Waterdeep

13 Dark Awakening

Midnight woke from a deep slumber, her body sore and stiff. She had been dreaming of a dry bed in a warm inn, so the mage was confused and disoriented when she opened her eyes and found something else. The gloom was so thick she couldn’t see her own nose, and she was lying face down on cool sand, half in, half out of lapping water. Behind her, a waterfall pounded the surface of a small pool.

The waterfall reminded Midnight of her journey down the subterranean stream and the unpleasant drop through the whirlpool. The magic-user had landed in the dark pond behind her. After that, she had floated aimlessly until she’d reached the shore upon which she now lay.

Midnight had no way of knowing it, but that had been ten hours ago. Fatigued from the misfired cone of cold and the struggle in the stream, her body had collapsed into a restorative sleep as soon as immediate danger passed. The mage now felt physically and mentally rejuvenated, but was still emotionally exhausted. Adon was dead, and that knowledge blackened the joy and wonder of her own survival.

Midnight wanted to blame somebody for Adon’s death, and Kelemvor was the easiest one to condemn. If the warrior had not insisted upon aiding the caravan, the zombies would never have trapped the party and Cyric would not have caught them unprepared.

But such reasoning was weak, and Midnight knew it. There were too many coincidences and contingencies. That Cyric would recover so quickly had been unthinkable, and the magic-user still could not imagine how he had. But given the fact that he had, it was inevitable that the thief would catch up and attack. Midnight had been just as blind to that possibility as Kelemvor, and it was not fair to blame the warrior for not foreseeing what she had also failed to predict.

If the blame for Adon’s death lay with anybody, Midnight thought it lay with her. She should never have let her friends convince her not to kill Cyric when she had the chance. The magic-user alone had seen how brutal the thief had grown, and she should have known that his willpower and ruthlessness would give him the strength to pursue them.

She would not make the same mistake again. There was nothing she could do to bring Adon back. But if she ever escaped from this cavern and saw Cyric again, she would avenge the cleric’s death.

The thought of escaping the cavern turned Midnight’s thoughts to Kelemvor, whom she assumed was also in the cave. The warrior had splashed into the stream after her, and that had been the last she’d heard of him. It did not seem unreasonable to assume he had dropped through the whirlpool behind her. He could be sitting thirty feet away, thinking himself alone in dark.

“Kelemvor!” Midnight called, rising to her feet.

Her voice echoed off the cavern’s unseen walls, barely audible above the roar of the waterfall.

“Kelemvor, where are you?”

Again, the only answer was her echo.

A depressing thought occurred to her. She had avoided drowning, but that was no guarantee the fighter had. After all, Kelemvor had been carrying the tablet. It would have been difficult to keep from drowning while holding onto the saddlebags.

“Kelemvor,” she called, more desperately. “Answer me!”

He did not answer.

Picturing Kelemvor’s drowned body floating beneath the waterfall, Midnight drew her dagger. She summoned the incantation to create magical light and performed it. The dagger began glowing with a brilliant white light. It suddenly grew extremely hot and she dropped it, her fingers searing with pain. The magic-user kneeled and thrust her hand into the pool’s cool water, irritated that her magic had misfired.

Still, the dagger glowed brightly enough for Midnight to see that she was on the shore of a dark pond. Twenty feet away, the waterfall poured into the cave from a hole in the ceiling, churning the surface of the pond into a dark froth. The ceiling was fifteen feet high and vaulted like the interior of a cathedral. Hundreds of stalactites hung from it, their tips glistening with moisture. Drooping spheres of minerals, with skins as rough and pebbly as dragonhide, sprouted from the walls. In every corner, murky tunnels and alcoves ran back into the depths of the cave.

“Kel!” Midnight called again.

Her voice echoed off the walls, then faded into the sound of the waterfall. She was alone, lost underground. Adon was dead and Kelemvor was gone—maybe dead as well.

As if to emphasize the mage’s morbid point, her dagger’s light suddenly dimmed and changed to a red hue. She looked down and saw that it had become a puddle of molten iron. It was slowly trickling away, taking the last vestiges of light with it and leaving Midnight in the dark once more.

