Waterdeep

10 Boareskyr Bridge

The four riders, Cyric, Dalzhel, Adon, and Kelemvor, stopped their horses at the crest of a bluff. After three rigorous days of riding, their uneasy alliance was still intact.

The night was a moonless one. But the clouds, which were drifting into and out of different patterns of geometric precision, quivered with milky incandescence. The result was a shifting, silvery light that illuminated the land with a dusklike gleam.

The bluff overlooked the shimmering currents of the Winding Water. Ahead and to the company’s left, five stone arches spanned the river: Boareskyr Bridge. In front of the bridge, the remains of a perpetual tent city hugged both sides of the road. All that remained of it now were fire scars, a few charred horses’ carcasses, and the fire-blackened foundations of the city’s only two permanent buildings. On both sides of the deserted settlement, brush as high as a man’s head covered the river’s flood plain.

Kelemvor didn’t even wonder what had happened to the nomadic city. In these times of chaos, it could have been anything.

“The winged horses are over there,” Adon said, pointing a hundred feet east of the bridge. Two pegasi were cavorting low in the sky.

“Then let’s go,” Dalzhel ordered gruffly, urging his horse forward.

Ten minutes ago, when they had first seen the pegasi, the four had debated the wisdom of chasing the winged horses. Adon had won the argument, claiming that the pegasi were as intelligent as men and might have seen some sign of Midnight and Bhaal.

Unseen to the four riders, the objects of their search were lying hidden in the closest fire-blackened foundation. Midnight was asleep, bound and gagged, her head resting on the saddlebag with the tablet. Bhaal was watching the frolicking pegasi, his eyes burning with an appetite for their lives.

Finally, the Lord of Murder could resist the temptation no longer. He decided to go after the winged horses. If Midnight tried to flee while he was gone, it was just as well. Myrkul’s plan called for her to escape near Dragonspear Castle, but Bhaal could see no harm in letting her go earlier. The fallen god thought about taking the tablet with him, but decided against it. If the mage woke and found it gone, she would realize he had lied to her about it being worthless. Besides, it would only be in his way while he hunted.

Bhaal’s contemplation came to an abrupt end when he heard a horse nicker in the brush ahead. The pegasi were still sailing through the air, but he was sure that the sound had come from the ground. That meant someone was out there. Without making a sound, the Lord of Murder climbed out of the foundation and disappeared into the heavy brush.

A minute later, when she was confident Bhaal had truly left her unattended, Midnight opened her eyes. She sat up and began pushing her hands back and forth in her bindings. The magic-user had been working her hands against the leather thongs all day, and had finally stretched them far enough that she now might be able to free herself.

Meanwhile, several hundred feet away, Dalzhel’s horse reared at the edge of a dry gully. On the opposite bank, something rustled the spindly bushes. The Zhentish lieutenant reached for his sword, then a man’s form leaped from the hedge. The horse reared again, lashing out with its fore-hooves. Two sharp cracks sounded as it struck the attacker.

The dark form growled, then grabbed one of the horse’s forelegs. There was a hollow pop, then tendons and cartilage began cracking. When the horse dropped back to the ground, whinnying in terror and pain, it was missing a leg. Dalzhel leaped free as his mount collapsed.

On the other side of the fallen horse stood Kae Deverell’s form. He hardly looked human. His body had bloated and taken on a doughy texture made more sickening by the silvery light of the luminescent clouds. Because it had been used without regard to preserving it, the body was covered with wounds and bruises from head to toe. The fecund odor of infection hung in the air around the avatar.

The four riders immediately knew they had found Bhaal—or rather, Bhaal had found them. Choking his gorge back, Kelemvor spurred his mount forward and lifted his sword. Bhaal raised his fist and rushed forward. Kelemvor transferred his free hand from the reins to the saddlehorn so he could lean down to Bhaal’s level.

They met with a crash and Kelemvor’s sword sliced into soft flesh. However, Bhaal’s fist also found its mark. The warrior slipped from his stirrups and landed on his back. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Cyric came next, leaping over Kelemvor the instant the fighter hit the ground. The thief’s sword flashed. A sharp hiss sounded as its red blade bit into the avatar. Bhaal roared in anger and turned. The Lord of Murder grabbed a handful of hide, then tore a long strip of flesh off the flank of the thief’s horse. Cyric’s mount screeched in alarm and kicked, throwing its rider.

