that had not volunteered for their position. Kelemvor had been spared the duty of selecting those who would rush off to die.
Bane's soldiers emerged, six at a time, from the path Sememmon had blazed. Most of the horses had been killed in the trap, so most of the troops were infantry.
"Why not use our cavalry?" Drizhal said to Kelemvor. "We might be able to force them back that way."
"We'll need the mounts later," Kelemvor said. "Their speed will allow our survivors to fall back and regroup long before Bane's army can reach them." The fighter turned away from the younger man and deployed the foot soldiers to cut down Bane's forces as they left the narrow opening through the fallen trees in the road.
The dalesmen had some success in slowing down the Zhentish charge. Soon, however, they were forced back by the sheer number of Zhentilar still advancing. Kelemvor used the archers to provide covering fire as the survivors of the first group fell back and joined with Kelemvor and his men. At the same time, another band of dalesmen moved forward.
"Whoever their commander is, he's good," Kelemvor said. "My own tactics don't seem to be fazing him at all."
"It's almost as if he knows you," Drizhal said.
Kelemvor shook his head. "Or he knows what to expect."
Bishop, the commander of the first group of dalesmen to attack, approached Kelemvor. He was slightly older than Kelemvor, with dirty blond hair and a fair complexion.
"They're fighting like desperate men. If this was a holy crusade, like you said, they wouldn't be. It's more like fighting for survival, now," Bishop said. "They're not so anxious to die anymore."
"But they keep coming," Kelemvor said. "Do you think we can force a retreat?"
Bishop shook his head. "The Zhentilar in front have some madman driving them on, but they're scared and they want to turn back. Those in the rear are hungry for revenge, and they're pushing forward. That's what it seems like from all the shouting. I wouldn't be surprised if a lot of them are deserting into the forest."
Suddenly there were shouts from the rear of Kelemvor's troops. The fighter turned and saw a squadron of men approaching from the west. They wore the colors of Bane's army.
"Where did they come from?" Bishop said.
"The north road," Kelemvor said with growing alarm. "A battalion must have come through the north road. That means Hawksguard and Mourngrym have already been attacked, and these men were forced to retreat from them."
"Or the dalelord is already dead," Bishop said quietly.
"Don't even think it," Kelemvor shouted as he sent a group to stop the Zhentish cavalry in the rear before they caused too much havoc in the ranks. It was already too late for that, though, as the horsemen charged into the dalesmen's lines.
"Kelemvor!" Drizhal shouted. "More of Bane's soldiers are breaking through from the east!"
"We'll have to fight them, hold them here, and cut down their numbers as best we can until help arrives." Kelemvor said.
"What about the bog? Can't we still draw them into the bog and fight them there?" Drizhal said.
"You might as well forget that idea," Kelemvor said, smiling weakly at the boy. "I've spent enough time with dalesmen to know they would never retreat from anyone… especially the Zhentish."
Drizhal watched as Bane's soldiers poured through the opening.
"Prepare cavalry!" Kelemvor shouted as he drew his sword. "We fight to the last man!"
Soon all of Kelemvor's finely drawn battle plans turned to dust as the dalesmen faced the enemy in a chaotic melee. Kelemvor knew that they would be hopelessly overwhelmed when the full weight of Bane's army was brought against them. He knew that the only real hope was an organized retreat through the remaining, small stone barricades on the way to Shadowdale. But as the situation rapidly deteriorated strategically, Kelemvor saw that the defenders of Shadowdale were more than happy to go to their deaths fighting the Zhentish man-to-man.
The fighter watched half-a-dozen men whom he had stood beside rush into battle, then fall before the dark army of the evil god. When he faced an enemy soldier himself, however, Kelemvor drew little satisfaction in the man's death. He wasn't fighting for the same thing the dalesmen were fighting for; all Kelemvor was doing was delaying what he saw now as the inevitable fall of Shadowdale. Then Drizhal fell before an enemy soldier, and Kelemvor turned to face the boy's attacker.
The Zhentish soldier lashed out with his mace and Kelemvor drew back and away from the weapon. The fighter then swung blindly with his sword, and he realized with disgust that he had only impaled the mount of the mace-wielding Zhentilar. The wounded horse pitched forward and its rider flew to the ground without losing his grip on his bloodied weapon.
