Waterdeep

14 The White Plain

As she stepped through the disc, Midnight felt herself disappear from Kanaglym, then reappear on the white plain. Her mind felt as if it had not moved at all, as if it were an anchor and her body had pivoted around it.

As soon as Midnight inhaled, caustic vapors burned her throat and nose. When she tried to focus her eyes, she saw nothing but white and might as well have been looking into the sun. The ground quivered beneath her feet like something alive and restless, and a million droning voices set the air buzzing with a murmur that made her skin tingle.

Gradually, Midnight’s vision returned. The worldwalk’s shimmering disc hung in the air next to her. It did not seem wise to leave a portal between the planes open, so the mage concentrated on closing it and the gateway disappeared.

A moment later, she began to make sense of the weird information her senses were gathering. She stood on an endless, chalky plain, in the midst of more people than she could count. Unlike the soul spectres of Kanaglym, these creatures possessed material, tangible bodies. Had she not known otherwise, the magic-user would have thought the people on the plain were alive.

To the mage’s right was a huge crowd of several thousand. Everyone in the throng faced one direction, their attention fixed on the sky as though watching something Midnight could not see. As she studied the mass of spirits, a murmur rose from its far side, racing toward her like a wave on a stormy ocean. Finally, it broke over her with such volume that she grimaced.

“Tyr!” the crowd called.

Thousands of worshipers had simultaneously called the name of their lord. Midnight could easily imagine the cry crossing the interplanar void and reaching Tyr’s ears back in the Realms.

“O Tyr, God of Justice, Balancer of the Scales, answer this, the call of your faithful,” the worshipers cried, their prayer clear and understandable despite the number of mouths speaking the words. “When will you deliver us, we who dedicated our lives to your glory, to spreading truth and justice into every corner of our planet, Toril? Hear the appeal of your worshipers, Tyr. Look! Here is Mishkul the Mighty, who brought King Lagost to justice; and here is Ornik the Wise, who judged between the cities of Yhaunn and Tulbegh; and here is Qurat of Proskur, who …”

The prayer droned on, proclaiming the loyalty of Tyr’s worshipers and listing the accomplishments of each one. Judging from the size of the mob, the litany would continue for days. The mage moved away from the crowd, searching for a hint as to Bone Castle’s location.

Often, she encountered huddled groups of people ranging from five or six to ten thousand. In one instance, Midnight encountered a dozen women flailing themselves and screaming devotion to Loviatar, Lady of Pain. Another time, she met a thousand worshipers of Ilmater standing shoulder to shoulder in resolute silence. Occasionally, she saw groups singing praises to gods so ancient their names had been forgotten in the Realms.

Several hours of wandering later, Midnight realized that she would never find her way around the Realm of the Dead without directions. Stopping a rotund man, she asked, “Can you tell me how to find Bone Castle?”

His eyes opened wide in fear. “No—no, I can’t!” he snapped. “Why would I know where it is—and why would you want to?” He abruptly turned and fled into the crowd.

Midnight stopped three more people and asked them the same question. The reactions of all three were strikingly similar: each claimed ignorance of the castle’s location, and each told her in no uncertain terms that she was a fool for asking. The mage decided to stop inquiring about the castle. For some reason, her question disturbed the dead.

To Midnight’s left, someone screamed in terror. The magic-user spun toward the sound. Thirty feet away, a mound of flesh was attacking a woman. The crowd had cleared away from the struggle, so Midnight had a clear view of the conflict.

The woman appeared to have been about forty years of age, with hair as black as Midnight’s, save that it was streaked with gray. More interesting to the magic-user was the woman’s pendant: a blue-white star within a circle.

Mystra’s symbol.

The woman’s attacker was a hideous thing. Its head resembled that of a man, with a normal nose, mouth, and ears. But it also had dull fangs that drooled yellow bile and eyes that glowed as red as hot embers. The head sat atop a grotesque body thicker around than a hogshead cask, and long, gangling arms hung from its shoulders. Spongy masses of leathery hide bulged where muscles should have been, and old wounds oozed a foul green pus in a dozen places. The creature’s legs were so pudgy they barely held its body off the ground. Still, the mound of flesh tottered after the woman with remarkable speed and grace.