As Cyric fell, Bhaal retreated into the hedge on the far bank.

Adon spurred his mount forward, barely clearing Kelemvor as the warrior tried to rise. The horse’s hooves landed in front of Kelemvor’s nose, then Adon galloped on in pursuit of Bhaal. The cleric’s horse crashed into the hedge and slowed to a dead stop, unable to penetrate the thick brush into which Bhaal had disappeared. The horse then slipped down a steep bank and stumbled, spilling Adon onto the creek’s bed.

By the time the young cleric and his three companions recovered, Bhaal was gone. Cyric’s horse had run off. Kelemvor’s and Adon’s mounts were nervously pacing up and down the dry wash. Dalzhel’s horse lay on the ground whimpering. Its left leg had been snapped off at the knee, leaving a white, rounded knob exposed.

Approaching the wounded beast from behind, Dalzhel quickly ended his mount’s suffering. Afterward, he said, “No animal should have to face the likes of that.”

“Nor any man,” Adon replied. “But here we are.”

Cyric quickly joined them. His eyes sparkled with excitement and the blade of his sword was deep red. “Dalzhel, take the point,” he ordered. “Kel, Adon, take the flanks. We’ll flush him out.”

“And do what?” Dalzhel demanded.

The burly Zhentilar seemed a prudent and not altogether evil man, and Kelemvor had trouble understanding why Dalzhel followed the likes of Cyric. In the three days they had ridden together, Kelemvor had come to regard the man not altogether unkindly.

“We’ll kill Bhaal, of course!” Cyric said.

“You’re mad,” Kelemvor replied, shaking his head.

Cyric turned. “Mad?” he exclaimed. The thief lifted his sword, being careful not to appear threatening. He merely wanted Kelemvor to look at the blade. “Mad? … perhaps. But with this, I wounded Bhaal. Imagine, I injured a god!”

“We chased him away,” Adon said, “that’s all.” He picked something out of the sand, then held it up for the others to see. It was a dirty, bloated thing: a hand severed at the wrist. “We can hack the avatar to pieces, but we’ll never kill Bhaal.”

“No,” Cyric insisted. “I can destroy him—I can feel it!”

“Maybe we’ll kill Bhaal and maybe we won’t,” Kelemvor grumbled. “But that’s not why we’re here. We came to find Midnight.”

“Look!” Adon pointed skyward. The clouds had arranged themselves into a mass of perfect rhombuses. But that was not what had excited the cleric. The pegasi were flying away.

“They’re fleeing!” Adon said. “They must have seen Bhaal.”

Kelemvor nodded. “We’ve got to hurry!”

“Why?” Dalzhel asked. “Adon just said we couldn’t—”

“Bhaal has Midnight and the tablet. He could be leaving,” the green-eyed fighter replied.

By the time Kelemvor finished the sentence, Cyric was halfway up the bank. Kelemvor was soon close behind the thief. Adon and Dalzhel had no choice except to follow.

At the top of the gully, they split into two groups. Dalzhel and Cyric took the left flank, Adon and Kelemvor the right. In the heavy brush, the two pairs soon lost sight of each other. Kelemvor and Adon moved as quietly as possible, as much to hide their position from Cyric as from Bhaal. Midnight was here somewhere. If they found her, the thief would turn on them the instant she was safe. They preferred to make that eventuality as difficult as possible.

Dalzhel’s surprised yell announced that he and Cyric had found the Lord of Murder. Kelemvor and Adon went toward the scream, moving as rapidly as possible without making much noise. When they finally reached the battle, it nearly took Kelemvor by surprise. Dalzhel’s burly form rushed past him a few yards ahead, his black armor gleaming in the glowing clouds’ silvery light. Bhaal was only four steps behind the Zhentish lieutenant. Then came Cyric, slipping noiselessly behind the foul god, maneuvering for a surprise attack.

Kelemvor started forward, but Adon quickly pulled him back. “Let them deal with Bhaal,” the cleric whispered. “We should find Midnight.”

Without warning, Bhaal stopped and spun on his pursuer, jabbing at Cyric with the sharp bone protruding from his severed wrist. The fallen god followed the jab with an openhanded strike from his other hand. Cyric barely dodged the blows, then returned the attack with a wild slash and backed away.

Dalzhel finally noticed his pursuer had turned on his commander, then stopped and turned around. Moving cautiously but quickly, he advanced on Bhaal’s back.

