Bane had not been idle in the two weeks since the time of Arrival, as his worshipers now called the night he was thrown from the heavens. Almost constant activity was needed to avert his attention from his distressingly mortal state, and on the few occasions when he allowed himself to turn his attentions inward and examine the frail mortal shell that necessity had forced him to assume, the Black Lord became lost in the endless intricacies of the machine that gave him movement and voice.
Such gifts and miracles he found within the submicroscopic areas surrounding the cortex! And when he immersed his consciousness in but a single cell of the body's endless stream of blood and allowed the path of his explorations to be decided by the body itself, Bane felt a rapture that rivaled godhood itself.
It was then he understood the trap and forced himself to pull away. He placed barricades within the brain of the body he was forced to inhabit, and fortified his perceptions in an effort to train them outward, ever outward, and never again succumb to the dangers locked within his mortal frame. Bane was a god; miracles had always been boring and commonplace to him before. But now the miracles of the Planes were locked away from him, and he would have to concentrate on the task before him, so that he might one day soon reclaim the heavens and satisfy his ever-gnawing hunger for miracles and wonder in a manner that befitted a god.
During Bane's first days in Zhentil Keep, the human rulers of the city fell on their knees in his presence and placed all their assets at Bane's disposal. Bane was grateful the coup had been bloodless; he would need as much human fodder to grease the wheels of his machinations as he could get his talon-shaped grip on.
Construction of the Black Lord's new temple had begun, and soon the rubble was cleared away and makeshift walls rose to hide the intricate planning sessions Bane called. Although Lord Chess, sensing his own position as nominal ruler of Zhentil Keep at risk, offered to place himself and his staff at Bane's disposal, Bane chose to remain near his black throne. Besides, he didn't care to experience the boredom of the day to day operations of the city, so long as its occupants were loyal and ready to become sacrifices at a moment's notice.
On his third night in the Realms, Bane began to dream, and in his dreams he saw Mystra, smiling in the face of terror, laughing at Ao as the gods were delivered to their fate. Bane, the giver of nightmares, had finally fallen prey to one himself. He cursed his flesh for sharing this new weakness with him. Still, the nightmare served a purpose, and Bane once again pondered the meaning of Mystra's enigmatic farewell to the Planes.
So Bane decided he should seek out Mystra and discover why she viewed Ao's wrath so calmly.
Five days after the time of Arrival, Tempus Blackthorne, a mage of great power and importance, arrived with the news of Mystra's location in the Realms. Bane set a seal upon the doors leading to his private chamber and teleported Blackthorne and himself to Castle Kilgrave. They found Mystra outside the castle, weakened and helpless from some trauma or attack. Perhaps she had attempted a spell that had gone awry, Bane thought, and laughed at the irony.
As the Black Lord stood over her, Mystra suddenly became aware of his presence and released a single shred of her power — a modified geas spell meant for her intended avatar. The spell took the form of a bluish white falcon, soared into the night sky, and escaped. Bane ordered Blackthorne to follow the magical creature. The emissary transformed into a great black raven that took flight after the falcon, only to lose sight of it in Arabel.
When he imprisoned the goddess in the dungeon of Castle Kilgrave with mystic chains born of enchanted fires, Bane felt a wave of power rush across the room. The barren rock dungeon shook as Mystra came to her senses and tested the strength of her bonds.
And then Bane summoned a horror to keep Mystra weak and tractable.
Come, monster, I call you into this plane, as my minions have so many times before.
Bane heard a growl, deep in the back of his mind as the creature replied, I come.
It first appeared as a swirling red mist, spiraling like a cyclone as it rose up and sprouted hundreds of quivering, misshapen hands that cleaved the air before the goddess hungrily. An equal number of pale yellow eyes suddenly opened, and they floated all around the swirling mist, passing like ghosts through their fellows as they darted back and forth, each eye anxious to study its prey from every angle. Finally, a score of wounds tore through the mists, revealing gaping mouths that reached back into an endless succession of dark dimensions. The mouths opened and closed rapidly as a cry that could only be considered one of hunger was loosed from them.
Mystra recognized the creature: it was a hakeashar, a being from another plane with a voracious appetite for magic. Bane had no doubt made a pact with the monster. In return for aid in crossing into the Prime Material Plane, the monster would give the Black Lord something he valued — power. For the hakeashar had the ability to release some of the magic it consumed, and Bane would want that raw energy to power his plans.
Mystra considered her options. If Bane had been foolish enough to enter into a pact with the creature, known for its treacherous nature, there might be a way she could use it to her advantage.
"We have much to discuss," Bane said, the hakeashar hovering behind him.
"Why have you imprisoned me?" Mystra said.
"I will be happy to release you from these shackles once you have heard me out… And you agree to help me complete my plan."
"Go on."
"I wish to form an alliance of the gods," Bane said. "Swear your allegiance to me and my cause, Goddess, and I will set you free."
Despite the presence of the hakeashar, Mystra could not hold back her laughter. "You're mad," she said.
"No," Bane said. "Merely practical." He turned to the creature. "She's yours," Bane said calmly. "But remember our agreement."