Kelemvor advanced on the downed soldier, then froze as the man turned over and Kelemvor saw his face:
It was Ronglath Knightsbridge, the traitor to Arabel.
Seizing upon his enemy's momentary surprise, Knightsbridge swung his mace once more. The heavy club grazed Kelemvor's leg and knocked him from his feet. Drawing his sword with his free hand as he scrambled to his feet, Knightsbridge waited until Kelemvor had half-risen before slashing at the fighter's ribs with the sword, then swinging his mace again. Even as he fell to dodge the sword, Kelemvor brought his sword up in a block, stopping the mace before it met his neck.
Kelemvor got to his feet at once, and the two fighters slowly circled one another, looking for an opening. Suddenly, Knightsbridge shouted "No!"
Kelemvor ducked and the horseman's sword swished just over his head. The fighter leaped to his left, then brought the pommel of his sword down hard on the rider's hand. There was a crack as something in the Zhentilar's hand broke, and the horseman dropped his weapon.
Before Kelemvor could react, Knightsbridge charged at him again and slashed viciously at his head. "You die by my hand alone!" Knightsbridge hissed and raised his mace again.
Kelemvor rushed at the Zhentilar, and the fighter's sword ripped through the traitor's side as the mace swung toward him. Avoiding the blow, Kelemvor brought his armored fist into Knightsbridge's jaw, sending him stumbling back.
Knightsbridge was exposed for an instant, and Kelemvor rushed at him again and tackled him, giving the Zhentilar no chance to use his weapons. They struck the ground and Knightsbridge kicked Kelemvor in the chest, forcing him to tumble to his side.
"You cost me my life!" Knightsbridge screamed. "Everything I cared about is gone because of you!"
Knightsbridge raised his sword high over his head, but the swing exposed his chest and Kelemvor drove his sword through Knightsbridge's breastplate before he could deliver his final blow. The traitor's eyes gave no quarter, even as life fled from them. His face fixed in an eternal grimace of hatred and pain, Knightsbridge fell into the dirt and died.
As Kelemvor pulled his sword from Knightsbridge's chest, he saw a glint of bright, shining metal as a Zhentish dagger flew toward him. A sword flashed before the fighter and the dagger was deflected. Another flash and the Zhentilar fell.
"That's the problem with these jackals," a familiar voice said flatly, "there's always more than one of them."
Kelemvor's savior turned to face the fighter. It was Bishop, commander of the first group.
"Behind you!" Bishop shouted, and Kelemvor spun and dispatched another Zhentish soldier.
Two more riders approached, swords drawn. Bishop dragged the first of the riders from his mount and ran him through, as Kelemvor faced the soldier's fellow and killed him. Then another wave of Bane's soldiers approached on foot, and the warriors fought back to back until they were knee-deep in the bodies of the dead and dying. Their swords flashed as the endless parade of dark soldiers closed in on the dalesmen.
As Kelemvor looked to the road to the west, his heart sank; Bane's army was getting through the men and the barricades, and moving toward Shadowdale.
With each death, Bane's power grew until his vision was glazed over by an amber haze of power. He felt his frail mortal shell blistering from his stolen energy, but he endured the discomfort gladly.
Teleporting from the barricade had been a simple matter. He found himself at the outskirts of the dale and quickly cast a spell of invisibility upon himself, then used the power of the soul energies to take to the air.
A small band of Zhentilar had been deployed to travel the north road into Shadowdale and engage the soldiers at the crossroads of the town, where Bane had assumed the defenders would make their last stand. There were no more than five hundred men in this detail, and many would be stopped by the defenses Mourngrym's men had certainly placed in their way along the road and in the farms to the north.
As he flew toward the crossroads, Bane was delighted to find that at least a few hundred of his men from the north had made it through, yet it seemed they had been expected. Bane descended to the center of the fighting while maintaining his invisibility. In the distance he could see the Celestial Stairway, its changing aspects a beacon in the sky that drove him onward, and would eventually take him home. Beside the stairway he could see the brightly lit Temple of Lathander. One combatant had been notoriously absent throughout the battle and Bane suddenly realized the logical place for his adversary to hide.