The Lord of Murder ignored the other Zhentilar and moved toward Cyric. The god’s attention was focused intently on the red blade, as if it was his only concern. The thief stopped, then made a foolhardy lunge. Bhaal dodged easily, but Cyric followed the blow with a ferocious kick and caught the avatar in the ribs.

Bhaal did not fall. Instead, he grabbed Cyric’s leg and grinned. Remembering what Bhaal had done to Dalzhel’s horse, the thief turned and tried to dive away. Luckily, Cyric pulled his leg free and landed in a somersault. Bhaal sneered and advanced, moving out of Dalzhel’s striking range just as the Zhentilar lifted his sword.

Afraid to take the time necessary to stand, Cyric continued forward with a series of rolls. Bhaal followed three feet behind, prepared to strike the instant the thief stopped moving.

“They need help!” Kelemvor whispered.

“Do you think they’d help us?” Adon objected.

“No, but—”

“Save your strength,” the cleric insisted. “Whether it’s Bhaal or Cyric, there’s no doubt we’ll have to kill the winner.”

If Cyric had been fighting the God of Assassins alone, Kelemvor would have honored Adon’s wish without hesitation. The thief deserved to die. But so far, Dalzhel had treated them fairly. Kelemvor did not like standing by while the Zhentish lieutenant risked his life.

Sensing his friend’s thoughts, Adon suggested a more compelling reason to stay out of the action, “Now’s our best chance to free Midnight … while Cyric keeps Bhaal busy.”

Kelemvor sighed and nodded. “Then let’s go find her.”

Adon started crawling around the melee.

Only two hundred feet away, Midnight had finally pulled a hand free of her bindings. A few moments earlier, she had heard a scream in the brush and knew that Bhaal was attacking someone. Though Midnight had no idea who the victim was, the magic-user wanted to help him. She freed herself from the leather thongs and her gag, gingerly laid the saddlebags over her raw shoulder, then peered over the edge of the foundation.

As Kelemvor and Adon circled around the battle, the warrior could not help pausing to watch. Dalzhel finally caught Bhaal and swung with his mightiest stroke. His blade whistled straight for the avatar’s neck.

The Lord of Murder ducked the attack with casual ease. He turned and met Dalzhel with his stump, plunging the sharp bone deep into the soldier’s shoulder. Dalzhel screamed and dropped his sword, but did not fall or retreat. Instead, the Zhentilar stepped forward to wrestle the god, tearing at the avatar’s eyes with his left hand.

Cyric used this respite to good effect, standing and moving toward Bhaal. Once again, the avatar had turned his back to the thief. Cyric lifted his sword and charged, hoping to take advantage of the distraction Dalzhel provided by wrestling with the fallen god.

Adon grabbed Kelemvor’s shoulder, tearing his attention away from the battle. “Who’s that?”

The cleric pointed at a dark silhouette creeping toward the battle on its hands and knees. Through the heavy brush and in the dim light, Kelemvor could not see the shadow well enough to see who it was, or even if it was a man or a woman.

“I can’t tell,” Kelemvor said softly. “But whoever it is, he’s interested in this fight.” He glanced back to the battle.

Cyric was at Bhaal’s back. The thief attacked with a vicious slash he hoped would cleave the avatar down to the breast bone. But Bhaal heard him coming and, easily breaking free of Dalzhel’s hold, pivoted out of the way. The God of Assassins caught Cyric’s arm, then used the thief’s own momentum to throw him ten feet into the brush.

As Cyric sailed past, Dalzhel snatched his sword off the ground, then plunged the blade into the avatar’s rib cage. Bhaal snarled and kicked the Zhentish soldier in the stomach. Dalzhel fell backward and landed with a crash.

The Lord of Murder casually plucked Dalzhel’s sword from between his ribs and tossed it aside. Then he leaped onto his opponent’s prone form, thrusting the splintered stump of his wrist into Dalzhel’s throat. Dalzhel screamed once, then fell quiet.

Cyric scrambled to his feet, shaking his head. He had heard Dalzhel’s scream and knew that Bhaal had killed his lieutenant. Though the thief did not feel anything resembling grief, there was a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Dalzhel had been a valuable aid, and Cyric would miss his service.