“Come here, hag!” it growled. The beast’s voice was so low and guttural that Midnight barely understood the words. In one hand the fat blob carried a rusty scimitar, and in the other a pair of manacles that it waved after the woman.

Because she knew so little about the Realm of the Dead, the mage hesitated to involve herself, but that indecision didn’t last for long. She could not allow an attack on one of Mystra’s followers. “Leave her alone!” Midnight yelled.

Upon hearing the mage’s words, the woman fled toward her. The thing stopped in its tracks, then frowned and shook its head as if it were unable to believe what it had heard. Finally, it grumbled, “She belongs to Lord Myrkul.”

As if the explanation were adequate, the beast ran after the woman and smashed the manacles into her head. Mystra’s follower fell in a limp heap.

“Stop!” Midnight ordered, advancing toward the fight. “Touch her and you die!”

The thing paused to stare at the raven-haired woman. Finally, it roared, “Die? Touch her and I die?” It broke into a cackle that sent waves rolling through its fat body. Then it kneeled and placed a shackle on the woman’s wrist.

A powerful imprisonment incantation appeared in Midnight’s mind. The magic-user hesitated for an instant, then felt the magical weave around her. It was strong and stable, not wavering and unpredictable as it had been in the Realms. Midnight smiled and repeated the spell.

The thing placed a shackle on the woman’s other wrist.

After completing the incantation, Midnight started toward the mound of flesh, saying, “I warned you.”

The woman’s attacker looked up and snarled, then stood to meet Midnight. “You’ll rot in—”

The magic-user reached out to the foul creature and touched it, triggering the imprisonment magic. The mound of flesh stopped speaking in midsentence, then froze in place. An instant later, a dark sphere engulfed the fat monstrosity and carried it into the white ground. It would remain there in suspended animation until someone freed it.

Midnight started to tremble, then sat down and closed her eyes. While confronting the ugly mound of flesh, the magic-user had been angry and determined. Now that the fight was over, however, she felt surprisingly queasy and frightened. Although the magical weave had felt stable when she called upon it, Midnight could not help but shiver at what might have happened had her magic misfired.

She tried to put thoughts of failure aside. The incantation had worked flawlessly, and the mage realized that she had no reason to believe that magic was unstable outside the Realms. For several moments, Midnight remained sitting with her eyes closed.

“Do I know you?” asked a man’s voice.

The voice seemed vaguely familiar, though Midnight could not place it. She opened her eyes and, to her surprise, saw a hundred people staring at her. The woman Midnight had saved was nowhere in sight. She had vanished without thanking her savior.

The man who had spoken stood directly ahead of Midnight, wearing a scarlet robe trimmed with gold. He was Rhaymon of Lathander.

“What are you doing here, Rhaymon?” Midnight asked, standing. The last time she had seen him was at the trial in Shadowdale. He had been very much alive.

“Then I do know you!” Rhaymon cried, delighted. “I was right!”

However, the cleric didn’t answer Midnight’s question. In fact, he had died in the forest outside of Shadowdale, when an oak tree’s limb became mobile and strangled him. He rarely cared to talk about the experience.

“Yes, you know me,” Midnight confirmed. “You testified against Adon and me at the trial for Elminster’s murder.”

Rhaymon frowned. “Elminster? But he’s not dead … is he?”

“No,” Midnight said quickly. “The trial was a mistake.”

Rhaymon frowned, wishing he could remember more about Midnight’s trial, for his memories had begun to slowly slip away since he’d come to the plain in the Realm of the Dead. But the cleric did remember that Midnight had not been executed. “I don’t remember much about the trial,” he admitted. “But you escaped, so, as the faithful of Lathander say, ‘a bright dawn made the dark night worthwhile.’ ”

“I’m not sure I’d say that,” Midnight replied, thinking of the people Cyric had murdered to gain her freedom.

Rhaymon did not take note of Midnight’s uneasiness. “You were brave to rescue that woman,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “But you were also foolish. You won’t save her by stopping just one of them.”

“What was that thing?” Midnight asked, pointing at the spot where she had imprisoned the mobile mound of flesh.

“One of Myrkul’s denizens,” Rhaymon explained.

Midnight’s heart jumped and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She noticed that the spectators were still staring at her. “I wish they’d stop watching me like that,” Midnight noted uneasily, glaring back at the crowd.