Of course.
A hundred eyes turned from Bane and this time Mystra could not hold back her screams.
When it was over, the grotesque creature giggled and fed his own glowing eyes into its gaping maws, ready to sleep now that it had feasted. Mystra was surprised to find herself alive. The pain, even in her nebulous form, had been horrifying.
Bane screamed curses at the creature until it opened a few eyes and let loose a burst of bluish white fire that enshrouded the villain. After a moment, Bane literally pulsed with stolen power.
"Enough!" Bane cried, and the blue-white fires ceased.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Mystra said as she struggled sluggishly with her bonds. "You stole the Tablets of Fate. I suspected you from the beginning."
"I took them," Bane said, and the creature he had brought to this plane slumped in place, swallowed the last of its eyes and fell into a deep, silent slumber. "Along with Lord Myrkul."
"Ao will make you pay for this," she said, and Bane felt a trace of the magic that had been siphoned from her curl within him, waiting to be unleashed.
"Ao will have no power over me," the Black Lord said, his laughter filling the chamber.
Since that night, Bane had let the hakeashar take Mystra's power, which seemed to replenish itself like the blood cells of a human, more than a dozen times. Each time, Bane received a fraction of that energy, according to the terms of his bargain with the creature.
Each time he was given more power, Bane prowled the corridors of New Acheron, the former Castle Kilgrave, longing for his true temple, and wishing for someone to share his triumphs with. Blackthorne was away almost constantly, either supervising matters in Zhentil Keep or searching for some sign of the magic Mystra had loosed before her capture. The handful of humans Blackthorne had conscripted to look after Bane's human needs were pitiful examples of the species, and Bane had no interest in any of them.
Today, Lord Bane stood in the massive dungeon beneath Castle Kilgrave, staring at the still water of the scrying pool he had constructed, speaking to Lord Myrkul. Much of the room — much of the castle, in fact — had been modified to suit Bane's needs, and Castle Kilgrave had undergone many changes since the god took it over as a base. The Black Lord had attempted to magically sculpt certain chambers and hallways into replicas of his Temple of Suffering in Acheron, although his efforts had met with failure much of the time. The instability of magic made it impossible, even for a god, to throw every spell accurately, and when using magic, Bane felt like an artist attempting to paint without benefit of hands. The shape of the castle was almost amusing to Bane except for its existence as a monument to his loss, and in that regard it gave no pleasure to the displaced god.
"What do you hope to achieve by draining Mystra's power?" Myrkul said impatiently. "Your mortal form can contain only so much power at a time, and the vessel must always be refilled."
"You miss the point," Bane said. "You and I formed an alliance when we stole the tablets together."
"A temporary alliance," Myrkul said. "Which has hardly proven successful. Look at what we have become. Less than gods, more than men. What place have we in the Realms, Lord Bane?"
Bane looked at the emaciated, almost skeletal face of Myrkul's avatar, then thought of his own hideous form and shuddered.
"We have our birthright," Bane said. "We are gods, no matter what trials Ao puts us through." Bane shook his head, then stopped himself as he realized it was a purely human gesture. "Myrkul, think back to why we took the Tablets of Fate."
Myrkul scratched his bony face, and Bane nearly laughed. The sight of the feared God of the Dead plagued by something so ordinary as a human itch was so pathetic it was almost funny. The God of Strife sighed at the idea and went on.
"We stole the tablets because we believed Ao drew strength from them, and without the tablets, Ao would be less inclined to interfere with our dealings."
"So we believed," Myrkul said ruefully. "We were fools to do so."
"We were right!" Bane shouted. "Think for a moment! Why has Ao not taken the tablets back?"
Myrkul set his bony hands at his side. "I have wondered that myself."
"I think it is because Ao cannot!" Bane said. "Perhaps he no longer has the strength. That may be why our liege exiled us from the Planes! Our plan succeeded, and Ao feared that the gods would unite, and rise up in revolt. That is why Ao has scattered us across the Realms and made us suspicious, afraid, and vulnerable to attack."
"I see," Myrkul said. "But this is only your theory."
"Supported by the facts," Bane said. "I have already captured our first pawn in this game, if you would call her that."
"Mystra?"
"With her power, all the magic in the Realms will be ours to control!" Bane laughed. He was lying, of course. If the goddess had such power, he never would have captured her so easily.
"Those gods who do not wish to go along with your plans will be enslaved or destroyed, I assume," Myrkul said suspiciously. "And you will use Mystra's power to accomplish this."
"Of course," Bane said. "But we are already allies. Why speak of such things?"
"Indeed," Myrkul said.
"Further, I believe there is power to free us from this state," Bane said. "Power Mystra has secreted somewhere in the Realms."
Myrkul nodded. "How do you plan to proceed?"
"We will discuss that later," Bane said. "For now I must deal with other, equally pressing matters."
Myrkul lowered his head, and his image faded from the scrying pool. In truth, Bane had contacted Myrkul prematurely; he had not yet decided what the next move should be.
Bane turned sharply as a black raven flew into the dungeon at a mind-boggling speed, and then became his servant, Blackthorne.
