Waterdeep

9 Bad Company

The trail bent south and ran along the base of some rolling hills. The sun kindled a golden hue in the tufts of drab grass that speckled the dusty soil. Here and there, a few reddish cliffs dotted the barren hillsides, the crisp morning light igniting blazing tones in the sandy rock.

Without warning or reason, one cliff burst into fire, burned for a few minutes, then collapsed. Flaming boulders bounced down the hill, touching off small fires wherever they touched the greenery.

Ignoring the mysterious eruption, Bhaal—who now used Kae Deverell’s haggard body as an avatar—guided his and Midnight’s mounts into the hills. Though the cliff’s spontaneous combustion frightened the magic-user, she did not have the energy or strength to object to the change in route. Midnight felt more asleep than awake, and was almost delirious with pain. Where Bhaal had closed his hand over her mouth, her lips and chin still burned. The mage’s stomach was worse. Her entrails still churned from the Lord of Murder’s polluted touch.

As the horses picked their way up the hillside, Midnight flopped helplessly to and fro. Too exhausted and disheartened to hold herself in the saddle, she remained mounted only because it was impossible for her to fall off. Bhaal had bound her hands to the saddle’s horn and her feet to the stirrups.

Had she not suffered through the last thirty hours, Midnight would never have believed a human being could endure so much. After snatching the magic-user from the confrontation with Cyric, Bhaal had bound and gagged her, making magical incantations impossible. Then the god had lashed Midnight to a waiting horse, mounted his own, and, leading her mount, ridden away at a trot.

The pace had not slackened since. The Lord of Murder had ridden through an entire day and night without slowing for rest or explanation. If the horses did not collapse first, Midnight feared her bones would crumble from constant jarring. Confirming its own exhaustion, the magic-user’s horse struck its hoof against a rock and stumbled. The mage lurched left to keep her balance. The saddlebag with the tablet, still slung over her shoulder, shifted. A streak of pain ran up her spine.

Midnight groaned. When he had abducted her, Bhaal had left the saddlebag slung over her shoulder and simply secured it into place with a leather thong. The saddlebag had already rubbed the skin on the mage’s shoulder raw. A warm, wet stain spread from the abrasion and ran down her back in ticklish streams.

Bhaal paused. He turned to face her. “What do you want?”

Unable to speak through the gag, Midnight shook her head to indicate the groan meant nothing.

The foul god frowned, then resumed riding.

Midnight exhaled in relief. Despite the pain in her shoulder, she did not want Bhaal to take the saddlebag away. The magic-user still clung to the hope of escape, and she wanted the Tablet of Fate with her when the opportunity came.

Unfortunately, Midnight did not know what to do if she did escape. Unless she disabled Bhaal, which seemed unlikely, he would simply track her down again. The magic-user wondered what Kelemvor would do. As a warrior, he had certainly faced capture and knew methods of escape. Even Adon might have a solution. He had studied the gods and would know if Bhaal had any weaknesses.

Midnight could not help longing for the presence of her two friends. She had never been more frightened, nor more lonely, in her life. Despite the need for their company and counsel, however, she did not regret abandoning her allies. Had they been at the ford, Bhaal would have murdered them both. If Kelemvor had died, the magic-user might have lost the strength to continue her struggle. Midnight could not allow that to happen.

The magic-user chastised herself for trying to rescue the halflings. She had placed the tablet in peril, and doubted that she had saved even one life. But Midnight quickly realized that abandoning the survivors of the war party would have changed nothing. Bhaal would have tracked her down anyway. In the end, it was making the task easy for him that upset her.

The Lord of Murder suddenly stopped the horses. They had reached the top of a hill, and Midnight could see dozens of miles in all directions. Fifteen miles back, an expanse of orange and red stretched toward the south. It was the forest that had hugged their left flank through the night.

Bhaal dismounted, then removed his horse’s bridle and tethered the beast.

“The horses need rest,” he grumbled, untying Midnight. Whenever the avatar touched the mage’s skin, her skin grew red and irritated. “Dismount.”