Upon hearing the terrible scream, Midnight knew Bhaal had killed again. Then, through the brush, she saw the avatar rise and turn toward another victim. The magic-user could not see who Bhaal was attacking, for the evening’s silvery light was too dim to reveal his face at this distance. But whoever it was, Midnight did not want to abandon him to the fallen god.

The magic-user summoned the incantation for a lightning bolt. Since imprisoning Bhaal at High Horn, she had not used her magic successfully. There was no reason to believe it would work now, but that did not matter. She could not help Bhaal’s victims any other way, and if she did nothing, the Lord of Murder would kill them anyway. As soon as the proper gestures and words came to mind, the magic-user stood and pointed at the avatar.

Adon and Kelemvor both saw the silhouette rise, then they heard a feminine voice reciting an incantation.

“Magic!” The men hissed the words in the same instant. They pressed their bodies flat to the ground. Neither knew what to expect, but both were sure it would be hazardous.

Midnight finished her incantation and a lightning bolt shot from her finger. Then, it abruptly gathered into a brilliant ball of sputtering light. The bright sphere rose over the thicket, hanging behind Kelemvor and Adon like a tiny star. The shining globe illuminated the ground within a hundred yards as clearly as if it were the midday sun.

In the bright light, Kelemvor and Adon immediately recognized the dark-haired spellcaster. “Midnight!” they cried, rising simultaneously.

Bhaal and Cyric also noticed the tiny sun’s appearance, but could not see what had caused it. The globe hung between them and Midnight. All they could see was a circle of brilliant light.

Cyric swore, then focused all of his attention on the avatar. He did not know what had caused the light. What he did know was that, without Dalzhel’s aid, he was no longer a match for the Lord of Murder. The thief wasted no time cursing Kelemvor and Adon for abandoning him. He knew he’d been a fool for expecting them to come to his aid.

After squinting at the miniature sun for a moment, the Lord of Murder nonchalantly turned back to the thief and advanced. Cyric slashed. Bhaal easily dodged, slapping the thief’s sword hand aside. Cyric kicked, hoping to keep his attacker away. The avatar blocked the foot, then stepped in close and clipped his opponent’s jaw with a fist as hard as stone.

Cyric’s ears rang and his head swam. He tried to swing his sword, but Bhaal hit him once more. The thief felt his body going limp. The Lord of Murder struck his jaw again, then his stomach, then continued pummeling Cyric until he dropped his weapon and flopped to the ground in a half-conscious heap.

While Bhaal battered Cyric, Adon and Kelemvor rushed toward Midnight. The magic-user’s miscast lightning bolt hung at their backs, its overpowering glow casting their faces into deep shadows. It did not matter. Midnight recognized their voices and rushed to meet them.

“How did you find me?” the raven-haired mage cried, hugging Kelemvor. She spun him around so the miniature sun was at her back and she could see his face. “Never mind. It’s just good to see both of you. I’m so glad you’re still—”

The magic-user broke off in midsentence. She was going to say “alive,” which returned her thoughts to whoever was currently fighting the God of Assassins. She still had not seen his face.

“Who’s fighting Bhaal?” she asked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. She still could not take her eyes off Kelemvor’s face.

Kelemvor and Adon looked toward the fight, squinting against the glare of the miniature sun. “Cyric,” Kelemvor answered. “We’re working together—”

Midnight raised an eyebrow. “Together?”

“It’s a long story,” Adon said. “We don’t have time to explain—”

The miniature sun flared brilliant white, sending daggers of pain through the eyes of both Kelemvor and Adon. Then a thunderclap sounded and a shock wave knocked them to the ground.

After the blinding flash, the thicket grew relatively dim. Only the silvery incandescence of the geometric clouds lit the brush. Bhaal dropped Cyric, battered and bloody, and looked to where the globe of light had been.

Fifty feet away, Midnight was picking herself up off the ground, but her two companions still lay holding their hands over their eyes.

“You escaped,” Bhaal called to the mage. “I’ll have to punish you for that.”

Without responding, Midnight looked from Bhaal to Cyric’s bruised and bloodied body, then back to the avatar’s face. Without taking her eyes off the vile god, she retrieved the saddlebags from where they had fallen, then laid them over her shoulder. To her friends, she hissed, “Get up!”

But Kelemvor and Adon had been looking toward the ball of light when it had burst. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing but white.

“I’m blind!” Kelemvor cried.

To his left, Adon groaned. “I—I can’t see anything either!”