"Lord Bane, I have much to report. I believe I have located the human in Arabel that holds a gift from Mystra. She wears it as a blue-white star-shaped pendant."
Bane smiled. The pendant Blackthorne described was identical to the symbol Mystra had worn in the Planes.
"Better still," Blackthorne said, "the magic-user who wears the pendant is coming here."
The party left Arabel separately. Adon departed the city first, alone. Half an hour later, Midnight and Caitlan followed, leading two packhorses. Finally, at highsun, Kelemvor and Cyric, dressed as elderly beggar women, made it through the gate without incident. Then they rendezvoused a half hour's ride away, as Kelemvor had planned. The fighter insisted on burying the costumes he and Cyric had worn. Actually he wanted to burn them, but he worried that the smoke would be visible from the watchtowers in Arabel.
Now, the better part of an hour had passed since the oppressive walls of Arabel dwindled away into nothing but a faint speck marking the horizon at the heroes' backs, then vanished altogether. There was nothing in sight but the well-traveled road before them and the flat earth that stretched endlessly across the land to the east and west. The mountains of Gnoll Pass were visible in the distance to the north.
Kelemvor rode up beside Cyric and slapped him on the back. Cyric was thrown forward in his saddle by the blow and he looked at the other man warily.
"Ah, this is the life, is it not, Cyric?"
Simple pleasures for simple minds, Cyric thought, but merely responded with a grin and a healthy "Aye!" Soon Kelemvor moved on, and Cyric stopped to check the tethers that secured the packhorses attached to his mount and found everything to be in order.
After a time, Cyric set the wanderings of his fanciful imagination on another, more pleasant course, and studied the silky smooth legs of Midnight as they clung to the sides of her horse just ahead. Every now and again he caught a glimpse of her beautiful features as they contorted into a pained grimace. Adon, riding beside the magic-user, was deluging her with a constant and embarrassing stream of compliments.
Cyric wondered if the cleric was trying to seduce Midnight with his words. It didn't seem likely. It seemed, instead, that Adon preferred the din of constant conversation, even if he were the only willing participant, to the silence of the land they passed through. Perhaps Adon doesn't want to be alone with his own tedious thoughts, Cyric noted.
Ahead, Midnight had come to this same conclusion what seemed to be an eternity before. She sensed that Adon was troubled, but she found it difficult to be sympathetic as the man refused to divulge the nature of his problems. Worse still, this was the time she should have been using to conserve her energies and lose herself in meditation, but her unwanted traveling companion would not allow her a moment's peace.
Her patience reaching its end, Midnight attempted to express her desire to be left alone. Subtlety had not worked, so she tried to address the issue directly.
"Go away, Adon! Let me ride in peace!"
But even being direct did not earn Midnight a rest from Adon's endless list of compliments.
"A veritable goddess!" Adon cried.
"If you believe you can continue to sing my praises without benefit of both lungs — pray do go on."
"And modest as well!"
Midnight looked to the sky. "Mystra deliver me!"
"Ah, to bask in the warmth of one even the strongest of flames would pale beside…"
Finally she looked back and said to Kelemvor, "May I kill this man?"
Kelemvor shook his head, enjoying the entertainment. Caitlan rode up beside him. She seemed to find nothing amusing about the apparent dissension in the ranks; if anything, the display made her nervous.
"Nothing to worry about," Kelemvor said to the girl. "Trust me."
Caitlan nodded slowly, unable to shift her gaze away from the dark-haired magic-user and the cleric.
"Ah, with a fiery temper, matching her flaming heart!" Adon said.
"Portions of your anatomy will be flaming if you do not cease this instant!" Midnight cried.
And so it went, until the air grew thin, and storm clouds gathered overhead. Suddenly, the sky split with a mighty roar, and a summer shower poured warm rain upon the heroes.
Adon continued to drone on, occasionally pausing to spit out rain water, but the sounds of the storm served to muffle his voice until his words were nothing but a dull hum buried beneath the patter of the rain.
Midnight threw back her head. The gentle caress of the rain served to relax the magic-user's nerves, and as the storm grew worse, Midnight closed her eyes and gave herself over to the soothing sensations caused by the steady rainfall. She smiled, imagining strong, firm hands massaging her temples, neck, and shoulders. She pictured Kelemvor's arms; they seemed strong enough to wrestle a tree from its roots, and yet they were furnished with hands gentle enough to wipe away the tears of a child. Midnight's mount reared up and the magic-user shook herself from her daydream.
"I sent Adon back to convert Cyric to the ways of Sune," Kelemvor said with a grin, despite his notable annoyance at the constant flow of the rain. His long black hair was matted to his skull, and the gray streaks made him look as if he wore the fur of a skunk who had died of fright. Midnight felt it her duty to tell him so, and he hung his head, muttering some private oath, attempting to ignore the rain as he continued to speak.
"We have not discussed…" He paused and spat out a mouthful of water. "Division of duties."
Midnight nodded.
"You, being the woman, will be in charge of preparing the food and all other domestic chores."
Midnight's mount shuddered as his mistress ground her powerful legs against his flanks and dug her hands firmly into his neck.