Midnight gladly obeyed. The instant her feet touched the ground, Bhaal grabbed her wrist. Scorching pain shot through her arm up to her shoulder. She screamed in agony.

“Don’t try to escape,” Bhaal snarled. “I’m strong. You’re still weak.” Confident that he had made his point, the fallen god released her.

The fresh agony jolted the magic-user into full alertness. She pulled the gag off her mouth and considered summoning her magic. Midnight quickly rejected the idea, however. The Lord of Murder would not have untied her—or allowed her to remove her gag—unless he was prepared to counter any attack.

Instead, the mage cleared her throat and asked, “What do you want?”

Bhaal stared at Midnight, but did not respond. The face of the avatar—Lord Deverell’s face—was pale and sickly yellow. The eyes were sunken, the skin stretched over the bones like leather over a drumhead.

“Hold your hands together like this,” Bhaal said, pressing his palms together.

Midnight briefly considered being uncooperative, but decided to obey. At the moment, she was too exhausted to argue, and there was more to gain by letting Bhaal believe she had lost hope.

As Midnight pressed her palms together, she asked again, “What do you want?”

Bhaal produced a leather thong. “You,” he answered.

This answer did not surprise Midnight. When the Lord of Murder had first abducted her, she had assumed he wanted the tablet. After he had not killed her, however, the mage had begun to suspect he wanted something else. “Me? Why?”

Bhaal tied the mage’s thumbs together, pausing to consider his response. Finally, he answered, “You’re going to kill Helm.”

He spoke the words so rapidly and quietly that Midnight thought she had misunderstood him “Kill Helm?” she asked. “Is that what you said?”

The Lord of Murder tied her little fingers together, then repeated the process with each of her other digits. It was obvious to Midnight that the god was binding her hands so she could not trace the gestures necessary to call on her magic. “Yes, kill Helm,” he finally confirmed.

“I can’t kill a god!” Midnight yelped, astounded.

“You killed Torm,” Bhaal growled. “And Bane.” He pulled the thongs painfully tight.

“All I did was ring the Bell of Aylan Attricus! I saved Tantras. Bane and Torm killed each other.”

“There’s no need for modesty,” Bhaal said. He finished binding Midnight’s hands and stepped away. “Lord Myrkul is the one who’s angry about the Black Lord’s death. After Bane destroyed my assassins, I was happy to see him die.”

“But I didn’t kill him … or Torm. And I can’t kill Helm!” Midnight insisted, gesturing with her bound hands. Bhaal’s misconception both angered and frightened her. If he had abducted her in order to destroy Helm, the fallen god had made a terrible mistake. “It was the bell!” she insisted.

Bhaal shrugged and removed her horse’s saddle. “It’s all the same. You rang the bell when nobody else could. Now you will kill Helm.”

“Even if I could,” Midnight replied, finding a place to sit, “I wouldn’t. You must know that.”

“No,” Bhaal told her sharply. He tossed the saddle on the ground near his. “We know you’ll do as you’re told.”

“What gives you that idea?” Midnight asked. She found it interesting that Bhaal had referred to Myrkul as an ally. The mage decided to make the most of her captivity by learning as much as she could from the Lord of Murder.

Bhaal stared at the mage with a steady gaze. “Though you left your friends, we know how much you care for them.”

“What do you mean?”

Bhaal walked around to the other side of her horse and removed its bit. “It’s rather obvious, don’t you think?”

“Kelemvor and Adon are no longer part of this,” the magic-user snapped, fear growing inside of her.

“We understand that,” Bhaal sighed, squatting to tether the horses. “And it will stay that way—providing you do as we wish.”

“I can’t do what you want!” she yelled, rising to her feet. “I don’t have the power. You’re supposed to be a god—why can’t you understand a simple thing like that?”

Bhaal studied her with his dead, coal-black eyes. “You don’t lack the power,” he said. “You just don’t know how to use it yet. That’s why you need Myrkul and me.”