"Elminster," Bane said and laughed. "I would have given you more credit."
A human approached, wielding a sword.
Mourngrym.
How delightful it would be to carry the head of the lord of Shadowdale upon his belt as he opened his arms in greeting to the hated sage. Bane dropped his invisibility and laughed as Mourngrym stopped just before the Black Lord, startled by Bane's sudden appearance. Bane crushed Mourngrym's sword in his taloned hand as Mourngrym swung at him, then reached down to claim his prize.
Suddenly another man appeared and pulled Mourngrym from the Black Lord's grasp. Bane ripped open the second man's chest.
"Hawksguard!" Mourngrym shouted as the older man fell to the ground.
Bane was about to kill the stunned dalelord when he caught sight of the Celestial Stairway.
It was burning, set ablaze by blue-white eldritch fires.
The humans all but forgotten, Bane used the power of the dead to take to the cold night air. Bane drew close to the Temple of Lathander. The temple, molded in the form of a phoenix, was releasing a flow of bluish white fires that assaulted the stairway like a dragon spewing forth its fiery breath. The stairway crackled with the eldritch flames, and Bane watched with horror as the changing aspects became a heated blur that the eyes of his avatar could no longer bear to look upon.
The flesh of the Black Lord was engulfed in an amber haze as the continuous flow of souls ripped through his form, strengthening the god until his power reached levels he had only tasted for fleeting instants in the dungeons of Castle Kilgrave. Knowledge of countless spells and the power to cast them at will, without the physical components usually necessary, coursed through the Black Lord. He was almost a god again.
I can destroy this place, Bane thought. I can raze it to its foundations and slay all who dare stand against me.
He looked back to the Celestial Stairway and flew as close as he dared, then hovered in midair and watched as his way back to the Planes melted away. There was nothing he could do to stop the destruction of the stairway; his plans to retake the Planes had been thwarted. Elminster had dared to stand against the Black Lord and now the old sage would pay.
Bane descended to the temple and studied it for a moment. He did not dare to enter through the passages that released the mystical fires. That would certainly destroy his avatar. And when he checked the doors and windows, Bane found they had been fortified by a spell of some sort. To break the magical ward would certainly alert Elminster to his presence.
Then Bane saw a window that had been left unguarded, and he rose to it tentatively, expecting Elminster's gaze to meet his when he looked into it. But no one was there. Bane passed through the bright stream of light that flowed from the window without harm, and he found himself standing in the bedroom of a high priest of Lathander. At his feet, Bane noticed a book with the words "Diary of Faith" embroidered on its cover. The Black Lord crouched and picked up the leather-bound journal.
When Bane read the words on the final page, he could not stop laughing. Only when he heard the sound of voices directly below did he drop the book and stop laughing. Casting a glassee spell, Bane looked at the floor, then through the wood planks and supports that separated him from the sage.
He saw Elminster casting a spell. The mage looked exhausted, as if he had been working on this spell for the entire night. Swirling mist whirled in all directions. The magic-user and the cleric who had interfered with Bane's plans in Castle Kilgrave were here; the failure of his assassins to report had steeled him for this knowledge, and somehow he was made quite happy by this turn of events. To the Black Lord, there was nothing sweeter than taking the lives of his enemies with his own hands.
The cleric was busy rifling through ancient tomes, locating spells for the dark-haired magic-user to study. Occasionally Elminster would address the magic-user, and she would recite one of the spells she had learned.
And when the woman mage repeated the spells, they worked, even without components! Bane stared at the woman, then saw the star pendant, the symbol of Mystra, around her neck. Each time she cast a spell, tiny strands of energy played across the pendant and disappeared when the spell was finished.
She must have some of Mystra's power in that trinket, Bane thought. I must have it for my assault on Helm and Ao.