"Being the woman?" Midnight said, biting back the spell she had studied that morning that would turn the pompous ass beside her into a species more suitable for his attitudes. Then she remembered the last time she had prepared a meal for an entire party. The lone cleric who had not partaken had to use all his healing spells on her unintentional victims.
"Caitlan can help you. We will divide the man's work amongst ourselves."
Midnight flinched, trained her eyes forward, and spat out a simple, "Aye."
"Well met!" Kelemvor said, and slapped Midnight's horse. The mount turned his head slightly, and ignored the blow that was supposed to cause him to go galloping off at a mad pace. Midnight's grip on the animal loosened and became a pleasant caress.
Kelemvor turned back to speak with the others, and Midnight strained hard to remember exactly why it had been so important to her to ride with these men.
Unconsciously, her fingers had found the surface of her pendant, and she was still stroking the blue-white star when she noticed the effects the rain were having on the flatlands surrounding them.
Patches of ground grew damp, while others hardened as if to solid rock. Elsewhere, small fissures opened in the surface of the earth. In other places, whole areas of green grass rose up at an incredible pace, nurtured by the strange rain.
Suddenly, the soaked earth became black and charred, and trees long dead began to sprout and grow, their blackened limbs reaching out to the sky as if imploring the maker of this madness to stop at once. Small armies of worms hung from the quivering branches, growing to obscenely bloated sizes before exploding and turning into blood-red apples. Small black bugs crawled about the fruit, then revealed themselves to be tiny black eyes, which blinked wildly at the falling rain.
Beautiful saplings sprouted and grew upside-down out of the earth, their most fragile upper branches impossibly assuming the weight of the main trunk as it grew straight up. The trees were filled with gorgeous green leaves and transparent pink and golden fruit. At their crowns, the trees began to sprout a network of amber roots that reached high into the air and intertwined with the new roots/branches from its nearest neighbor. Finally, even the branches of the decaying trees reached up into the air and joined the network, their ebony strands mixing with the amber roots.
Where only moments ago there had been nothing but barren earth now stood a lush forest filled with miracles and mysteries. Above the road, the network of roots had formed a canopy of crisscrossed roots and charred tree limbs that grew tighter and more complex until the sky, which was now red, was visible only in patches and rain fell only lightly on the heroes.
Travel through the new forest, even on the road, was slow going. And soon the road itself became blocked by trees, and the heroes had to follow it on foot as best they could through the tangle of tree limbs on the ground.
"I get the feeling we're completely lost," Cyric mumbled as he pushed through a tangle of vines into a clearing.
"Impossible," Kelemvor said gruffly. "There is but one road, and it leads only to Castle Kilgrave and what lays beyond."
"But we may have gone off the road some time ago, Kel. Who can tell?" Midnight said, stopping to help her horse over a branch and lead it into the open area.
"We may have been traveling in circles for hours," Adon whined.
The forest, silent until now, suddenly shrieked to life. Insects buzzed, speaking their secret language. The rustle of wings merged with the thumps of newly formed legs that burst from ichor-laden cocoons and took their first short, plodding steps.
But the heroes could see nothing in the gathering darkness of the forest. And through the small gaps in the canopy, Midnight and saw the blood-red sky turn black. The rain had stopped, at least momentarily.
The bonds that secured the packhorses strained as the frightened animals struggled for freedom, pulling away from Cyric and his panic-stricken mount. Then the tethers snapped, and the animals stumbled wildly away from the party and back into the forest. Cyric cursed and moved to follow the nearest horse.
"Leave them!" Kelemvor warned. The noises grew loud again, and Cyric joined the others in the clearing. As the heroes watched, the forest grew dark, and the sounds of movement in the trees got closer.
Suddenly, the shrieks of the packhorses echoed in the forest. Kelemvor drew his sword as he moved to Midnight's side. "An old ambush trick," he said. Around them the noise rose until it became a constant din. "Passed down from generations of warriors…"
Cyric found his cloak of displacement in one of the canvas sacks on his horse and swiftly threw it across his shoulders. His image seemed to shimmer, and a score of phantom Cyrics appeared around him — some ahead, some behind, others making slightly varied gestures, until it became impossible to tell which was the true Cyric. Each of them seemed surprised by the cloak's effects, surprised and delighted.
Kelemvor was shocked by the effects of the cloak, too. "Cyric! What's going on?"
"I don't know! The cloak has never done this before!" In the trees, specks of light, flashes of silver and amber, were now visible nearby and deep in the forest, as well. As the lights grew larger and the sounds even louder, Midnight guessed at their true nature.
Glaring eyes.
Chattering teeth.
The roots and vines above the heroes shuddered. The earth beneath them appeared to bleed, and Adon saw large colonies of fire ants rising from the wounds. He shouted as he accidentally stepped on a freshly excavated mound and a swarm of ants ran up his legs. He slapped at the insects and their already swollen bodies burst beneath his blows.
A tree split open near Cyric and expelled the slime-drenched, stumbling body of a white-faced, ghoulish creature, naked and covered with black veins that pulsed and rerouted themselves across its body at random. The thing's limbs bent backward and forward, and the sickening sound of bones shattering and bursting from flesh filled the air as a dozen of the abominations were jettisoned from the large blackened trees.