“Need you?” Midnight cried. The idea of “needing” the Lord of Murder and the Lord of the Dead sent shivers of revulsion up the mage’s spine.

“You think it will be easy to wield the might of a god?” Bhaal asked, walking over to her. “Without us, you’ll burn up. The Goddess of Magic was very powerful when she transferred her power to you.”

“The might of a god?” Midnight repeated. Her mind wandered back to the night she had collapsed praying to Mystra—the night of the Arrival. That had been when her life changed, when the Realms themselves had fallen into supernatural disarray.

For several weeks now, the suspicion that she carried Mystra’s power had been growing in the mage’s mind. Midnight had tried to blame the changing nature of her magic on the chaos infecting the Realms, but it had grown increasingly difficult to ignore the evidence: her power over magic was expanding; she no longer needed her spellbook; and finally, she could now use incantations she had never studied.

But having suspected the truth did not lessen the impact of its confirmation. The Lord of Murder’s revelation left Midnight stunned and frightened, and she could not help retreating from all that it implied.

Bhaal took advantage of Midnight’s dazed state to pressure her. “When he exiled us, our master stripped us of our power. Now, you alone are Helm’s match.” The God of Assassins turned away from Midnight and looked toward the sky. “If we are to return to the Planes, you must destroy the God of Guardians.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to give Helm the Tablets of Fate?” Midnight asked, speaking to Bhaal’s back. “Won’t Lord Ao open the Planes to the gods when the tablets are returned?”

Bhaal whirled around, his eyes flashing with rage. “Do you think we enjoy being trapped in this puny world? This facade has cost me all of my worshipers!” he snapped. “We’d return the tablets in an instant if it were possible.”

Midnight was not sure she believed the Lord of Murder. From what she had learned, the gods were fighting over who would get credit for returning the tablets. But Bhaal’s words gave her cause for doubt.

“Are you saying it’s impossible to return the tablets?” the mage pressed.

The god pointed at the saddlebags on Midnight’s shoulder. “Why do you think we’ve permitted you to keep that one? It’s useless.”

“Useless!” Midnight gasped, her heart sinking.

“We can’t get the second one. Nobody can,” Bhaal explained, waving his hand angrily. “Without both tablets, Helm won’t let us back into the Planes. That’s why you must kill him.”

“Where’s the other tablet? Has it been destroyed?”

Bhaal sneered. “In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s hidden in Bone Castle, in Myrkul’s Realm of the Dead.” He pointed at the ground. “And there it will stay until we are freed from the Realms.”

“If you know where it is, why don’t you—” Midnight stopped in midsentence, realizing her question was silly. The gods had been banished from the Planes. The Realm of the Dead, being Myrkul’s home, was undoubtedly closed to them since it was in Hades.

Bhaal allowed Midnight a moment to consider what she had learned so far. Finally, he said, “You see? We’re on the same side: we want to return to the Planes, and you want to get us out of Faerûn. But you’ll need to kill Helm before that happens. Do you see that now?”

Midnight did not answer immediately. It had occurred to her that if she could destroy Helm, she could also recover the other tablet from Bone Castle. But the mage did not want to reveal her idea to Bhaal, although he claimed that he also wanted to return the tablets. Even after thirty hours in the saddle, she was not muddled enough to believe she could trust the word of the Lord of Murder.

Still, if her plan was to work, Midnight needed more information. “If I must kill Helm in order to save the Realms, then I will,” Midnight lied. If she was going to learn what she wanted from Bhaal, he had to think she was convinced. “But before I agree, you’ve got to answer some questions. I want to know that you’ve tried every other possibility.”

“Oh, we have,” Bhaal replied, using his saddle as a chair.

Midnight did not believe the fallen deity’s words were sincere, but she pretended otherwise. “The gods are barred from the Planes, not anybody else. Why haven’t you sent a mortal into the Realm of the Dead to retrieve the second tablet?”