Bane considered how best to take the old sage by surprise, but there was no spell he could think of to accomplish his goal. Refusing to be daunted, Bane lay face-down upon the floor and used his stolen power to make his form insubstantial. Then he slowly drifted into the floor until his face protruded from the other side very slightly, and followed the ceiling until it met with the wall nearest Elminster. The Black Lord then drifted down the wall, keeping his prey in view at all times. Finally, when he stood no more than six paces behind Elminster, Bane pushed away from the cover of the wall and advanced on the sage, talons extended.
By the time the dark-haired magic-user noticed Bane's presence, the Black Lord's talons were only inches away from Elminster's throat.
The sage of Shadowdale was lost in the private world of the spells he was casting. He felt the great powers he was releasing flow from the magical weave around Faerun, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that a section of the temple's floor had vanished as planned. A rift had been opened by his conjurings — a rift that was lined by a swirling mist that flashed with a power he had summoned only once before, and then when he was much younger. In those days, when he was only one hundred and forty, he believed himself to be immortal. Now, as Elminster looked down into the rift, he was frightened just a bit by the forces that he had brought into the Realms to combat the Black Lord.
The old sage was shocked from his conjuring by Midnight's cry. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the fiery eyes of the God of Strife as his talons descended toward him. Elminster spoke a word of power, and Bane was thrown back by an incredible force. The Black Lord struck the wall he had emerged from.
A horrible screech came from the rift in the floor, and Elminster turned to see that his spell of summoning had gone awry when Bane attacked. The thing that had come to him instead of the eye of eternity was unknown to the old sage, and that frightened him very much.
"Midnight!" Elminster cried. "You must try a spell of containment!" There was no time to wait for a reply, as Bane moved forward against the aged sage again. Elminster released a blinding flash of blue-white lightning that ensnared the dark god in a nearly endless series of traps. The Black Lord screamed in rage and used his power to cut away at the eldritch bonds.
Elminster recoiled as a searing bolt of amber flame tore through him. He countered the spell, but he could sense the dark god growing in power, his spells replenished almost as quickly as they were cast. The great sage could afford no such luxury. Every incantation took its toll, until finally the God of Strife began to drive him back into the swirling mist of the rift.
Bane pressed the advantage, calling into play the forces he had reserved to unleash on Helm. Unspeakable energies flowed through the dark god, and he felt incredible pain as his mortal avatar struggled to maintain its form and focus the great powers. Bane would feed the sage to the creature that had been summoned, then he would use the creature to devour the God of Guardians and great Ao himself. Bane would have to remind himself to ask Myrkul to deliver his thanks to the sage in the land of the dead.
Suddenly a blue-white bolt unlike anything Bane had ever felt before cut through him, sending him flying back and away from the sage. He looked up and saw the dark-haired magic-user standing at the other side of the room, her hands moving as she intoned another spell.
Bane laughed. "You may have part of Mystra's power, girl, but you are not a goddess." Then the God of Strife lashed out with a bolt of energy that knocked Midnight across the room. Bane stood up and prepared to kill the mage. Then he heard the horrible rumbling from the rift, and knew that whatever Elminster had summoned had arrived.
When the God of Strife turned and saw the thing from the rift, his avatar's heart nearly stopped beating.
"Mystra," Bane said slowly.
But the being before him shared little with the ethereal goddess he had enslaved and tortured in Castle Kilgrave. This was a creature that had no place in the world of men or gods. Mystra was no longer a creature of flesh and blood or a god of the Planes. She had become a primal essence, a part of the phantasmagoric wonderland of the weave of magic surrounding the world. She could only be called a magic elemental.
Rational thought came only with the greatest of efforts to her now; Mystra was barely conscious and powerless to act. Only the power of Elminster's summoning had been great enough to allow her essence to reform and give her access to the Realms — and a chance to face Lord Bane once again.
Huge threads of primal magic burst from Mystra's eyes and encircled the room. A single, impossible hand clawed from her ectoplasmic flesh, and Mystra reached out toward Bane.
Adon covered Midnight with his body as the bolts of energy raced around the room, scorching the walls and scattering Elminster's books. Then Midnight stirred and looked up at Mystra in horror. "Goddess," was all she could say.