“Then be quiet!” Midnight said. “Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

The magic-user did not need to worry. Bhaal was thinking about other things. It had never occurred to him that, upon slipping her bonds, Midnight would not flee immediately. Now he had to recapture her or the woman would know that he had let her escape. If that happened, she might figure out what he and Myrkul really wanted from her. The fallen god walked toward Midnight.

“Stay where you are,” Midnight warned.

Bhaal snickered. “Why? You don’t have the power to kill me—yet.”

Before Kelemvor’s eyes, the white faded to gray. Perhaps his blindness was temporary.

“We’ve got to do something,” Adon whispered. His vision had returned enough so that he could vaguely see a shape advancing toward Midnight.

“What?” Kelemvor responded.

“Attack. Perhaps Midnight—”

“We can’t. I’m still blind!”

Adon fell silent, knowing Kelemvor was right. Unable to see clearly, they would only get in the way.

As the Lord of Murder walked toward the mage, Cyric began to stir. The thief was surprised he was still alive, for Bhaal’s blows had felt like hammer strikes. He ached from head to toe, and the simple act of breathing sent waves of agony through his torso. Still, Cyric knew that if he did not act, he would lose his chance to capture Midnight and the Tablet of Fate.

He retrieved his sword. “You’ve tasted Bhaal’s blood,” he whispered. “If you want more, help me.”

Yes, more, the sword responded. I’ll help you. The words came to mind in a sultry female voice.

The sword’s hilt warmed in his hand and Cyric felt vigor and strength flow back into his body. He rose to his knees, then stood and stumbled after the Lord of Murder.

Bhaal stopped moving forward. “Surrender, Midnight.” As an afterthought, he added, “And give me the tablet.”

“No,” Midnight replied, stepping away.

“You have no choice,” Bhaal said, gesturing at Kelemvor’s prone form.

Midnight summoned the incantation for another lightning bolt, then pointed at Bhaal. “I have plenty of choices. Most of them involve killing you.”

The Lord of Murder studied the woman, uncomfortably, knowing she might be able to carry out her threat. “Destroying my avatar will kill your friends—and possibly you, too,” the god said. “You know that.”

Midnight frowned, remembering the immense power that Torm and Bane’s destruction had unleashed outside Tantras. And Mystra’s death had leveled a castle in Cormyr. This time, at least, Bhaal was telling the truth. She could not kill him without destroying her friends.

Then she saw Cyric creeping up behind Bhaal, his sword poised to strike. The thief’s body looked battered beyond recognition. Midnight found it incredible that Cyric could still move, much less move as silently as he did.

“You have no choice,” the Lord of Murder repeated.

Before Bhaal could notice she was looking elsewhere, Midnight returned her attention to the god’s face.

“I’ll destroy you anyway,” she said. “What do I have to lose?”

Cyric was only two steps away from Bhaal. Midnight let the lightning bolt drop from her mind, then called the incantation for a teleportation spell. The mage knew that her plan was born of desperation, for she could not remember the last time her magic had worked properly. But if it worked at all, the results would be better than surrendering to Bhaal—or dying in the explosion if Cyric’s attack was successful.

Bhaal twisted Deverell’s torn lips into a smile. “If you do as I ask, your friends will live.”

Cyric’s boot scraped a rock. The avatar’s face betrayed alarm and he whirled. The thief brought his red blade down and plunged it deep into Bhaal’s breast.

“You fool!” the Lord of Murder screamed.

The blade’s color deepened to vibrant burgundy, and the fallen god howled in rage. His roar was as loud as thunder and as eerie as the wail of a ghost.

“At least I killed a god before I died,” Cyric said triumphantly through clenched teeth. At the same time, the raven-haired mage uttered the words to her incantation.

Bhaal’s scream ended and his body exploded. Then the earth dropped away beneath Midnight and her allies.

A flickering ocher flame. A candle stuck in a bottle in the center of a wooden table, its wood, gray and cracked and as dry as tinder. A flimsy, unpadded chair in a dark, wet room hidden in the sewers of Waterdeep.

This was what his glory had come to.

Ao would pay, Myrkul swore. The Lord of the Dead did not enjoy modesty in accommodation, he did not enjoy hiding from mortals, and he most certainly did not enjoy being confined to the Realms. For all these indignities, Ao—and Helm—would pay.