Bhaal’s jaw dropped just for an instant, but long enough to betray his surprise. “That’s not as easy as you make it sound,” he said.

Midnight did not miss the shock on Bhaal’s face, but was unsure what to make of it. She could not believe that the Lord of Murder and the Lord of the Dead would not have thought of something so simple.

“Answer the question,” Midnight demanded. “Why haven’t you sent some mortal after the tablet? There must be ways for humans to reach the Realm of the Dead.”

“There are ways,” Bhaal conceded.

“How?” Midnight asked. She sat down facing Bhaal, now, using her own saddle for a stool.

The God of Assassins twisted Deverell’s emaciated face into a sour grin. “They can die,” he said.

Midnight frowned. That was hardly the answer she wanted. “You can try to force me to cooperate by threatening Kelemvor and Adon, but you won’t be able to trust me unless you answer these questions. Why haven’t you sent a mortal after the second Tablet of Fate?”

Bhaal studied her for a long time, malice in his eyes. Finally, he dropped his gaze and said, “We have tried. Lord Myrkul has sent dozens of his most loyal priests to Dragonspear Castle and—”

“Dragonspear Castle?” Midnight interrupted. From what she had heard, Dragonspear Castle was little more than an abandoned ruin on the road to Waterdeep.

“Dragonspear Castle,” Bhaal confirmed, nodding. “Beneath it, there is a—” He paused, as if searching for the proper word. “—there is a bridge between this world and the Realm of the Dead.”

“Then why don’t you have the other tablet already?” Midnight asked. By mentioning Dragonspear Castle, Bhaal had already told her what she wanted to know: where to find the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. It was better not to dwell on the subject, or he would quickly discover his mistake.

Bhaal shrugged and looked away. “The mortals go in, but they don’t come out. The Realm of the Dead is a dangerous place for the living.”

“In what ways?” Midnight asked and she shifted her weight uncomfortably in the saddle. “Surely, Lord Myrkul’s priests—”

“We’ve talked enough about the Realm of the Dead,” Bhaal snapped, suddenly rising and snarling in anger. “You will help us, Midnight … or your friends will suffer for your stupidity and your obstinacy.”

Midnight stared at Bhaal, feigning surprise and indignation, but said nothing. From the foul god’s sudden anger, she knew that she had asked one question too many.

Bhaal pointed at the ground next to her saddle. “Sleep while you can,” he grumbled. “We leave as soon as the horses are rested.” With that, he turned away—then allowed himself a satisfied grin. So far, everything with the mage had gone as Lord Myrkul had predicted.

Kelemvor kept a wary eye turned toward the forest on the south side of the road. A hundred inky shadows hung in rust-colored boughs, ferociously chittering at a dark thing skulking in the underbrush. As the warrior watched, a lone squirrel dropped out of a tree and bounced out to the middle of the dusty road. It had tufted ears, a bushy tail, and eyes darker than its fur. Where the morning sun’s yellow rays touched it, the creature’s dark fur absorbed the light. The rodent looked more like a tiny demon than a squirrel.

Kelemvor continued to ride toward the little animal. It stood its ground, studying the warrior and his horse with ravenous eyes.

“Strange creatures,” Adon commented.

“They certainly don’t seem natural,” Kelemvor agreed.

Inside the wood, a stick snapped with a loud pop. The mass of squirrels gathered in the trees shrieked in anger and dropped to the ground. Within seconds, a man rose, cursing and screaming as the rodents swarmed him. Kelemvor and Adon could not see the man well enough to tell whether he was a huntsman or someone else with a less honorable reason to lurk in the wood.

“Too mean,” Kelemvor added, referring to the squirrels.

The fighter hoped Adon would not insist upon chasing the beleaguered man down. The cleric was making a habit of interrogating strangers, and it was beginning to annoy Kelemvor. Twenty-four hours ago, they had discovered Midnight’s pony near the ford at Hill’s Edge. They had also found close to forty dead halflings, and signs of the torture that had occurred behind the inn. Though unsure of how to interpret these signs, Kelemvor and Adon had decided to assume Cyric had captured Midnight.