Then Elminster released another spell at Bane, but a steady flow of green eggs shot from the old sage's hand and struck the dark god. Elminster cursed and started another incantation. Bane turned from Mystra and released a single bolt of amber light. Just before the amber light struck Elminster, he created a shield to hold the bolt off, but he was knocked, screaming, into the rift anyway. Then blinding bolts of blue-white energy leaped from the hand of Mystra as it fell on the God of Strife.
Bane fell to his knees as the force of his stolen power was turned on him, and his frail human avatar slowly ripped apart. Flesh and blood and bone collapsed into a steaming mass that was now only remotely human.
"I'll not — die — alone!" Bane hissed, and the bloodied avatar crawled forward, reaching out as he saw the dark-haired magic-user huddled with the cleric. Her hands were on the pendant, as if she were about to use the magic against the Black Lord again. Then the pendant snapped from her neck and flew to Lord Bane. The god laughed as his talons closed over it.
"Your power is mine again, Mystra," the God of Strife said through blistered lips.
Midnight heard the cracking, maniacal voice of Mystra inside her head as the mage got up and walked toward the God of Strife. Strike him the voice said. Use the power I gave you.
A bolt of blue-white power surged from Midnight as she completed her spell. It struck Bane and knocked him closer to Mystra. The Black Lord looked up at Midnight for a moment, confusion in his eyes. "But I have the — "
Then the God of Strife screamed as Mystra covered him. Here, Lord Bane, Mystra said as she engulfed him. Have all the power you want. There was a flash of blue-white fire and Bane's avatar exploded violently. Mystra's amorphous body stiffened for a second as the avatar died, as she absorbed the power from the blast. Then she, too, disappeared in a flash of brilliant white light.
"Goddess!" Midnight cried, but even as she spoke the word, the mage knew this time that Mystra was dead. Then she remembered that Elminster had been knocked into the rift. When she looked up, Adon was at the rift's edge, staring into the mist that was pouring from it, his arms in front of him as if the cleric were reaching out for someone inside the mist.
"Elminster," she said slowly. Then Midnight saw a blur of motion inside the rift. The mist parted for only a moment, and she saw the old sage locked in a desperate battle to seal the rift that he had opened.
Midnight ran to Adon's side. The cleric was holding his hands out in front of him, as he would if he were casting a spell. "Please, Sune," he said softly, and tears started to run down his cheeks.
Elminster didn't seem to see Midnight and Adon as they stood at the edge of the rift. He was too busy moving his hands in complex patterns and chanting long incantations. Then, the old sage screamed, and a dark violet light poured from the rift. Midnight prepared a spell, but as she raised her hands to throw it, there was a flash, and Elminster and the rift were gone. The temple started to shake, and Midnight fell to her knees.
Adon dragged her to her feet and pulled her forward. She felt the warm air and sunlight rush at her face as they passed through the blinding blue-white lightning that filled the corridor. When they got outside, Midnight looked to the sky and gasped as she saw the massive flames that engulfed the Celestial Stairway blazing into the heavens. For an instant, the charred, black fragments of the stairway itself were visible to her, its aspects frozen in a dizzying array of images. In places she saw the myriad hands she had glimpsed once before; they were trembling and clutching at the air. Then the stairway was gone, and she could only see the flames.
Midnight and Adon fell to the ground and behind them an ear-splitting sound erupted as the walls of the temple splintered, and the wings of the turrets crashed to the ground.
All of Shadowdale trembled as the Temple of Lathander exploded.
To the east of the explosion, there was a moment when almost all fighting on the road near Krag Pool stopped; a moment in which the combatants had stared at the sky in stunned silence. The fires seemed to cascade down from the heavens, cutting through the sky to engulf the area near Lathander's temple.
Kelemvor stared at the flames in shock. His first thought was to abandon his post and ride to Midnight's side, but he knew that Elminster had to be alive. He was legendary for his powers, and he could protect Midnight better than a fighter ever could. Besides, Kelemvor knew he couldn't leave his men without a leader. Midnight's fate was in her own hands, just as she had desired.