The magic-user considered her situation. First of all, even if it was impossible to find a way out of the cavern on foot, she realized she was not trapped. If the circumstances became desperate, she could try using her art to escape. Considering the unpredictability of magic, doing that would be risky. But if there was no other option, Midnight would not hesitate to trust her luck.

Once the mage realized she had a way out of the cave, it became easier to think calmly. The second thing Midnight considered was that she was alone. Adon was certainly dead. If Cyric’s arrow had not killed him, the fall or the stream had. But the only proof she had that Kelemvor drowned was her own conjecture, and it was born out of solitude and fear rather than sound thinking. After all, Kelemvor was stronger than Midnight, and she had not died. Even burdened with the tablet, his chances of surviving were much greater than hers. It seemed likely that he had washed out of the water in a different part of the cavern.

Finally, Midnight realized that though she did not know where she was, it was somewhere more or less beneath Dragonspear Castle. According to Bhaal, the entrance to the Realm of the Dead was also beneath the castle’s ruins.

Midnight concluded that the smartest thing to do was explore the cavern. With luck, she would find either Kelemvor or the Realm of the Dead. Unfortunately, she would need a light. The magic-user thought of using her dagger’s molten metal to ignite something as a torch, but did not have anything with her that would burn long enough to do her any good.

She had no choice except to try using her magic again. Midnight removed her dagger’s sheath from its belt, then summoned the incantation for creating light. This time, a bright flash appeared. The unexpected burst of light hurt the mage’s eyes, leaving her stunned and dazed with white spots swimming in her vision.

A few moments later, her sight returned to normal and the mage saw that she remained in total darkness. Her magic had again failed. Midnight decided to do without light for now, then started walking along the shore of the pond. She moved slowly and carefully, testing her footing with each step and waving her hands in front of her head to locate unseen obstacles.

Every few moments, she paused to call Kelemvor. Soon, Midnight discovered that the echo of her voice provided hints about the size and shape of the cavern. The longer it took the echo to return to her, the farther away from the cavern wall she was. By turning in a circle and calling Kelemvor’s name, she could get an idea of the cavern’s shape.

Armed with this discovery, she soon circled the pond. It seemed to be about a hundred yards in diameter, though it was difficult to be sure with all of the twists and turns in its shoreline. The only audible inlet was the waterfall, and the only outlet a small brook that trickled out one end.

Since she had found no other exits, Midnight slowly walked along the brook’s edge. The magic-user constantly called Kelemvor’s name, always moving in the direction from which it took the echo the longest to return. In the complete darkness, it was difficult to guess time and distance. Still, Midnight soon realized the cave was immense.

Midnight continued to follow the water along its snaking course for what she guessed to be two hours. Occasionally, the corridor broadened into large rooms. From the echoes, it sounded as though dozens of alcoves and side passages opened off of these rooms. Although the magic-user took the time to call down these passages, she was careful not to wander away from the brook. It was the only reliable means of navigation she had. Besides, if Kelemvor had fallen through the whirlpool, she suspected the best chance of finding him lay in following the water.

Eventually, the brook entered a large room and formed another pond. Midnight carefully explored the shores of the pond, but could find no outlet. On one end of the pool, there was a gentle gurgling that suggested the water drained out through a submerged passage. The magic-user sat down in frustration.

For a long time, Midnight tried to puzzle out what might have happened to Kelemvor and what he might be doing as a result. The more she pondered the possibilities, the more it seemed that in the end, Kelemvor would go to Waterdeep. Assuming he had survived, which was the only thing the mage allowed herself to believe, the fighter knew two things that she thought would eventually force him to make that choice. First, the tablet had to be delivered to Waterdeep. Second, Midnight’s eventual destination was also the City of Splendors, and if they had a chance of meeting again, it would be there.

As the magic-user contemplated Kelemvor’s situation, a white silhouette floated into the cavern from a side passage. It was roughly the shape of a man, but appeared to be made entirely of light. It illuminated everything within twenty feet of it.

“Who are you?” Midnight called, both frightened by the form and curious about it.