They had been in the saddle ever since, looking for their enemy at every campfire they passed. Kelemvor had grown tired of this methodical search. He knew that Cyric was increasing his lead while Adon wasted their time harassing honest merchants.

But the cleric was convinced that, at last, they had caught up to the thief. “After that man!” he ordered.

Kelemvor made no move to obey. “I’ll waste no more time. Cyric’s ahead of us, and we won’t catch him by chasing woodcutters.”

“Woodcutters!” Adon exclaimed. “Why would a woodcutter be so far from town?”

“A hunter then,” Kelemvor responded.

“So you’re certain that isn’t Cyric’s sentry?”

“No,” Kelemvor said. “But—”

“Then we’ve got to go after him.”

“No,” Kelemvor insisted. “We can’t look behind every rock for Cyric. We’ll lose him for good if we keep this up!”

Adon saw the wisdom of Kelemvor’s argument, but believed the fleeing man was more than a hunter. “All right. But hunters don’t lurk at roadsides. Trust me.”

Kelemvor sighed. Lately, he’d found it increasingly difficult to disagree with Adon for long. Warily eyeing the black squirrels, the warrior spurred his mount into a gallop. The sturdy caravan horse easily broke through the thicket at the forest’s edge. A dozen rodents leaped from the trees, attacking Kelemvor and his mount with tiny claws and teeth. The horse ignored them and continued forward while Kelemvor swore and ripped the creatures off his body. By the time they were free of squirrels, the warrior and his horse were deep within a multihued world of shadows and autumn light.

Adon followed close behind, cursing and ripping black rodents off his body.

The man they were chasing was nowhere in sight.

“What now?” Kelemvor asked.

Adon flung the last squirrel into the forest, then said, “We argued too long. He’s gone.”

To their left, Kelemvor heard the muffled patter of hoofbeats. He turned his horse to pursue, motioning Adon to follow. The sooner they caught the fellow, the sooner the cleric would let them get back to chasing Midnight.

As he rode, Kelemvor kept an eye turned toward the forest floor. Several minutes later, he stopped. He hadn’t seen a single hoofprint, scuffed rock, or freshly broken stick upon which he could base a trail.

“Where is he?” Adon asked.

Kelemvor hushed his friend, then listened carefully. The hoofbeats were gone. But deep in the forest, he heard something else—the nicker of a tired horse.

He turned his mount toward the sound and rode slowly ahead. “Follow me … quietly.”

A minute later, the warrior heard the soft murmur of a voice. Kelemvor dismounted and gave his reins to Adon, then crawled through the thick underbrush with his sword drawn. He had to go slowly, for the ground was littered with dried twigs and leaves that made it nearly impossible to move silently.

Eventually, he came to the edge of a small clearing, where a rider in Zhentish armor held the reins of a winded horse. Beside the rider stood a large, black-bearded man. Behind the horse, hidden from view, stood a third man. A hundred feet to the trio’s right, seven Zhentilar were sleeping on the ground, their armor stacked neatly beside them.

Adon was right, Kelemvor realized. The man at the roadside had been a sentry.

“You’re sure they couldn’t follow you?” asked the bearded man.

“I’m certain,” replied the sentry.

The unseen man spoke. “We can’t take chances, Dalzhel. Stupid as he is, Kelemvor has a certain cunning.”

The voice was Cyric’s.

Kelemvor’s heart pounded with anger and excitement. “Stupid!” he muttered under his breath. “We’ll see who’s stupid when my sword creases your neck!” The only thing that kept the warrior from attacking immediately was that he did not see Midnight. He would not risk her life to vent his wrath.

Cyric continued speaking to Dalzhel. “Wake the men.”

“But they’ve slept less than three hours!” Dalzhel objected.

“Wake them,” Cyric snapped. Turning to the sentry, he added, “And you ride back over your trail. Be sure the two men didn’t follow you.”