But he had to be careful. The Lord of the Dead had seen what came of carelessness. Tantras had been a disaster, and it had only been through his foresight that Myrkul had not suffered the same fate as Bane. He was in the realm of mortals now. In a certain sense he was mortal, for now he could perish—as Bane and Mystra and Torm had perished.

Imagine, the Ruler of the Dead dying. The thought would have made Myrkul laugh, had it not been so unnerving.

No, it would not do to go meeting rivals head-to-head. He had to remain hidden, where enemies could not find him, where they had no reason to suspect his presence. He had to work through agents, to plot out intricate plans and alternate contingencies, as he had concerning Midnight and the Tablets of Fate.

It would have been a simple matter to kill the dark-haired magic-user and take the tablet she held. The Lord of the Dead had agents and priests all over the land, and no one could survive the unrelenting series of attacks he could bring to bear. But then his followers would have had to deliver the tablet to him in Waterdeep, and none were as capable a deliveryperson as Midnight.

Of course, Myrkul had no intention of letting the woman keep the tablet. He would not feel secure until both Tablets of Fate were in his hands. Indirectly, that was why he had not ordered the magic-user’s death. He needed her to go to Bone Castle and recover the second tablet, too.

The Lord of the Dead had plans within plans, and they all depended on the woman. Bhaal had simply wanted to capture Midnight’s entire company, then use her friends as hostages to force her to recover the second tablet. But so far, Midnight had displayed an alarming fortitude, and Myrkul believed she would easily thwart such crude methods of persuasion. It was wiser to trick her into doing his will, to make her think that retrieving the second tablet was her idea. To accomplish this, Bhaal had captured her, then let her “trick” him into revealing the second tablet’s hiding place.

Even this plan had a weakness, and the Lord of the Dead was not blind to it. Once the woman had both tablets, she could easily return them to Helm. To prevent that, Myrkul had instructed Bhaal to let her escape near Dragonspear Castle once she knew about the castle’s hidden entrance to the Realm of the Dead.

At Dragonspear, Myrkul had prepared a trap to recover the first tablet. This trap would also force Midnight to go to the Realm of the Dead to recover the tablet in Bone Castle. Of course, no strategy could foresee every eventuality. That was why Myrkul made a habit of contacting Bhaal to confirm that everything was proceeding according to plan.

The Lord of the Dead concentrated on the candlelight. The flame wavered and flared. Myrkul waited, expecting it to coalesce itself into the ugly, bloated head of Bhaal’s avatar.

But the flame remained a flame.

Myrkul tried once more to work his variation of a commune spell, and again the flame remained a flame. The Lord of the Dead considered the possibility that magical chaos had caused his spell to fail, but rejected the idea. If the failure had been due to chaos, the magic would likely have misfired somehow. His spell had simply failed to go off.

That could only mean Bhaal had perished. The avatar had been destroyed and the Lord of Murder’s essence had been dispersed through the Realms and the Planes. The thought distressed Myrkul, and not only because it reminded him of his own mortality. Of all the gods, perhaps he and Bhaal had been the closest. Bhaal presided over the process of death and killing, while Myrkul had dominion over those already dead. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. One could hardly exist without the other.

Myrkul allowed himself a moment of distress for his fellow god’s passing, then turned his thoughts back to his plans. The last time they had communed, Bhaal had reported that the woman knew about the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. Therefore, she would be going toward Dragonspear Castle. His plan remained unchanged, save that the woman would arrive at the castle unescorted. He could still spring his surprise and separate her from the first tablet.

But Myrkul was far from happy. If she had defeated Bhaal, Midnight possessed the power to counter his trap and take the first tablet with her into the Realm of the Dead. Then, if she succeeded at Bone Castle, she would have both tablets. After returning to the Realms, it would be a simple matter to find a Celestial Stairway and present them to Helm.

If that happened, Myrkul would be defeated.

He and Bane were the ones who had stolen the Tablets of Fate. By now, Ao had surely discovered that, and Myrkul doubted there would be a reward if he returned what he had stolen in the first place. Though the Lord of the Dead had not revealed this to Bhaal, he had no use for either of the tablets. His sole purpose for recovering them was to be sure that no one ever returned them to the Planes, for Myrkul suspected the overlord of the gods would destroy him as soon as the tablets were recovered.