"Let the horses loose!" Kelemvor screamed, and the heroes let go of the animals' reins. Being well-trained and used to danger, though, the mounts didn't stray far across the clearing.
The creature before Cyric laughed as its amber eyes sunk back into its skull and emerged on its tongue. Then it swallowed them again, and they burst this time from the pale flesh of its chest. The creature moved forward, ripping its own arm from its socket to use as a weapon, and charged at Cyric, the claw-like fingers of the disembodied arm opening and closing with a fervor.
Cyric only had time to note that the creature did not bleed from its empty shoulder before it struck at one of his shadow selves. The thief spun and used his hand axe to hack at the creature.
Kelemvor stood beside Midnight, Caitlan, and Adon, watching as the white-skinned creature attacked Cyric. Then he heard a low growl and turned to see a pair of yellow dogs, each bearing three heads and eight spidery legs, creeping up on them from behind. The dogs separated and maneuvered to attack.
"Adon! Midnight! Back-to-back formation with me. We have to protect Caitlan!" The cleric and the magic-user responded instantly, helping Kelemvor form a triangle with Caitlan in the center. "Caitlan, crouch down, hands around your knees, face tucked in. Try not to look up unless you have to. Be ready to run if we fall."
Caitlan did as she was told, without question. From her vantage, close to the ground, looking out past Kelemvor's boots, she spotted more of the dogs in the forest — some waiting outside the small clearing; others attacking the white-skinned creatures. One of the spider hounds, racing close to the ground, seemed to be coming directly for Caitlan. She squeezed her eyes shut and tucked her head down, then offered a prayer to her mistress for their deliverance.
Midnight prepared to unleash a spell in their defense, and also prayed that it would not go awry. Magic missiles might not have the power to stop the beast, and Midnight didn't dare throw anything as powerful as a fireball, for fear of it backfiring and killing her friends. So she attempted to conjure a decastave — a pole of force — using a fallen branch for the spell.
The magic-user completed the spell just as the first of the dogs leaped at her.
Nothing happened.
For an instant Midnight smelled the fetid breath of the middle head of the creature, and three sets of jaws opened wide to rend her flesh. Then Adon flung himself at the dog, knocking it away before Midnight could be harmed. Adon and the spider hound struck the ground separately, the hound falling in a muddy pit, its legs bicycling in the air as it attempted to right itself.
Adon looked up and shouted. "Midnight, Caitlan, move!"
The second dog had leaped at Kelemvor. He bent low and gutted the screaming animal as it passed above him. Midnight grabbed Caitlan and scrambled out of the way as the fighter was dragged down by the weight of the dog and fell in the spot where Caitlan had crouched only seconds before.
Kelemvor rose, pulling his sword from the body of the hound. He noticed that the other spider hound seemed to be drowning in the pool of mud. The fighter went to the beast and ran it through, ending its misery and its threat. The creature whimpered once before it died and sank into the mud.
More of the spider hounds prowled the edge of the clearing, avoiding the quick death their pack leaders had found on Kelemvor's sword, and busied themselves by attacking most of the white-skinned creatures that had emerged from the dead trees.
"Quick, Adon. Help Cyric!" Kelemvor yelled as another of the humanoid creatures moved in to attack the thief.
Midnight hissed, "If you have you some dark trick to unleash, Kel, now might be the time!"
"Never ask for what you are not prepared to receive," the fighter growled, then shook his head and braced himself as a trio of the white-skinned creatures that had avoided the dogs approached. Caitlan stood between Kelemvor and Midnight. The best they could hope for, Kelemvor knew, was to keep the creatures away from the girl for as long as possible.
A few yards away, Adon waded into the sea of quivering body parts that lay in a heap surrounding Cyric as he fought with yet another of the white-faced abominations. This one noticed Adon, ripped off its own head, and sent it flying at the young cleric. The head flew by, baring huge fangs, as Adon sidestepped and swung his hammer at a disembodied, claw-like hand poised to rip out Cyric's throat.
The hand exploded as the hammer struck, and Adon turned suddenly, the sound of mad panting and the heat of something dark and evil at his ear. The disembodied head floated in midair beside the cleric, its broad smile full of sharp teeth.
"They're not human," Cyric shouted. "Not even alive, not the way we think of it. They're plants of some sort, shaped like humans!"
The head that floated beside Adon made an odd sound, like a giggle.
Adon backed up slightly, never taking his gaze from the head, and raised his hammer. The head rushed toward the cleric, but he struck it soundly in the jaw before it had a chance to bite him. Moaning loudly, the head spun madly to the ground.
Moments later, after he dispatched the head, Adon saw that all three of the humanoids who had dared to attack Kelemvor now lay in quivering, bloodless pieces on the ground. But, another pack of the creatures was approaching Kelemvor and Midnight, and behind them, a dozen of the creatures were emerging from the forest, their razor-sharp claws twitching as they sliced at the air.