As Dalzhel and the sentry turned to obey, Kelemvor started to back out of his hiding place. He intended to reach Adon before the sentry did. The stocky warrior, however, was not accustomed to skulking in the bushes. In his rush to beat the Zhentish soldier, his scabbard caught on a bush and rustled it loudly. Kelemvor cursed under his breath and froze, hoping Cyric and his men would not notice the sound.

But Cyric, Dalzhel, and the sentry all stopped and turned to look in the fighter’s direction.

Kelemvor realized he had two choices—attack or retreat. He made the same choice he always did: he leaped from his hiding place and charged. The sudden assault took his opponents by surprise.

Dalzhel was first in Kelemvor’s path. The huge Zhentilar’s weapon had not even cleared its scabbard when Kelemvor leveled a vicious slash at his undefended side. The Zhentilar stepped forward and blocked the slash by smashing his fist into Kelemvor’s elbow.

The blow nearly knocked the sword out of the stocky warrior’s hand. Dalzhel grabbed for Kelemvor’s wrist, but the green-eyed fighter pulled free and stepped back. This allowed the huge Zhentilar to draw his weapon, but it also freed Kelemvor to attack again.

The exchange occurred so rapidly that Cyric and the sentry didn’t have time to react. If Dalzhel’s reflexes had not been so quick, Kelemvor would have killed all three men with their weapons still sheathed. The initial melee was over, however; Cyric and the sentry drew their swords.

Kelemvor studied his opponents. Though it wasn’t his battle style, he knew he would have to fight carefully and cautiously. Dalzhel lifted his sword into a high guard, inviting a lunge. The warrior refused the bait. He had no intention of closing within arm’s length of the black-haired Zhentilar.

While Kelemvor and Dalzhel stared at each other, Cyric slipped around the sentry’s horse and stopped out of sword reach. The sentry advanced and stood to Kelemvor’s right, much too close for the fighter’s comfort.

“Kel, my friend!” Cyric said. “Meet Dalzhel. Alone, he might be your match. But at three-to-one—”

While Cyric bragged, Kelemvor evened the odds. His blade flashed once, opening a deep gash in the sentry’s abdomen. Screaming in agony, the man stumbled away and collapsed.

“Two-to-one,” Kelemvor corrected, bringing his sword back to guarding position.

Back with the horses, Adon heard the scream of the wounded sentry. He wrapped Kelemvor’s horse’s reins around a limb, then lifted his mace and urged his horse through the underbrush.

Dalzhel allowed his annoyance to flicker across his face. Kelemvor was truly dangerous, he realized. Cyric would be wiser to let him handle this fight alone. But the burly Zhentilar did not dare say that. Cyric was far too vain to accept such a suggestion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kelemvor noticed that the seven sleeping Zhentilar had awakened. They were pulling on their helmets and gathering their weapons.

Being careful not to ignore Dalzhel, Kelemvor addressed Cyric, “Before I kill you, tell me where Midnight is.”

A sneer crossed Cyric’s lips. “If you’ve come for her, you die in vain. You, Dalzhel, and I together couldn’t save her.”

At that moment, Adon reached the clearing. To his right, Kelemvor faced Cyric and one other man. In the middle of field, seven Zhentilar were preparing to go to Cyric’s aid. Adon decided to make sure they never arrived. The cleric knew his friend had survived two-to-one odds many times, but eight or nine-to-one would have been a challenge for even Kelemvor. The cleric kicked his mount into motion and charged.

As soon as Kelemvor heard Adon arrive, he attacked, beating Dalzhel back with a series of overhand slashes. Cyric jabbed at the warrior’s side, but Kelemvor easily blocked, then sent Cyric reeling with a kick to the stomach.

Meanwhile, Adon smashed two skulls as his horse thundered through the Zhentilar camp, then turned around and charged again. This time, however, the Zhentilar were ready for him and stood in a loose group. At the last instant, Adon veered to the left. The cleric’s target lifted his sword to block, but the momentum of the charging horse overpowered the defense. The sword went flying, and the mace smashed the victim’s ribs. A second Zhentilar fell when Adon’s horse trampled him. An instant later, the horse and rider galloped away.