But the Lord of the Dead knew that preventing the return of the tablets was a temporary solution. Sooner or later, Ao would grow tired of waiting and deal out his punishment anyway. If Myrkul wanted to survive, he had to strike first. And that was why, through another complicated series of plots, the Lord of the Dead had arranged for Midnight to recover the second tablet.

After stealing the Tablets of Fate, Myrkul and Bane had each taken one and hidden it away. Bane had placed his in Tantras. Myrkul had hidden his tablet in Bone Castle, in the heart of the Realm of the Dead. To prevent anybody from stealing the artifact, the Lord Myrkul had placed a trap on it.

The minute Midnight took the second tablet out of the Realm of the Dead, she would release the realm’s denizens and all the spirits of the dead. When that happened, Myrkul intended to be waiting. He would kill Midnight and take the second tablet from her. Then, utilizing the same methods he used to power Bane’s avatar in Tantras, he would harness the souls of the dead—this time for his own avatar.

After that, he would be prepared to meet Ao. Myrkul was far from certain that even given the energy of millions of souls, he would prevail. Above all, the Lord of the Dead hated to reveal himself to his enemies. Still, this desperate plan was his only chance to turn defeat into victory.

But, if Midnight took her tablet to the Realm of the Dead, Myrkul’s plan would grow even more dangerous. When she returned to the Realms with both tablets, it would prove difficult to find her in the confusion accompanying the emergence of his denizens. The mage would be able to slip away and take the tablets to Helm.

The safest plan, Myrkul knew, was to make sure she did not take the first tablet into the Realm of the Dead with her. He would have to take extra precautions at Dragonspear Castle to insure the mage lost the tablet she had recovered in Tantras.

The sword remained in his hand. Cyric knew that and no more. His thoughts drifted aimlessly through the fog that had become his mind.

He felt as though he had been beaten to death.

Fists. Fists as hard as stone. Bhaal, beating him senseless, smashing his jaw and ribs and nose, finally stopping and leaving the job undone. Then Cyric remembered rising to his feet, despite his serious injuries, and stabbing the Lord of Murder.

That had been his undoing. The avatar had turned white and flashed into oblivion. Cyric wondered where he himself was now. Probably the Realm of the Dead, he thought for an instant.

No, he was alive. His head hurt too much, and the agony in his ribs came only when he breathed. He felt as though he had been trampled.

The hawk-nosed man opened his eyes and found it was dark. He lay face down in snow, apparently in the middle of a road. Around him, three figures were rising to their feet.

“Where are we?” Adon asked, studying the snow-covered fields on both sides of the road. His vision had completely recovered.

“Farther up the road to Waterdeep, I hope,” Midnight answered wearily. “That’s where I was trying to take us, anyway.” Her limbs felt heavy with fatigue. Her last incantation had been taxing on her body.

“How’d we get here?” Kelemvor muttered, rubbing his eyes. His vision had partially returned, but the fighter still saw spots of light dancing across the snowy landscape.

“I teleported us,” the mage replied. “Don’t ask me to explain how.”

Cyric decided to remain motionless. He was outnumbered three-to-one and doubted that he could have moved even if he tried. With the return of full consciousness, his pain had grown worse.

Kelemvor chuckled, a bit nervously. “It’s good to see you again!” he said, hugging Midnight. Back at Boareskyr Bridge, their initial greeting had been too hurried for his liking. “I can hardly believe you’re alive!”

“Why should that surprise you?” Midnight asked, returning his hug warmly.

Assuming a stern tone, Adon grumbled, “After the way you ran off—”

“It’s a good thing I did,” Midnight interrupted, freeing herself from Kelemvor. She could not believe how quickly the cleric’s condescending manner had set her nerves on edge. “Or you’d both be dead!”

“We’d be dead?” Adon exclaimed, stepping backward in frustration. “Bhaal didn’t—”

Before the cleric finished, he tripped over Cyric and crashed to the ground. Only Adon’s scream of astonishment kept the wounded thief’s muffled groan from being heard. Cyric kept his eyes closed and did not move. His only hope was to convince his rivals that he was harmless.

Kelemvor came over and casually kicked Cyric’s body. “Look what’s lying here in the road like a dungheap!” the warrior growled. He felt the pulse in Cyric’s neck. “And he’s alive!”

The thief made sure he had a solid grip on his sword.

“Cyric!” Adon hissed, standing and turning to Midnight. “Why’d you bring him?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t intentional,” Midnight snapped, frowning at the thief’s immobile body. “Besides, I thought you were working with him.”