The figure turned and approached to within ten feet of her, then stopped and looked her over without speaking. It had the features of a robust man: heavy beard, square jaw, and steady eyes, all formed with light. The body, also nothing more than white light, had the musculature of someone well acquainted with hard work—perhaps a blacksmith.

After studying her for a moment, the white silhouette turned away without speaking and started toward a corridor opposite the one from which it had entered.

“Wait!” Midnight called, rising. “I’m lost—help me.”

The white form paid her no more attention. The magic-user scrambled after it, struggling to stay within the small circle it illuminated. Within a few steps, the sandy shore gave way to pebbles, then the pebbles gave way to large rocks. Despite the treacherous footing, Midnight scurried along behind the white spectre, determined not to lose her light source or the mysterious silhouette.

It did not take Midnight long to notice that the apparition seemed to be following a passage running more or less in one direction. Several times, the tunnel opened into large rooms. In such chambers, Midnight feared she would lose the silhouette, for the caverns were littered with jagged boulders, sudden drops, and sloping floors. Once, she nearly stepped into a deep hole, and another time she had to leap across a crevice. Still, despite having to rush blindly through short expanses of cavern, Midnight managed to stay with the spectre.

After what must have been five hours of exhausting travel, the silhouette drifted into a vast area of darkness. The ceiling was about fifteen feet high, but Midnight could not see the far side of the chamber. As she scrambled after the spectre, the echoes of the rocks she dislodged seemed distant and subdued. The mage called out Kelemvor’s name, and the sound of her voice drifted away into darkness, giving her the impression that this chamber was immense.

Midnight continued into the room, following the glowing apparition. Five minutes later, they reached a smooth wall of quarried granite. An expert stone mason had fitted the blocks so tightly that Midnight could not have slipped a dagger’s blade into the seams. The granite itself had been cut and polished so expertly that even the finest thief would slip trying to gain a handhold on it.

The wall ran in both directions as far as the silhouette illuminated, and rose fifteen feet to butt against the ceiling. Her pulse quickening with excitement, Midnight followed the spectre along the wall, running her hand down the slick cold stones.

Finally, they intersected a stone-paved street that entered the wall. Unlike the wall itself, the road showed signs of its incredible age. Some of its cobblestones had cracked or sunk into the ground, while others had become dislodged and lay scattered about.

The street ran beneath the wall in an arched tunnel. A heavy bronze-plated portcullis sealed each end of the vault. To either side of the main arch, there were smaller vaults, just large enough for a man to stand up in. These tunnels were sealed by heavy, bronze-plated doors.

The door on the closest tunnel hung cockeyed and open, and the silhouette entered the vault without hesitation. Midnight slipped past the door and followed. Again, the workmanship in the room was flawless. Each stone was squarely cut and set into place without the tiniest gap, and the keystones had not slipped a fraction of an inch in what Midnight assumed must have been thousands of years.

At the other end of the tunnel, they reached another partially opened door, again plated in bronze. The spectre slipped past it and disappeared. Midnight quickly followed, pushing the door open. Its hinges creaked loudly from a lack of oil.

The street continued straight ahead, save that now curbstones and sidewalks lined it. On either side of the road, gray, square buildings rose to a height of two stories. Made of quarried stone, the buildings had a simple and clean architectural style. On the first floor, a rectangular door led into each dwelling, and on the second story, one or two square windows overlooked the street. Without exception, they were constructed with the finest workmanship, though Midnight did see a few signs of deterioration—loose stones and gaps in the seams between blocks.

But it was not the buildings that caught Midnight’s interest. The white spectres of a thousand men and women flitted here and there, their glowing forms illuminating the city in pale, twinkling light. The streets buzzed with the eerie cackle of their conversations.

Upon seeing so many apparitions in one place, it occurred to Midnight that this was a gathering place for shades like the one she had followed into the city. An instant later, she concluded that the glowing white forms were the souls of the dead. Noting that the soul spectres were not paying her any attention, Midnight started down the street. Though frightened, she was determined not to let that fear get in her way. If this city was the Realm of the Dead, then the other Tablet of Fate was hidden somewhere nearby. She intended to get it and leave as quickly as possible. Then she would find Kelemvor.