On the other side of the clearing, as soon as Kelemvor kicked Cyric out of the way, Dalzhel fell upon the warrior and thrust for his abdomen. Kelemvor blocked with a low sweep, then Dalzhel’s foot came from nowhere and smashed him in the head. Kelemvor’s vision darkened and he felt his knees buckle. The warrior fell to his right, trying to put distance between himself and Dalzhel.

As Kelemvor dropped, Adon turned his horse around for another pass at the remaining Zhentilar. The three men stood huddled together, fear showing on their faces. “Get out of here!” Adon called, spurring his horse into a third charge.

The three Zhentilar glanced at each other uncertainly, then at the bodies of their dead and wounded fellows. An instant later, they turned and ran. Adon followed long enough to make sure they would not return. It did not occur to the cleric that Kelemvor might be in trouble.

In fact, Kelemvor was about to die. He rolled away from Dalzhel but quickly bumped into Cyric’s legs. The thief immediately pressed the tip of his sword against the warrior’s throat and held it there. Kelemvor did not move, expecting Cyric to say something.

Instead, the thief remained quiet, searching his old friend’s eyes for signs of fear. To his disappointment, the warrior’s face betrayed anger and hatred, but no fear. Though Cyric begrudgingly admired his old ally’s bravery, he did not find it admirable enough to spare him.

Kelemvor saw the thief’s eyes harden and knew Cyric had decided to kill him. The warrior swung his left hand and smashed his forearm into Cyric’s wrist, knocking the sword away from his throat. The red blade grazed the side of the Kelemvor’s neck, but didn’t draw blood. At the same time, the warrior spun and swung his feet at Cyric’s ankles, sweeping the thief’s feet from beneath him.

As Kelemvor struggled to save his life, Adon decided the three Zhentilar would not be coming back. He swung his horse toward the other end of the clearing, turning just in time to see Cyric fall, then Kelemvor roll away. Dalzhel rushed forward to defend his fallen commander, but the green-eyed fighter rolled right into the Zhentilar’s feet. Kelemvor wrapped his arms around the burly man’s ankles. Dalzhel fell, cursing and beating the hilt of his sword against Kelemvor’s back.

Adon spurred his horse toward the fight just as Cyric rose to his feet again.

Though he had knocked Dalzhel to the ground, Kelemvor was no match for the bearded man in unarmed combat. Not only was Dalzhel’s strength greater, but he was a more experienced wrestler. Dalzhel worked his way onto Kelemvor’s back and clamped his arms around the warrior’s throat. Kelemvor rolled and pulled at his opponent’s arm, but could not shake off the chokehold.

Cyric reached the fight before Adon. The thief hovered over the struggling pair, looking for an opportunity to plunge his blade into Kelemvor’s back. A moment later, the scarred cleric rode up and Cyric turned to face him. Adon stopped twenty feet away and did not attack. Although being mounted gave him a combat advantage, it also prevented him from picking his target carefully. If he struck from horseback, he was as likely to trample Kelemvor as kill Cyric or the Zhentish soldier.

“Let him go!” Adon yelled, hefting his mace.

Dalzhel glanced at Cyric for instructions, but the thief shook his head. The burly Zhentilar continued choking Kelemvor.

“It’s come down to the four of us,” Cyric observed, noting that Adon had killed or chased off his men.

“I guarantee that you won’t survive this, Cyric. Release Kelemvor and tell me where Midnight is,” Adon threatened.

Cyric broke into a fit of maniacal laughter, thoroughly enjoying the irony of the situation. While he, Adon, and Kelemvor fought, Midnight was facing a danger far greater than death.

“What is it?” Adon demanded. “What have you done with her?”

Cyric managed to control his hysterics. “Me? I’ve done nothing with her,” he said. “Bhaal has her—and now that we’re about to kill each other, he’ll keep her.”