Rhaymon turned and addressed the gapers. “Go on—there’s nothing to see here.”

When the crowd continued to stare, Rhaymon took Midnight by the elbow and guided her away. “Don’t mind them. They’re curious about your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Midnight asked.

“Yes. A moment ago, your eyes were closed. The dead don’t close their eyes, you know.” Rhaymon stopped and studied Midnight for a moment. “I suppose that means you’re alive?”

“And what if it does?” Midnight asked, looking away and avoiding a direct answer to Rhaymon’s question.

“Nothing. It’s just unusual.” The cleric guided her forward again. “Most dead don’t use magic—not unless they’re liches. By the way, which are you: undead or alive?”

Midnight sighed. “I’m alive, Rhaymon. And I need your help.”

“What do you want?” he asked, leading the way around a group of old ladies—worshipers of Lliira, the Goddess of Joy—rolling on the ground, laughing.

“I need to find Bone Castle,” Midnight replied. “The fate of the whole world depends on my success.” She did not say more. Until Rhaymon agreed to help, it seemed wise to reveal as little as possible.

“Bone Castle!” Rhaymon exclaimed. “That’s in Myrkul’s city!”

“Isn’t this Myrkul’s realm?” Midnight asked.

Rhaymon shook his head. “Not quite. But you can get there easily enough.”

“Will you help me?”

“What you say must be true,” Rhaymon replied, “or you’d never risk the kind of eternal suffering you’ll find in Myrkul’s city. I’m sure that Lord Lathander would want me to do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Midnight said. “Where do we go?”

Rhaymon pointed to his right. “West.”

“West?” Midnight asked, searching the barren sky for something by which to tell her direction. “How do know that’s west?”

Rhaymon smiled. “I don’t. But when you’re dead, you acquire a certain sense for this place that I can’t explain. You’ll just have to trust me on this—and a hundred things like it.”

Considering the difficulties she had encountered so far, Midnight thought that seemed wise.

Rhaymon led the way through the milling crowd, pausing or turning aside every now and then to make sure they did not cross paths with a denizen. After what must have been hours of walking, Midnight began to stumble.

“How much farther is it?” she asked.

“A lot farther,” Rhaymon answered, continuing forward steadily.

“We’ve got to find some way to get there faster,” Midnight gasped between panted breaths. “I’ve got to meet Kelemvor in Waterdeep.”

“There is no faster way to travel,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “Unless you care to attract denizens. But don’t worry. Time and distance are different here. Whether it takes you a day or a month to reach Bone Castle, the time that passes on Toril will be only a fraction of the time that passes here.”

They continued walking for several more hours, then the mage could go no farther. She collapsed and slept while Rhaymon watched over her. After a long time, Midnight woke refreshed and they continued their journey. The mage took the opportunity to have Rhaymon explain what he knew about Myrkul’s realm.

Adjusting his pace so that Midnight walked at his side, Rhaymon said, “Myrkul has two domains: his city in Hades, which is where you are going and which he rules absolutely, and the Fugue Plain, which is a demiplane outside his city that he oversees as part of his duties. When somebody dies in the Realms, his spirit is drawn to one of the thousands of gates between the Realms and the Lord of the Dead’s two domains. The spirits of Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city in Hades.”

Here, Rhaymon stopped walking and interrupted his lecture. “You might actually beat your friend Kelemvor to Waterdeep, you know.”

“How?” Midnight asked, also stopping. The idea of using the Realm of the Dead as a short cut delighted her.

“The chances are good that there’s a gate between Waterdeep and Myrkul’s city,” Rhaymon answered. “If you can escape from the city at all, you can return to the Realms via the gate to Waterdeep.”

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Midnight replied grimly, starting to walk again.

Rhaymon resumed his pace and his lecture. “Although Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city, everybody else comes to the Fugue Plain, which is really a waiting area for the spirits of the dead. Here, Myrkul’s denizens—who were once his worshipers, I suppose—harvest the spirits of the Faithless and the False—”

“The Faithless and the False?” Midnight interrupted.

“The False are those who betray their gods,” Rhaymon explained. “The Faithless don’t worship any gods.”