Halfway down the first block, a soul spectre approached Midnight. He had the form of an elderly man, with wrinkles on his brow and confused, vacant spheres of light where his eyes should have been.

“Jessica?” the man asked, reaching out for Midnight’s hand. “Is that you? I didn’t want to leave until we were together.”

Midnight recoiled, anxiously avoiding his touch. “No. You’re looking for somebody else.”

“Are you sure?” the spectre asked, disappointed. “I can’t wait much longer.”

“I’m not Jessica,” Midnight answered firmly. Then, more gently, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be along when her time comes. You can wait for her.”

“No, I can’t!” the spectre snapped. “I don’t have time—you’ll see!” With that, he turned and drifted away.

After the soul spectre left, Midnight continued down the street. Several times, shades approached her, demanding to know if she was a loved one or friend, though they seldom seemed as confused as the old man. Midnight was able to excuse herself with nothing more than polite denials, then continue on her way.

For the first two blocks, the road was lined with empty shops, often with living quarters located directly overhead. Midnight poked her head into the doors of four of the buildings as she went. Each time, a small party of spectres greeted her—twice with polite invitations to join them, once with disinterested rudeness, and once with a rather hostile demand to be left alone.

As Midnight progressed farther into the city, she grew increasingly impressed by the thoughtfulness and planning that had gone into building it. The streets all intersected at right angles, and the blocks were more or less uniform in size. But the dwellings themselves were not drab or uninteresting. The buildings had been designed with a stoic artistry. They had clean, square forms and symmetrical plans that lent themselves to function as well as beauty. Exterior walls were adorned with simple etched lines that echoed the rectangular designs of the structures. Doors were always placed in the center of the building, with an equal number of windows located in similar positions on either side of them. The simple architecture left Midnight with a relaxed, peaceful feeling.

The city’s third block was entirely taken by a single structure that rose all the way to the cavern’s roof. This building lacked both doors and windows, its only opening being a great arch located exactly in the middle of the block. Midnight went to this arch and entered the massive structure.

She emerged in a great open courtyard. On three sides, it was lined by three-story promenades. Behind the promenades, arched doorways led into spacious rooms. A massive building, supported by white columns of the finest marble, dominated the end of the courtyard to Midnight’s left. The altar in its entrance suggested it was a temple.

At the other end of the courtyard, dozens of spectres lounged on the edge of a marble fountain. In the center of the fountain, a magnificent spout of water shot high into the air and turned to mist. A strange harmony, at once unsettling and calming, radiated from the fountain, and Midnight found herself drawn toward its waters.

The spectres near the font seemed oblivious to her presence, so she approached and peered into its pool. The water was as still as ice and as black as Bhaal’s heart, but also as clear as glass. The magic-user felt as though she were looking into another world, where peace and tranquility reigned supreme.

Beneath the water lay a great plain of shimmering light. It sprawled in all directions as far as Midnight could see, and she felt as though she could see to the edge of the Realms. The plain was entirely featureless, save that millions of tiny figures milled about on it.

Gazing at the magnificent plain, a mood of serenity and destiny supplanted the mage’s sorrow concerning Adon’s loss and her anxiety about Kelemvor’s absence. She felt it would not be long before she and her old friends were reunited. Midnight did not know why she felt this way, but suspected it had something to do with the vast plain below.

A deep, rough voice interrupted the magic-user’s reverie. “I’m sorry to see you here.”

Midnight looked up and saw a spectre addressing her. The shade was familiar, and she could not help flinching. The voice belonged to Kae Deverell, but to her, the form would forever be Bhaal’s.

“Don’t be sorry,” Midnight said.

Deverell took a seat on the fountain next to her. “And your friends—I forget their names—how do they fare?”

“I don’t know about Kelemvor,” Midnight replied, “but Adon’s down here somewhere.”

“And the halfling?” Deverell asked. “What about Sneakabout?”

“He died in Yellow Snake Pass,” Midnight said. She did not elaborate. The memory of Cyric’s treachery pained her too much.

Deverell sighed. “I had hoped to hear better news.”

A spectre leaped through Deverell and dove into the fountain, then sank toward the plain in long, graceful spirals. The lord commander draped a hand into the water and watched the spectre descend with a mixture of envy and fear.