“Bhaal!” Adon yelled. “You’re lying!”

Cyric waved his hand around the clearing. “Where is she?” he asked. “I’m not lying. We’ve all lost her.”

Upon hearing this, Dalzhel relaxed his chokehold, but did not release it. Cyric’s words had made him realize that this battle was senseless. Neither side had Midnight or the tablet, and he saw no profit in dying or killing over a pointless vendetta.

“I know I’m an outsider here,” the burly lieutenant said, eyeing Adon and his mace. “But I’m in no hurry to die, which is what’s going to happen to at least three of us.”

Nobody bothered to argue. Dalzhel and Cyric clearly had Kelemvor at a disadvantage. But as soon as they killed the fighter, there would be nothing to prevent Adon from charging. From there, nobody could predict what would happen, but Dalzhel suspected that either he or Cyric would fall to the horseman.

Dalzhel continued. “And if three of us die, nobody’s going to get what he wants. The survivor, if there is one, will hardly be in any condition to take the woman back from Bhaal.”

“What’s your point?” Kelemvor gasped.

“You and your friend are good fighters,” Dalzhel said flatly. “So are Cyric and I. Together, we stand a chance of defeating Bhaal, but—”

“I’d sooner die here,” Kelemvor gasped, struggling to free himself from Dalzhel’s grasp.

“That’s fine and good,” Cyric responded. “But how does it help Midnight? If Dalzhel kills you, then Adon kills Dalzhel—”

“I’d kill you first,” Adon interrupted.

“I’m sure you’d try,” Cyric responded, glaring at the cleric. “But what happens to Midnight? No matter who kills who, Bhaal keeps Midnight and the tablet. Is that what you want?”

The thief’s words had an effect on Kelemvor. He did not trust Cyric, but at the moment that did not matter. He was about to die, which meant he could not save Midnight. What Dalzhel proposed would give him the opportunity to help her. Kelemvor would simply have to be ready for the thief’s inevitable betrayal.

“What do you think, Adon?” Kelemvor asked.

Cyric’s face betrayed his surprise. The thief had little respect for the cleric’s opinion, and when the three of them had traveled together, neither had Kelemvor. “Don’t tell me this fool does your thinking now?” the hawk-nosed man exclaimed.

Kelemvor ignored the thief and waited for Adon’s reply.

“Oh, yes. Come, friend Adon. Let’s have a truce until we recover Midnight,” Cyric said sarcastically. “Then we’ll let her choose her own company.”

There had been a time when Adon would have accepted the proposal at face value. But he was not the same naive person the thief had once known. Still, what Cyric and Dalzhel proposed was the only hope he could see for Midnight.

“We’ll accept,” Adon said at last. “But I know you won’t keep to your word.” The cleric paused for a moment, then looked into the thief’s eyes. “As I said once on the Ashaba, Cyric, I know you for what you are. Don’t think for a moment that we’ll let our guard down.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Cyric replied quickly, ignoring the cleric’s comments. He turned to Dalzhel. “Let Kelemvor up, then let’s prepare to ride with our friends—”

“We are not friends,” Kelemvor warned, rubbing his throat.

Cyric smiled weakly. “As you wish.”

Dalzhel retrieved his sword and sheathed it, then turned to Kelemvor. “Well met. May our blades fail before they cross again.”

To Kelemvor, the archaic mercenary greeting seemed sadly appropriate. The fighter had once again found himself pursuing an uncertain goal with companions he could not trust, just like the time he had helped Lord Galroy “recover” several herds of “stolen” horses from the honest ranchers of Kulta. Just like the hundreds of other quests he had gone on for profit before his curse had been lifted.

Kelemvor sheathed his own sword and replied, “But only after we have broken our backs with bounty.”

Completing the ritual with the traditional sign of respect, the two men grasped wrists and gave each other’s arms a healthy tug. Kelemvor noted that Dalzhel’s grip was sure and strong.