“We were,” Kelemvor said. His sword scraped free of its scabbard. “But we’re finished with that now.”

Cyric peeked out of a half-opened eye, trying to find the strength to lift his sword.

Adon stepped between Kelemvor’s blade and Cyric’s body. “We can’t kill him in cold blood.”

“What?” the warrior demanded. “Ten minutes ago, you wouldn’t let me fight Bhaal with him.” He tried to step around the cleric.

“At that time, he was dangerous to us,” Adon said, shuffling to keep himself between the warrior’s sword and the motionless thief. “That’s not true any longer.”

“I saw him slay a drowning halfling and torture another,” Midnight objected, pointing an accusing finger at Cyric’s head.

“We can’t kill him while he’s helpless,” Adon insisted. He looked past Kelemvor and addressed the magic-user.

Midnight, however, was not easily convinced. “Cyric deserves to die.”

“It’s not our right to judge our fellows,” Adon said softly, still holding off the fighter. “Any more than it was the right of the Harpers to condemn you and I to death.”

Kelemvor frowned at that memory, then sheathed his weapon. During the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster had disappeared. The locals had leaped to the conclusion that someone had murdered the sage, then falsely accused Adon and Midnight of the crime. Had Cyric not broken them out of jail, the pair would have been executed.

“This is different,” Midnight insisted. “He betrayed us, and he played me for a fool.” She reached for Kelemvor’s sword.

The warrior placed a restraining hand on his hilt. “No,” he said. “Adon’s right.”

“If we kill him,” Adon said, waving a hand at Cyric’s helpless form. “We’re murderers—just like he is. Do you want that?”

Midnight pondered that for a moment, then jerked her hand away from the sword. “Leave him, then. He’ll die anyway.” She turned and started up the road.

Kelemvor looked to Adon for instruction.

“We shouldn’t kill a helpless man,” the cleric said. “But we don’t have to help him, either. He can’t do us any more harm. He’s lost his men and if we hurry, we’ll put some miles between us before he wakes up.” He started after Midnight. “Let’s hurry, before she disappears again.”

They caught Midnight quickly, then Kelemvor asked, “Where are we going?”

Midnight paused.

Though just barely, she was still within Cyric’s earshot. Had she looked at the thief, she might have noticed him turning his head to hear her answer.

“I’m going to Dragonspear Castle,” the raven-haired mage said, her hands on her hips.

“Then we’re all going to Dragonspear Castle,” Adon noted calmly. “Are Kelemvor and I going to have to split the watch to keep you from sneaking off, Midnight?”

“The gods themselves are against me,” the magic-user warned, looking from the cleric to Kelemvor, then back again. “You’ll be risking your lives.”

“We’d be risking more by leaving you alone,” Adon retorted, a smile growing on his face.

Kelemvor caught Midnight’s elbow and turned her so he could look straight into her eyes. “Gods or no gods,” he said firmly, “I’m with you, Midnight.”

Midnight was warmed by the devotion of her friends, but still was not ready to accept their offer. Though she was talking to both Adon and Kelemvor, she looked only into the warrior’s eyes as she spoke. “The choice is yours, but you’d better hear me out before you decide. Somewhere below Dragonspear Castle, there’s a bridge to the Realm of the Dead.”

“In Waterdeep?” Kelemvor cried incredulously. He was thinking of the city’s famous cemetery, which was properly known as “The City of the Dead.”

“No, the Realm of the Dead,” the mage corrected. Then Midnight looked at Adon. “The other tablet is in Myrkul’s castle.”

Kelemvor and Adon stared at each other in dumfounded silence, hardly believing that she meant the resting place of souls.

“Don’t feel bad if you choose to go home,” Midnight replied, interpreting their astonishment as hesitancy. She gently removed her elbow from Kelemvor’s grasp. “I really don’t think you should come anyway.”

“I thought the choice was ours,” Adon said, snapping out of his shock.

“Aye! You’re not going to lose us that easy,” Kelemvor added, taking Midnight by the arm again.

It was Midnight’s turn to be astonished. She had not allowed herself to hope that Kelemvor and Adon would want to accompany her. But now that they had declared their intention to do just that, she felt less lonely and immeasurably more confident. Midnight threw herself into Kelemvor’s arms and kissed him long and hard.