“Oblivion—how it draws us,” Deverell mused. He closed his eyes as though he were pulling a long draft from his mug back at High Horn. Though his hand did not disturb the water’s glassy surface, the dark liquid was draining away the pain and anguish that came with being dead. It was also draining away the Cormyrian’s memories of life.

At length, he withdrew his hand. The time for him to leap into the pool would come soon enough.

As soon as they died, the souls of the dead were drawn by Myrkul’s magic to one of the thousands of places like this, the Fountain of Nepenthe—a pool or well filled with the black Waters of Forgetfulness. In normal times, Myrkul’s attraction was so strong that a soul spectre would immediately leap into dark waters, then emerge on the plain on the other side.

With Myrkul barred from his home, however, his magic had been considerably weakened. Many soul spectres were finding the strength to resist his attraction—although only temporarily. All through the Realms, soul spectres were gathered outside long forgotten wells and pools and fountains, vainly attempting to resist the final call of death.

Deverell tore his thoughts away from the fountain and turned to Midnight. “Tell me, who has the tablets now? What will happen to Cormyr and the Realms?”

“Kelemvor has one of the tablets,” Midnight said, unaware that she was lying. “And the other is here somewhere.”

“Here?” Deverell asked, perplexed. “What would it be doing here?”

“It’s in Bone Castle,” Midnight explained. “Myrkul took it.”

“Then the Realms are doomed,” Deverell replied flatly.

“Unless I can get to the castle and recover the tablet,” Midnight said, dipping her fingers into the fountain’s glistening waters. Unlike Deverell, she caused expanding rings of ripples. The water both chilled and comforted her.

“Stop!” Deverell yelled, reaching for her arm. His fingers closed right through her bones, leaving the flesh cold and numb. “You’re alive!”

“Yes,” Midnight said reluctantly, unsure what to make of Deverell’s reaction.

“Pull your hand out of the water!”

Midnight obeyed, wondering if she had offended the soul spectre by touching the fountain.

This calmed Deverell. “You’re alive—and that means there is hope,” he said, “but not if you let those waters drain your memory. Now what is this about Bone Castle?”

“That’s where the other tablet is,” Midnight explained. “I’ve got to get inside and recover it. Can you take me there?”

Deverell’s form grew even whiter, if that was possible. “No,” he muttered and turned away. “I’m not ready for the Fountain of Nepenthe. And even if I was, I’ve never been to the Realm of the Dead.”

“This isn’t it?” Midnight demanded.

“Not by an arrow’s long flight,” Deverell said, shaking his head. “We’re in Kanaglym, according to the others.”

“Kanaglym?”

“Built by the dwarves when the High Moor was fertile and warm.”

Midnight could not imagine a time when the High Moor was fertile, much less warm. “But there are no dwarves here now,” she observed, looking around the fountain.

“No,” Deverell agreed. “They never inhabited it, at least not for long. The town well ran dry within a year of Kanaglym’s completion. The dwarves sank a deeper well on the site of the old one. Eventually, they struck a limitless supply of water: the Waters of Forgetfulness.

“Within a month, they realized their mistake and renamed their beautiful well the Fountain of Nepenthe. A month after that, most of them abandoned Kanaglym completely. Those who were too stubborn to evacuate simply forgot where they lived and wandered off into the dark.”

“Then this isn’t Myrkul’s realm,” Midnight sighed. “Bhaal said there was an entrance to the Realm of the Dead below Dragonspear. I thought I had found it.”

“That you have,” Deverell responded, nodding toward the fountain.

“Under the water?”

“Aye. The dwarves dug this well so deep they struck Myrkul’s domain,” Deverell explained.

“It should be easy to reach, then,” Midnight said, peering into the dark pool. “A simple water-breathing—”

“No,” Deverell interrupted. “Not through the water. It drains your emotions and your memories.”

Midnight was not worried. “I have other ways to pass.” She was thinking specifically of teleporting, but a better idea presented itself to her. It was something called a worldwalk, which created an ultra-dimensional connection between planes.