“What do the denizens do with the spirits?” Midnight asked, thinking of Adon and his break with Sune.

“Take them to Myrkul’s city for an eternity of suffering, I’d imagine,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “I don’t know—but I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

“No doubt,” Midnight replied darkly.

“After the denizens cull out the spirits of the Faithless and the False, the Faithful wait here for their gods to take them to a final resting place in the Planes.”

“Then why is the Fugue Plain so crowded?” Midnight asked, eyeing the milling masses.

Rhaymon frowned. “Because this is our final test,” he said. “With only one or two exceptions, the gods have chosen to leave us here to prove our worthiness.”

“It seems callous to abandon loyal worshipers like that,” Midnight observed.

“They haven’t abandoned us,” Rhaymon answered quickly. “They’ll come for us someday.”

Midnight accepted this answer, though it was obvious that Rhaymon’s statement was founded on hope, not knowledge. For if the gods were concerned about their worshipers, the Fugue Plain would have been far less crowded.

They continued their conversations and their trek for another two days. The mage learned little more of significant interest. Eventually, the crowds began to thin, and a dark line appeared on the horizon. Midnight had no doubt that they were getting close to Myrkul’s city.

Finally, the dead cleric and the mage reached a point beyond which there were no more milling souls. The dark line on the horizon had changed to a dark ribbon stretching from one side of the endless plain to another.

Rhaymon stopped walking. “I’ve brought you as far as I can,” he said. “Beyond here, I’m no use to you.”

Midnight sighed and tried to smile, though she felt lonely and abandoned. “You’ve done more than enough already,” she replied softly.

Rhaymon pointed toward the left end of the ribbon. “I understand the entrance to the city is down there,” he said. “I brought you here so you could approach the wall without meeting the denizens as they go to and from the gate.”

Midnight took Rhaymon’s hand. “Words cannot express my gratitude,” she said. “I’ll miss your company.”

“And I’ll miss yours,” he replied. After a small pause, he added some last-minute advice. “Midnight, this is not the world of the living. What seems cruel and evil to you is the normal course here. No matter what you find in Myrkul’s city, remember where you are. If you interfere with the denizens, you’ll never leave.”

“I’ll remember your advice,” she said. “I promise.”

“Good. May the gods favor your path,” Rhaymon said.

“And may you keep your faith,” Midnight responded.

“I will,” he answered. “I promise.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the souls upon the Fugue Plain.

Midnight turned toward Myrkul’s city and started walking. Two hours later, an eerie moan reached her ears and musty whiffs of rot plagued her nose. The magic-user continued at her best pace. The moan gradually became a suppressed wail, and the stench of decay grew stronger and hung more steadily in the air. The wall constantly grew higher and larger, and as Midnight got close to it, she saw that its surface swayed and writhed—as if it were alive.

The mage wondered if the wall was made of serpents. That would explain the absence of sentries. If the wall itself was menacing enough, Myrkul would not need guards.

Midnight continued forward, approaching within fifty feet of the wall. The suppressed wail changed into a cacophony of muffled sobs, the foul smell of decay grew so strong it nauseated her, and the magic-user saw that she had been mistaken about the writhing forms in the wall. What she had taken to be serpents were thousands of squirming legs.

The wall was constructed entirely of human bodies. Men and women were stacked fifty feet high, their bodies turned inward to face the interior of the city. The largest people gave the wall bulk and height, while the smaller ones chinked gaps and filled holes. They had all been sealed into place with a greenish mortar that reminded Midnight of solidified mold.

The hideous barrier was nearly enough to end Midnight’s journey. For a long time, she could only stand and stare in sickened shock. The magic-user had intended to climb over the wall, but could not bring herself to grapple the legs. Instead, deciding to the make use of her magic, she summoned and performed the incantation for levitation.

Immediately, her feet left the ground and she rose into the air. Every now and then, Midnight grasped a squirming leg and used it as a guide. A moment later, she pulled herself into a prone position just inches over the top of the wall, hoping to look like just one more body.

A squall of howls and screeches greeted her. The magic-user recoiled and covered her ears. On the other side of the wall, the cries of the dead had been muffled by the space between the Fugue Plain and Myrkul’s city. But when Midnight had pulled herself onto the wall, she had crossed from the demiplane into Hades.