Midnight ordered her fellows to stand behind her as she attempted to find that perfect center of peace that was required for spellcasting. She began to sway, and her chanting rose above the gibbering of the approaching creatures. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and volleys of blue-white missiles leaped from her hands, striking at all of the humanoid creatures in sight. The tide of magic seemed endless, and even Midnight seemed startled by the effects of her spell. The darts of magical light pierced the creatures like daggers, and suddenly the monsters stopped their attack.
Then the ghoulish creatures began to wander. They looked to the sky, then to themselves, and then they fell, one by one, their flesh losing its consistency as the illusion of humanity fell away and their true nature was revealed. Roots erupted from their bodies, entering the earth, and moments later, all that was left of the creatures was a network of black and white vines.
Midnight looked down at the pendant, and watched as a few tiny streaks of lightning played across its surface, then vanished. She felt drained.
The easy prey destroyed, the spider hounds began to emerge from the forest and advance toward the heroes. There were more of the creatures than Kelemvor had realized: at least twenty of the beasts had moved into the clearing.
Suddenly, something fantastic caught Midnight's eye: a blur of movement, the size and shape of a horse and rider. Then, the quicksilver rider was upon them, circling the party with blinding speed. Midnight felt as if she were in the eye of a whirlwind. A sudden yellow flash caught her eye, and she realized the rider was Adon. But how was he able to accomplish this feat?
Midnight turned away from her speculations as she watched Adon break from the protective pattern he had formed around the adventurers and speed off toward the spider hounds. He rode through the hounds, his war hammer cutting through the unprepared horde of creatures like a sickle through wheat, and in seconds the spider hounds retreated into the woods.
Yet even though the threat was ended, Adon and his mount continued to move in a blur until they vanished into the forest. It was obvious Adon had lost control of whatever magic he was wielding.
"By Mystra, you'll be the death of me yet," Midnight said as ran off on an impossible quest to catch the cleric.
An icy cold rain started to fall and was seeping through the canopy of trees. Midnight felt a biting sensation as the tiny droplets struck her skin and the winds struggled to force her back.
Adon, heart pounding, mind racing as he held on for dear life, realized that his lungs weren't drawing air and his tenuous grip on the horse beneath him was giving way. He had given the beast a dose of his potion of speed, the single item he had withheld during Kelemvor's careful inventory of everyone's belongings. Adon knew that it was wrong to lie about such things, but he also knew that the potion had been a boon from the goddess Sune, and it would be her wisdom alone that guided his hand in its use.
However, when the spider hounds grouped to attack, and Adon received no sign from the goddess, he panicked and took matters into his own hands. He fed the potion to the horse but it was already moving before he could use more than a few drops on himself. The small vial then flew out of his hands as he held on for dear life.
Now, as the horse's speed stole the breath from his lungs and he neared unconsciousness, Adon saw a vision — a beautiful woman's face, carved from the fleeting specks of light and color that surrounded him in the vortex of speed. The woman's hands reached out and touched the sides of his face, gently pushing him this way and that, as if to fully explore the wonders Sune had bestowed upon him.
"He's not hurt too badly," Midnight said.
Adon blinked, and the illusion of motion began to fade. "I thought you were Sune," he said.
"He seems addled," Kelemvor said.
"Aye," Cyric said. "But is that anything new?"
The world abruptly came into focus, and Adon found himself staring up into the faces of his companions. They appeared to be in a forest, although Adon was certain there was nothing but flatlands along the way to the castle. Tiny flickers of scarlet radiance showed through the branches of the trees above them, although some of them appeared quite strange.
"Midnight, you — you saved me!" Adon said in amazement, a smile crossing his face.
"You fell off your horse," Midnight said. Adon's saddle and supplies were strewn about on the road beside him. Midnight realized the cleric must have been holding on to the saddle, and it was the bonds that held it in place that shattered under the strain of the horse's speed.
Horror surged through the cleric. "My face! It's not — "
"Undamaged," Cyric said wearily. "Same as always. Now give me an explanation for what we witnessed."
"I don't understand…," Adon said, attempting to appear as innocent as possible.
"You rode like the wind, Adon. You seemed more a blur of motion than a rider and mount," Kelemvor said. "I thought your magics had failed you."
"I wouldn't phrase it quite that way," Adon said.
"I don't care how you would phrase it. What are you holding back from us?"
Midnight moved forward, and helped the cleric to his feet. "Don't be a fool, Kelemvor," she said. "It's obvious he can't explain what happened, any more than any of us can explain the madness the Realms have been infected with since the gods fell."
Kelemvor shook his head. "Shall we go?"
Adon nodded gratefully, and everyone except Midnight returned to their mounts.
"That was a mistake, Adon." Midnight spoke in hushed tones. The cleric was about to speak when Midnight cut him off. "It took me a few moments to understand. You have potions, don't you?"
Adon lowered his head. "I had one. It's gone now."
Midnight frowned. "Any other surprises?"
Adon became alarmed. "No, Midnight! I swear to Sune herself!"
"Using magic might send you to Sune faster than you'd want, Adon. In fact, you could have killed all of us."
Midnight nodded.