Midnight had never heard of that spell before, but she had a good idea why she would be able to use it. Then, without giving the matter any conscious thought, she realized she knew not only how to perform the incantation, but how it was constructed, the theory that made it work, and that Elminster had developed the original spell.

The magic-user was astonished. There was no reason she should know all that. The information had simply come to her. She decided to see what else she could do. Midnight searched her memory for a complete listing of Elminster’s spells. Her mind was immediately flooded with the incantations for, construction of, and theory behind every spell Elminster knew, which seemed an endless list of magic. Reeling from the plethora of information, she turned her thoughts away from the ancient mage’s magic. Remembering an interesting spell she had once witnessed, in which a mage interposed a disembodied magical hand between himself and an attacker, Midnight explored her mind for information about that spell. Again, she immediately discovered that she knew everything about it, from how to perform the incantation to the fact that a wizard named Bigby had invented it several centuries ago.

Somehow, Midnight realized, she had acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of magic, almost as though she had access to a mystical book containing every spell ever invented. There was no doubt that this new ability was related to Mystra’s power, but the magic-user did not understand why it had come to her at this particular moment. Perhaps it was because she was so close to an exit from the Realms. Or perhaps it was simply another development in her expanding relationship to the planet’s magical weave. Whatever the reason, Midnight could not help but feel encouraged. She would certainly need every advantage available if she was to recover the Tablet of Fate from Bone Castle.

Contemplating the task of recovering the tablet brought Midnight’s thoughts back to Deverell and his interest in helping her. Turning to the lord commander, she asked, “You’re already dead, so what do you care what happens to the Realms?”

“A man’s honor does not die with his body,” Deverell replied. “As a Harper, I swore to uphold the good and combat evil wherever I found it. That vow will bind me until …” He nodded toward the fountain.

“I hope that’s a long time,” Midnight responded.

Deverell did not reply, for he knew that he didn’t have the willpower to resist the fountain much longer. “You look tired. Perhaps you should rest before you go,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”

“I think I will,” Midnight replied. She did not know how long it had been since she had slept, but the mage suspected that there would be little opportunity for rest in the Realm of the Dead.

They went to one corner of the courtyard and Midnight lay down. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and then her rest was filled with dreams and bad omens. Still, she slept as long as possible and when she woke, her body—if not her mind—felt ready to continue her journey.

As she stood and stretched, Midnight noticed that a crowd of several thousand soul spectres had gathered in the courtyard.

“I’m sorry,” Deverell said. “When you fell asleep, word of a live woman’s presence spread quickly. They’ve come to look at you, but mean no harm.”

Looking at the spectres’ envious faces, Midnight felt sad for them. “It’s all right,” she said. “How long did I sleep?”

Deverell shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I no longer have a sense of time.”

Midnight started forward, then a thought occurred to her and she turned to Deverell. “If somebody died at Dragonspear Castle, would his soul come to Kanaglym?”

Deverell nodded. “Of course. The Fountain of Nepenthe is the closest access to the Realm of the Dead from the ruins.”

Midnight turned and addressed the crowd. “Kelemvor, are you here?” she cried. The crowd of soul spectres shifted uneasily and looked from one to another, but nobody came forward. Midnight breathed a sigh of relief.

The magic-user addressed the crowd again, this time expecting a response. “Adon, how about you? Come here so we can talk.” Midnight was not sure how she would feel about speaking to a dead friend, but she had to try. “Adon, it’s Midnight!”

Adon still did not show himself.

Five minutes later, Deverell said, “Perhaps he is scared, or could not resist the fountain for long.”

Midnight shook her head. “That’s not like Adon. He isn’t one to give up.”

Deverell searched the crowd. “Well, he’s not coming forward. I don’t think you’ll gain anything by waiting for him.”

Midnight reluctantly nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the best. It would only cause us both pain.”

“Then, if you’re ready,” Deverell said, extending a glowing hand toward the Fountain of Nepenthe.

Midnight gathered her courage and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Deverell led the way through the crowd of soul spectres. When he reached the Fountain of Nepenthe, he stopped and turned toward Midnight. “Until swords part, then.”