The air inside the wall smelled rank and profane, with a caustic bite that scorched her nose and throat when she breathed. The dark gray sky cast only a dim light over the city. Here and there, pinholes of illumination penetrated the murky heavens. From what Rhaymon had told her, Midnight suspected that the tiny lights were gateways between Myrkul’s domain and various spots in the Realms.

The city itself sat in a great bowl that sloped down from the wall toward the opposite horizon. The metropolis was so immense that, even from atop the wall, Midnight could only see that the far side disappeared into a haze of indistinguishable detail.

Closer to Midnight, a broad avenue circled inside the wall’s perimeter. Twenty feet down the road, thirty whip-carrying denizens were driving several hundred slaves in Midnight’s direction. As the group passed beneath her, the magic-user saw that the slaves had remarkably similar, drab features: gray hair, yellow-gray skin, and expressionless gray eyes. But the people they carried had distinctive features. Here was a woman with buckteeth, there was a man with a large nose, and behind him was an obese woman with a triple chin.

Although the mage wanted nothing more than to free the slaves, Rhaymon’s warning against interfering with the denizens remained fresh in her mind. Midnight simply turned her head away. After the slave train passed, she turned to watch the city again.

Inside the perimeter avenue stood a countless number of ten-story brownstone structures. These buildings had once been identical, but ages of decay and corrosion had twisted them into a plethora of different shapes. While some remained in pristine condition, many had deteriorated so badly they were little more than stacks of rocks that might collapse at any moment. Others had sprouted twisted minarets and crooked towers, and were now warped into shapes only vaguely reminiscent of their original form.

As Midnight studied the buildings, she observed that structures of similar condition were grouped together. Then she noticed the city was divided into boroughs of more or less equivalent size. The areas with pristine buildings were divided into orderly blocks with straight, clean streets. Where the buildings were crumbling, the streets were so clogged with rubble that it appeared impossible to traverse them. In areas with twisted and grotesque buildings, the streets were crooked and narrow, curling and winding back on themselves with mazelike confusion. There was no sign of anything that might be Bone Castle, and Midnight did not know where to begin her search.

But she knew she had to get off this wall. After waiting for another caravan of slaves to pass, Midnight pushed herself over the city and floated down to the road that ran along the wall. She paused a moment to reconnoiter the area. One group of three denizens was tottering down the avenue after her, and two more were approaching from the borough directly ahead. Fortunately, both groups were over five hundred feet away, so she sprinted down the avenue away from them. After ten seconds of running, she ducked into a borough of deteriorated buildings that had looked abandoned from the wall.

The thoroughfares were cluttered with rubble and deserted. From the building’s windowsills, sputtering yellow lamps cast putrid circles of light into the street. As Midnight passed one of the lamps, she inhaled a breath of the sulfurous vapor. She briefly choked and her skin stung where a wisp of black smoke had touched it.

The magic-user ducked down an alley and clawed over a pile of rubble half as high as one of the buildings. Then she tumbled down the other side and ran into the alley that connected with another street. She turned left and ran halfway down it. Finally, confident the denizens would never find her, Midnight climbed over another pile of rubble and stopped in a blind cul-de-sac.

She needed a guide. In a city of this size, it would be impossible to find Bone Castle without help. Even had she known the castle’s location, the city was so alien it would be a simple matter to make a mistake and get killed. Midnight realized she would have to summon help.

Immediately, the incantation for summoning monsters came to mind, along with all of the extraneous information about its creator and the theory behind its construction. It was not a monster she wanted, but after contemplating the original spell for a moment, Midnight saw how she could modify the incantation to suit her needs.

The spell was designed to call an unspecified monster to aid the caster. Instead of a monster, however, Midnight needed to call a person, but had no idea who. By adjusting a few finger manipulations and altering the intonation of the spell’s verbal components, the mage thought that she could call someone who both knew his way around Myrkul’s city and would be willing to aid her.

Midnight was a little frightened by what she was about to try. Normally, only the most advanced mages altered or created spells. But, considering the knowledge available to her and the stability of the magical weave in the plane, Midnight was confident of success.

After reviewing her adjustments, the magic-user performed the incantation. A moment later, someone began climbing over the rubble in the entrance to her cul-de-sac. Midnight waited anxiously, prepared to dash into a building if the visitor was not what she expected.