The respite caused by the explosion lasted no more than a few seconds, then the fighting resumed. Bane's forces were clearly exhausted, and the loss of their key commanders from the battlefield had reduced the ranks of the Zhentilar to an undisciplined rabble fighting for their lives. Bane had not returned, Sememmon was wounded and unconscious, and Knightsbridge was dead. Most importantly, the defenders of Shadowdale showed no sign of buckling before the dwindling, but still superior numbers of Bane's army.
Commander Bishop stood beside Kelemvor. "They come from all directions," Bishop said, barely able to catch his breath. "By the gods, this is a young man's game!"
"It's a sad and gruesome game, then," Kelemvor said as he guarded Bishop's back and they slowly moved forward through the pockets of carnage. Bodies were everywhere. The dead numbered in the thousands, and the fighting had become more desperate than ever. Kelemvor heard one of the Zhentilar call out for Lord Bane. Others responded that he had fled.
"Did you hear that?" Kelemvor said, but Bishop was already busy with a swordswoman who matched his every blow and showed no sign of the exhaustion that had overtaken the dalesman.
Before Kelemvor could turn and help Bishop, another Zhentish horseman rode at him, slicing down with his sword. Kelemvor dragged the soldier off his horse and ran him through. Pulling himself onto the ebon mount, Kelemvor held out his hand to Bishop, who had just killed the swordswoman. The commander reached up, then cried out as an arrow pierced his leg. He faltered and Kelemvor grabbed his hand and dragged him to the mount.
Another arrow sailed past them, and Kelemvor kicked the horse into motion. They found a small contingent of dalesmen fighting for their lives against the Zhentilar, and Kelemvor forced the horse to charge into the skirmish.
Kelemvor and Bishop waded into the sea of dark armor, their blades cutting a wide arc in the forces of the Zhentilar. But their efforts weren't enough to even the odds. They were dragged down from opposite sides of the horse, and forced to fight on foot. Then, there was a mad chant from the west, and another troop of ebon-armored riders burst into the battle. But they were not Zhentilar; they wore the symbol of the white horse upon their helmets.
The Riders of Mistledale.
Kelemvor let out a wild scream and gutted the Zhentilar he was fighting. The Riders were the best cavalry in the Dales. Though they only numbered twenty men, they were each a match for five Zhentish soldiers.
Another dalesman let out a cheer and pointed to the west again. "Look there!"
Kelemvor saw another group of fighters, who could only be the Knights of Myth Drannor, charging down the road. They were leading the majority of Shadowdale's defenders from the town, Lord Mourngrym in their lead.
Before another hour was up, Bane's army started to retreat. The presence of the Riders of Mistledale and the Knights of Myth Drannor had broken the resolve of most of the Zhentilar. Nearly all of the soldiers from Bane's army that managed to break through the gray stone barricade had been killed by the defenders in town. The dalesmen at the bridge had driven off Fzoul and his troops. The Zhentish riders who had attacked from the north had been killed or forced to retreat. Now, the Zhentish forces in the east were running, too.
At the barricades leading to Shadowdale, Kelemvor and Bishop met up with Mourngrym and two of the Knights.
"They are retreating!" Mourngrym cried out. "We've won!"
Kelemvor could not believe the words so easily. Many of the Zhentilar would stay and fight until their last breath had been taken from them. The skirmishes had led into the forest, and small fires burned there already, threatening to grow out of control. If nothing else, Shadowdale had lost far too many men to deal with even a small forest fire well.
Kelemvor looked around the battlefield, but didn't see any of his friends. "Lord Mourngrym, where are Cyric and Hawksguard?"
Mourngrym's triumphant expression vanished. "They are at the crossroads," the dalelord said softly. "Cyric is fine, save for a few scratches. Hawksguard…"
Kelemvor looked into the eyes of the lord of Shadowdale.
"It was Bane," Mourngrym said at last. "He had me within his grasp and Hawksguard saved me."
Kelemvor turned and spurred the horse into a gallop as he rode to the crossroads. The fighter passed Cyric and a handful of his men as they rode into the woods to chase down retreating Zhentish soldiers, but he didn't even hear Cyric's cries of greeting.
When Kelemvor finally reached the center of Shadowdale, he found the dead being carted away and the injured being tended where they fell. He saw Hawksguard almost immediately, laid out with the other officers.