"Please don't tell Kelemvor what I did. He'd skin me alive!" Adon whispered.
Midnight smiled. "We can't have that," she said, and walked away from the cleric.
"Certainly not," Adon said with a bravado he did not feel. He bent down and began to gather his belongings.
"Come," Caitlan said to the cleric. "We must be off to the castle right away!"
"But we're still lost," Adon cried.
Then, as if in answer to the cleric's words, the trees began to shrivel and melt. Within seconds, the road was again clear and the rain had stopped.
"Sune be praised!" the cleric said, and rushed to join the others.
Because his horse was gone, Adon was forced to ride with Kelemvor. His initial preference had been to ride with Midnight, so they might continue their conversation from earlier that afternoon, but Midnight narrowed her eyes to slits and Adon abandoned the notion. Caitlan rode with the magic-user instead. Because both packhorses had been killed, the party was forced to carry their remaining supplies on the backs of the remaining mounts.
Midnight led her horse, which carried Caitlan, on foot until they were a mile clear of the ruination. The once living forest had already lapsed into an advanced state of decay. Midnight guessed that by morning the forest would be nothing more than the dust and dry earth it had been before their approach.
The heroes made camp beneath the stars, and ate the food that had not been infested by ants or lost to the arcane legions that had attacked them, then rested beneath the night sky. They would go on. There were no dissenting votes.
Though he did not suggest turning back, it was clear that Cyric was worried about the strange events that had plagued them all day. Instead of discussing the battle, however, the thief gathered his blankets and went to sleep immediately after dinner.
Just before he attempted to sleep, Kelemvor watched as Caitlan sat alone, staring off at the horizon. The girl had said very little after the attack in the forest, and the fighter wondered what was going on behind her enigmatic stare. At times Caitlan appeared to be nothing more than a frightened child; at other times her intelligence and resolve reminded him of a battle-weary general. The contradiction was baffling.
Kelemvor himself had always refused the reins of command. He was uncomfortable with responsibility for anyone but himself. Why then had he accepted this quest with such unquestioning belief that he was the man to lead it? Kelemvor told himself that it had been boredom that spurred him on, causing him to accept the quest and leave Arabel. He needed adventure. He needed to leave the ordered, civilized life of the city behind. But there was another reason he chose to come.
She can cure you, Kelemvor.
The fighter knew it was better to cling to the shadow of hope than embrace the light of reality and find himself filled with despair. He could only hope Caitlan was telling the truth.
Kelemvor's thoughts continued in this vein until he fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of the hunt.
Midnight took the first watch as everyone else retired, her senses far too alert, far too alive to allow her to sleep or even relax.
As she sat, listening to the sounds of the night, the mage pondered Kelemvor's strange actions since the battle. At dinner, the fighter insisted that everyone help in preparing the meal. After they ate, he insisted that everyone help bury the garbage, so as not to attract scavengers. He seemed like a different man from the one she'd first met at the tavern in Arabel.
Perhaps the fighter had come to realize that Midnight was indeed a valuable part of the company, and he felt ashamed of his own poor judgment in accepting her only as a last choice, then having the bad taste to point out that fact again and again. Besides, there was one thing Midnight and he shared — a wild streak that marked them as fit for the life of wanderers and adventurers, and very little else.
Midnight spent the next four hours wrestling with her growing feelings for the fighter and her questions concerning the pendant that had been grafted to her flesh. Her thoughts led her in circles for hours, until Adon came to relieve her on the watch.
The cleric watched Midnight as she immediately fell into a deep sleep, and envied her. Still, despite the hardships and the horrors he had faced this evening, despite the foulness of the air, the stench of the dead lands that assaulted his nose, he knew the situation could be worse. At least he was in the company of stout-hearted comrades, and he was free. He didn't have to concern himself over the imminent danger of incarceration or the humiliation he would have faced had Myrmeen Lhal gone directly to his elders at the Temple of Sune.
No, he was free, and a better man for it.
On the other hand, just one silken pillow would have been welcome.
The bedchambers of Myrmeen Lhal were spectacularly designed, with a bowl-shaped ceiling crafted in tiers of concentric circles that spiraled upward to its center. The room was dominated by a huge round bed, a dozen feet in diameter, adorned with red silk sheets and a dozen soft gold-laced pillows. Works of art abounded; some breathtaking, others merely beautiful.
But the finest work of art, Myrmeen herself, could only be seen through icy black curtains, constantly charged by the finest illusionists of the city, that allowed her to look out on any exotic port of call with only the slightest prompt from her imagination.
Myrmeen rose from her huge bath, carved from the finest ivory by visiting artisans from far-away Shou Lung, and kept warm by jets of constantly flowing, heated water. The most exotic of oils and enchanted spices treated her skin to fiery delights pleasurable beyond the caress of even the most experienced lover. She hated to end her luxuriant session in the enchanted water, but she knew she dared not allow herself to fall asleep — not unless she wanted to find herself so lethargic by morning that she would have to postpone her duties for a week before the effects passed and she could think clearly again.
A translucent azure gown, sparkling with tiny stars, found its way to Myrmeen's hand. The gown dried her skin and set her hair in the most regal of fashions as she slipped it over her head.