A halfling climbed into view atop the rubble, then stopped and frowned at her. He had the same drab features, gray hair, yellow-gray skin, and expressionless gray eyes as the slaves Midnight had seen from atop the wall. In fact, the halfling was distinguishable from those slaves only in size.

Atherton Cooper had no idea how he had come to be in this alley. Just a moment ago, he had been laboring to mortar a struggling woman into the wall.

“Sneakabout?” Midnight asked, peering uncertainly at the short figure.

The halfling’s frown deepened. He recognized something in the woman’s voice and in the name she had called him. Then he remembered: Sneakabout was his name. “Yes—that’s right,” he observed. “Who are—”

The answer came to him before he finished asking it. He had once been friends with the woman who now stood before him. “Midnight!” he exclaimed, sliding down the rubble. “What are you doing here?”

The mage held her arms out to the halfling. “Not what you think,” she replied. “I’m alive.”

Midnight’s comment about being alive kindled a painful realization for Sneakabout and he stopped short of her arms. “I’m dead,” he said, unpleasant memories flooding his mind. “Why did you let Cyric kill me?” he demanded.

Midnight didn’t know what to say. She had not expected to meet Sneakabout, and was not prepared to justify saving Cyric to someone the thief had murdered. “I wouldn’t make the same decision again,” she said, dropping her arms.

“That’s little consolation,” Sneakabout hissed. “Look at what you’ve done to me!” He ran his hand down his body.

“I didn’t let Cyric kill you!” Midnight snapped. “You threw yourself at his mercy!”

“I had to!” Sneakabout said, more memories washing over him. He looked away from Midnight’s eyes. “He had my sword. I had to get it back or go insane.”

“Why?” Midnight asked. So she would be at the halfling’s eye level, she sat down.

“It’s an evil, cursed thing,” he explained, still not looking at the mage. “If you lose it, you must recover it. The man I stole it from died trying to steal it from me, just like I died trying to take it from Cyric.”

Midnight suddenly understood why Sneakabout was in the City of the Dead. By pursuing the sword, by living only for it, he had betrayed his god.

“So you’re one of the False,” she gasped.

Sneakabout finally turned to look her in the eye. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What does that mean?” Midnight asked. “What is your fate?”

The halfling shrugged, then casually looked away as if his fate was of little concern. “I’m one of Myrkul’s slaves. I’ll spend eternity mortaring the Faithless into the wall.”

Midnight drew a sharp breath.

“What are you worried about?” Sneakabout asked. He turned back with an irritated frown on his face. “I thought you worshiped Mystra? Not that being faithful is much better than being faithless when you’re down here. The Fugue Plain is overflowing with the abandoned souls of most of the gods’ faithful.”

“I’m not worried about myself,” the mage said. “A few weeks after he killed you, Cyric killed Adon … and Adon died with no faith in the gods.”

“Then its the wall for him,” Sneakabout said, shaking his head glumly. “I’ll probably be the one that mortars him in.”

“Is there anything that you can—”

“No!” the halfling snapped, waving his hand to cut off Midnight’s plea. “He chose his fate when he was alive. It can’t be changed now. If that’s why you summoned me—”

“It’s not,” Midnight said sadly, upset by the halfling’s curt response. She wondered if he would be as unwilling to help her recover the tablet as he was to help Adon. Hoping to look more commanding, she stood. “You must take me to Bone Castle.”

Sneakabout’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what you’re asking! When they catch us, they’ll …” He paused and considered his situation. The denizens could do nothing that was worse than what they were doing to him now.

“If you don’t help me,” Midnight said, taking the halfling by both shoulders, “the Realms will perish.”

“What’s that to me?” Sneakabout replied, backing away. “With luck, so will Myrkul’s city.”

“Help me get the Tablet of Fate and return it to Waterdeep,” Midnight said, following Sneakabout. “I’ll end your misery.”

He stopped backing away. “How?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll find a way.”

The halfling raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Trust me,” Midnight pleaded. “What do you have to lose?”

Of course, Sneakabout had nothing to lose. If the denizens caught him helping Midnight, they would torture him for eternity—but they were already doing that.