Kelemvor made his way to the side of the older warrior. Hawksguard was not dead, but there could be no doubt that he would not survive the day. Bane's taloned hands had cut deeply into his chest, and it was a miracle that he was not dead already. Kelemvor took Hawksguard's hand and looked into his eyes.
"They'll pay for this," Kelemvor growled. "I will hunt them down and slay them all!"
Hawksguard grasped Kelemvor's arm, smiled weakly, and shook his head. "Don't be melodramatic," he said. "This life… is too short…"
"This isn't fair," Kelemvor said.
Hawksguard coughed, and a deep spasm shook his body. "Closer," Hawksguard said. "Something you must know."
His voice had become a whisper.
"Important," Hawksguard said.
Kelemvor leaned close.
And Hawksguard told him a joke.
Kelemvor felt his lower lip tremble, but finally, he laughed. Hawksguard had driven out the thoughts of death and blood that Kelemvor felt welling up inside of him by reminding him of something he had almost lost:
Hope.
The Battle of Shadowdale was over. Bane's forces had retreated into the forest, although many found only a fiery death instead of the escape they hoped for. The blaze was spreading, but there was little the tired dalesmen could do to contain the fire.
Sharantyr, a ranger with the Knights of Myth Drannor, rode to the Temple of Lathander, along with the Harper bard Storm Silverhand, to investigate the explosion and fire there, and to check on Elminster and the two strangers to Shadowdale he had with him.
As they approached, Sharantyr and Storm saw Midnight and Adon stumble from the wreckage of the temple. Then a fireball erupted from within the ruins and shot into the air.
Sharantyr had to leap from her mount and drag Storm to the ground to prevent her from riding into the inferno.
"Elminster," Storm cried, her gaze fixed on the destruction. A bubble of blue-white energy enshrouded the cleric and the mage who had escaped, and the Knights watched as a wall of debris was vaporized when it hit the shield. Finally, when the earth settled and all that remained of the Temple of Lathander was a shattered ruin, the Knights ran to the strangers, who lay untouched by the destruction.
After seeing if the cleric and mage were alive, Storm ran past into the temple. Within the flaming ruins, navigating past the debris-filled antechamber, Storm forced a fallen support beam out of her way and entered what was left of the main room of worship. The silver-haired bard felt her heart beat faster as she searched through the wreckage for some sign that Elminster had survived. At the far side of the room, she found fragments of his ancient spell books and even tattered pieces of his robe.
Blood and bits of bone were splattered on the walls that still stood in the temple.
Storm screamed from the depths of her heart. Her rage consumed her and she ran from the flaming temple to face the strangers.
When the silver-haired bard got outside, she saw that Sharantyr was talking to the cleric and mage who had fled from the temple. The ranger was about to question the dark-haired woman when Storm appeared before them, sword in hand.
"Elminster," she said, her voice low and tinged with hatred. "Elminster is dead. Murdered."
Storm lunged forward, and Sharantyr had to hold her back and disarm her before she could let Storm go again. Then, a great shadow passed over the temple, and the air grew thin and cold. In seconds, the perfect blue of the sky became a steel-gray, and storm clouds converged at the head of the blazing Celestial Stairway. A huge eye appeared at the apex of the clouds, and a single tear left the eye as it blinked and vanished. The tear became a flood of unnatural rain that burst from the heavens, drenching the entire dale. Bluish white wisps of smoke rose from the stairway as the flames that had destroyed it were extinguished, and far from the temple, in the forest near Krag Pool, the fires died away beneath the torrents of rain.
Storm Silverhand had seemed to calm as the wall of rain fell, but then she saw the face of the young, scarred cleric.
"He was — he was at the Temple of Tymora," the bard whispered, breathlessly. "He was there right after the murders!"
Sharantyr moved forward, and this time she had her sword drawn. "I am Sharantyr of the Knights of Myth Drannor," she said. "It is my solemn duty to place you both under arrest for the murder of Elminster the Sage…" About The Author
The Avatar project, which consists of both game and book releases, is the combined effort of a number of TSR staff members and talented freelance authors. Richard Awlinson is the pseudonym of Shadowdale's author, Scott Ciencin.