The gown was the gift of a powerful — and amorous — mage who visited the city a year ago. And though the magic gown had been checked by her court magicians, Myrmeen worried that the unpredictability of magic might make it dangerous to wear, and promised herself she would do without it from now on. Of course, she had been promising herself this for almost a week.
If the gown kills me, Myrmeen thought, at least I'll look presentable for the clerics.
Suddenly she thought of Adon of Sune, and spasms of uncontrollable laughter raced through her. The poor sod was probably shaking in his boots, hiding in the most horrid of places, in fear for his life. Of course he wasn't in any real danger, but Myrmeen couldn't pass up the opportunity to take the conceited cleric down a peg or two; in fact, she had precious few chances to indulge her former talent as a trickster. She sighed and stretched upon the bed.
She was just about to ring for a page when she noticed something quite odd: the rubies of her golden chalice were missing. Myrmeen rose from the bed, her warrior's instinct dulled by years of rule, and moved too late to avoid the darkly clad man who rushed at her and slammed her back against the bed, knocking the wind from her in the process. She felt the man's weight upon her, holding her in place, as a hand closed over her mouth.
The man's face and body had been swathed in a gauze that appeared to be some sort of steel mesh. The strips over his face had been arranged to leave spaces for the man's eyes, nostrils, and mouth.
"Be still, milady. I have no wish to harm you," the man said, his voice low and throaty. Myrmeen struggled all the more fiercely. "I deliver word of the conspiracy."
Myrmeen stopped fighting, and she felt her assailant's hold lessen a degree. "How did you get in here?" she mumbled into the man's hand.
"We all have our secrets," he said. "It wouldn't do to give them up."
"You — you mentioned… the conspiracy," she said, her chest heaving with her imagined fear. She wondered if she should begin to sob, then thought better of it.
"The villain Knightsbridge is still at large."
Myrmeen's eyes narrowed.
"But you knew this. What may come as news is that all three of the agents Evon Stralana used have fled the city. Kelemvor, Adon, and the former thief Cyric left in disguise before highsun in the company of two strangers.
"Was it not the hands of these three that allowed Knightsbridge to fly free? Think on this, milady. That is all I have to say."
As Marek started to get up, Myrmeen rolled to the left, as if to bring her hands to her reddened face, and instead grabbed hold of the edge of the bed and delivered a kick with both legs to the stomach of the intruder. From his cry and the crack she heard, she guessed she had found the man's ribs.
"By the gods!" the thief shouted as Myrmeen delivered an open fist blow that narrowly missed his throat. He recognized the technique and grabbed her arm, realizing his mistake as she kicked sharply into his ankle, bringing a second howl of pain from his lips and causing him to release her arm before he could twist it from her shoulder. Myrmeen had been shouting the entire time, so it wasn't a surprise to Marek when the doors to her chambers burst open and a handful of guardsmen raced in.
Marek thought first of attacking the guards, or trying to run. But when he considered how easy it would be for him to escape from the pitifully constructed dungeons of Arabel, he held up his hands and surrendered.
"Get some answers from this dog," Myrmeen said, oblivious to the stares her almost completely naked body had elicited. "Well? Are you deaf? Move!"
She stopped one of the men. "And send word that I wish to see the minister of defense in the planning room immediately!" She looked down at her torn nightgown. "When I am more properly attired."
"I told you not to complain about guard duty," one of the guards said as he dragged Marek away, and Myrmeen waited until she was once again alone in her chambers before she let out a wide smile at the words of the roguish guard. But her smile faded as quickly as it had formed when she thought of the trio who had perhaps betrayed her, and the measures she would take to ascertain if this was so.
Half an hour later, in the planning room, Myrmeen related all the information she had been given to Evon Stralana, a thin, dark-haired man with a pallid complexion. Stralana nodded gravely.
"Then I fear that worm, Gelzunduth, was telling the truth," Stralana said.
"You knew about this?" Myrmeen screamed.
"This morning, one of our men succeeded in gaining the evidence needed to arrest the forger, Gelzunduth."
"Go on."
Stralana took a breath. "Last night, Adon arrived at Gelzunduth's, and paid the forger for false identifications for men who sound suspiciously like Kelemvor and Cyric. He purchased a false charter, too. Gelzunduth knew at once what he was dealing with, and went along as cordially as he could.
"When Gelzunduth was first interrogated, he hinted that he could expose corruption in the guards. Gelzunduth felt he could use the information to bargain for his freedom or a lesser sentence. It took until a few hours ago before the pig broke and he told everything."
Myrmeen stared at the tiny flame from the lone candle that sat between Stralana and herself. When she raised her gaze, her fury over what she had been told was evident in her eyes.
"I want to know who was guarding the gates when Kelemvor and the others left Arabel. I want them brought here, and questioned. We'll deal with their punishment once we figure out which gate they left through."
Stralana nodded. "Yes, milady."
Myrmeen's hands were balled into white-knuckled fists and pressed together. She forced her hands to relax as she spoke. "Then we shall deal with Kelemvor and his party."