Deverell’s farewell heartened Midnight, for she recognized his words as a warrior’s sign of respect. “May your noble heart save your soul,” she replied.

The magic-user looked back to the throng of soul spectres, searching for Adon’s face or some sign that he had come to see her off. The crowd remained a swarm of impassive and unfamiliar faces.

Midnight turned to the pool, trying to imagine what she would find on the white plain below. Finally, hoping that if her magic was ever going to be reliable, it would be reliable now, she summoned the incantation for Elminster’s worldwalk and performed it. A shimmering disc of force appeared over the fountain. Midnight took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Cyric stood before a small inn, his horse’s reins in his hand. The inn was located in the barren prairie between Dragonspear Castle and Daggersford. The tavern and lodge were in a stone building standing in the shade of six maples. The stable sat fifty yards to the west, its corral built over a small stream that provided a constant supply of fresh water.

But the stream was now clogged by dead livestock, and the stable had burned to the ground. At the tavern, the sign of the Roosting Gryphon lay on the snow, half-burned and illegible. The shutters were smashed and splintered, and wisps of greasy smoke drifted out the open windows.

Is there anything for me? the thief’s sword asked, the words forming inside his mind as if they were his own thoughts.

“I doubt it,” Cyric answered. “But I’ll look around.” He and the sword—he thought of it as a “she”—had fallen into the habit of addressing each other as companions—even friends, if such a thing were possible.

Please—anything will do. I’m withering.

“I’ll try,” Cyric replied sincerely. “I’m hungry, too.”

Neither of them had eaten since stealing the horse from the six hapless warriors who had “rescued” Cyric. The thief suspected the sword was in far worse shape than he was. For the first part of their fast, the sword had used its dark powers to keep him from feeling the effects of hunger. After Dragonspear Castle, however, she had grown too weak to continue sustaining the thief.

That had been two days ago. Now, Cyric’s belly ached with hunger and he was lightheaded and weak with exhaustion. Both he and the sword needed sustenance.

But there had been no chance to feed. After Midnight’s attempt to kill him, Cyric had entered the tower, intending to chase Midnight and Kelemvor wherever they went. But as he started down the stairs, the zombies had emerged with the tablet. The thief had assumed that Kelemvor and Midnight had died at the undead creatures’ rotting hands.

He had turned to follow the zombies, determined to steal the tablet from them at the first opportunity. So far, the undead caravan drivers had not given him a chance. They had marched far into the snowy plain west of the road, where they would not be observed by passing caravans. Then they had turned north and started walking at a plodding, relentless pace, and had not stopped since.

Finally, because the caravan road ran northwest and the zombies had continued marching straight north, they had intersected the road near the inn. From a hiding place in the snow, Cyric had watched the undead raze the inn before resuming their relentless march. Although the thief was not sure why they had destroyed the tavern, he suspected it had been a mistake. By traveling so far off the road, the zombies were clearly taking pains to avoid detection. They had probably been instructed to kill anyone who saw them. So, when they ran across the inn, they had sacked it. Of course, destroying an establishment on a well-used road would hardly keep their presence secret, but zombies were not smart enough to think of that detail.

Anyway, now that the undead had disappeared over the horizon, Cyric thought it was safe to see if they had left anything behind. He tied his horse to a maple tree, then entered the tavern. A dozen bodies littered the floor, scattered between tables and in the corners. It appeared the men had tried to fight the zombies off with fire, for expired torches lay strewn about the dirt floor. In several places, the torches had touched something flammable, causing fires that still smoldered here and there. It looked as though the flames had fallen just short of engulfing the inn.

“How do you feel about drinking blood from the dead?” Cyric asked his sword.

How do you feel about it? she replied. Does anybody look good to you?

“I’m not that hungry,” Cyric answered, disgusted.

I am, the sword said flatly.

Cyric unsheathed his sword, then went over to the corpse of a burly woman wearing an apron. In her hand was the handle of a butcher knife, but the blade had been snapped off. Her throat was bruised where a zombie had choked her. Cyric knelt at her side, preparing to slip his sword between the corpse’s ribs.

“She’s dead,” said a man’s strained voice. “They all are!”

Cyric quickly rose and turned around. A balding, portly man stood in the doorway, a loaded crossbow in his hands.

“Don’t shoot,” Cyric said, slowly raising his hands. He assumed the man had seen enough to guess that his intentions were not honorable. The thief was merely looking for a way to stall until he could turn the advantage his way. “This isn’t what you think.”

The portly man frowned. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so afraid?” The man did not suspect Cyric of anything nefarious. He was in shock and had forgotten the effect that holding a lethal weapon would have on other people.

Gathering his wits, Cyric nodded at the crossbow. “I thought you might have mistaken me for—”

“For a zombie?” the man scoffed, looking at his crossbow and blushing. “I’m not that rattled.”

The fat man stepped behind the bar and laid the weapon down. “Will you join me in a draft—compliments of the house? As you see, I’m out of business.”

Cyric sheathed his sword and went to the bar. “I’d be happy to.”

The portly man poured Cyric a mug of ale, then set it on the counter and poured himself one. “I’m called Farl,” he said, offering his hand.

Cyric took the hand. “Well met. I’m Cyric,” he replied, forcing as much warmth as he could into his voice. “How did you survive this …”

The fat man frowned. “Zombie attack,” he muttered flatly. “I was in the basement when it happened. Just lucky, I guess.”

The thief narrowed his eyes and stared at the innkeeper for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I guess you were lucky.”

“Yes, well, here’s to luck, Cyric!” Farl called, draining his mug.

After watching Farl empty his mug in a single gulp, Cyric tipped his own. Unfortunately, his empty stomach rebelled at the strong brew and he could not finish it. He sat the mug down and braced himself against the bar.

“Are you ill?” Farl asked absently. At the moment, he was still too stunned and shocked to feel any real concern for a stranger, but he was too observant a host not to take notice of his guest’s condition.

“Nay,” Cyric replied. “I haven’t eaten in a week.”

“That’s too bad,” Farl muttered automatically, pouring himself another mug. He downed it in one long gulp, then belched quietly into his sleeve. Finally, it occurred to the fat man that Cyric might like something to eat.

“Wait here,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head at his negligence. “I’ll fetch you something from what remains of the kitchen.” He poured another ale and left the room.

Farl is a juicy morsel, the sword urged.

“Aye, he is. But you’ll have to wait your turn,” Cyric said.

I can’t wait any longer!

“I’ll decide how long you can wait,” the thief snapped.

I’m fading.

Cyric did not answer. He felt foolish for arguing with a sword. More importantly, he found her demanding tone offensive. But he also knew that the sword was being truthful. The color of her blade had faded to white.

Without me, you wouldn’t have recovered from Bhaal’s wounds, the sword insisted. Do you want me to starve?

“I won’t let you starve,” Cyric said patiently. “But I’ll decide what I feed you.”

Farl came shuffling back to the door, a large tray in his hand. “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

You owe me Farl! the sword hissed. The words were hot and urgent in Cyric’s thoughts.

“I was talking to myself,” the thief said. “It’s one of the hazards of riding alone.”

Farl sat the tray on the counter. He had assembled the best his kitchen had to offer: roast goose, stewed tomatoes, pickled beets, dried apples. “Have a feast,” he said. “It’ll just go to waste if you don’t eat it.”

“Then I’ll eat until my horse can’t carry me,” Cyric replied, noting that Farl had brought all the food he would need for some time to come. “Could I have another mug of ale to wash it down?”

“Of course,” Farl muttered, taking the mug and filling it. “Have all you like.” He smiled weakly.

“Rest assured,” Cyric replied. He accepted the mug with one hand and drew his sword with the other. “I will.”

The thief reached across the food and struck quickly. He plunged the blade into the fat man’s chest while the innkeeper’s lips were still twisted in a feeble smile.

Farl made one feeble grab for his crossbow. Then, his brow raised in puzzlement and he collapsed behind the counter. So the blade would stay imbedded in the man’s breast, Cyric released his sword’s hilt.

The thief grabbed a piece of goose and took a large bite out of it. Then he leaned over the counter and looked at his sword. Speaking around a mouthful of cold meat, he said, “Enjoy your meal.”