“All right. I’ll help,” the halfling said. “But realize that you’ve made a very important promise. If you don’t keep it, you might be considered one of the False when you return.”

“I know that,” Midnight said. “Let’s go.”

Sneakabout turned and started over the rubble at the end of the cul-de-sac. For several hours, he led Midnight through a maze of twisting alleys and cluttered streets. Occasionally, they entered a region of straight clean avenues. The halfling always crossed these places quickly, then led them back into a deteriorating or twisted borough.

Midnight was glad to have Sneakabout as a guide. Although vaguely aware that they were walking toward the low end of the city, she was completely lost. Even the halfling stopped now and then to ask directions of one of the False. He always confirmed his directions with two or three others.

“The False,” he explained, “are not to be trusted. They’ll send you straight into a pack of denizens just out of habit.”

Finally, noticing that Midnight was stumbling with weariness, Sneakabout led her onto the roof of a decaying building. “You need to rest,” he said. “We’ll be safe up here.”

“Thanks,” Midnight replied, resting her head on her arms. As she looked up at the sky, the mage noticed pinholes of light that resembled stars.

Noticing where Midnight was looking, Sneakabout said, “Those are the gates to the Realms.”

“Are you sure?” the raven-haired mage asked. From what Rhaymon had told her, she had concluded the same thing. But, since one of the dots would be her escape route, she saw no harm in being certain.

“What else would they be?” the halfling asked. “There are no stars in Myrkul’s city.”

“If that’s an exit,” Midnight queried, rolling onto her side, “what keeps the dead and the denizens from using it?”

Sneakabout shrugged. “What prevents men from going to the real stars? They’re too far, I suppose, and there are certain barriers. You’d better rest—and eat something, if you have it.”

“I’ll rest,” Midnight replied, realizing she hadn’t eaten in what must be days. It did not matter. Even if she had possessed food, she could not have kept it down. The smell and the cries of the damned were simply too unsettling.

A few hours later, she and the halfling resumed their march toward the low side of the city. Sneakabout led the way through mile after mile of cluttered avenues and twisting alleys. Finally, he stopped on a lopsided bridge spanning a river of black ooze.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Midnight replied. Despite her anxiety, she was telling the truth. Thanks to Sneakabout, she felt as fresh as could be expected after wandering Myrkul’s realm for the equivalent of almost a week.

The pair continued down the street, then turned into an alley that snaked through one of the chaotic boroughs. A few minutes later, an eerie moan began to drift up the narrow lanes. Sneakabout slowed his pace and moved cautiously forward. Midnight followed half a step behind.

The alley turned sharply to the left. The stench of rot and decay grew so strong Midnight began gagging. She tapped Sneakabout’s arm and they stopped so she could get used to the odor. Several minutes later, they moved forward again. The alley joined a broad boulevard, and on the other side of the boulevard was another wall built from human bodies.

Having seen one of the hideous barriers did not minimize the effect of this one. It still turned Midnight’s stomach. Now, it also enraged and depressed her because Adon would share the fate of its hapless building blocks.

“This is Bone Castle,” Sneakabout said. He pointed to a tall, ivory-colored spire that poked its crown above the barricade. “And that’s the keep tower.”

Midnight could not believe what she saw. Behind the wall, just a hundred feet away, rose a spiraling tower built from human bones. The tower ended in a steeple. Atop the steeple, lit by six magical torches and in plain view of anybody who could see Bone Castle, was a stone tablet. The mage immediately recognized it as the twin to the one she had left with Kelemvor.

Like a hunter displaying a prized trophy, Myrkul had put his tablet where all his subjects could admire it.

“There it is!” Midnight whispered.

Sneakabout sighed. “So I see. How are you going to get it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” the mage replied, studying the situation. “This is too easy—it doesn’t make sense to leave the tablet unguarded.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s not guarded,” Sneakabout said. “There are thousands of guards.”

“How so?” Midnight asked.

“If we can see the tablet, so can all the denizens—and dukes and princes—within sight of Bone Castle.”

“Dukes and princes?” Midnight asked.

“Who do you think commands the denizens?” Sneakabout replied. “The dukes rule the boroughs. The princes rule the dukes. Each is more vicious than its vassals.”

Midnight nodded. If Myrkul’s court was like most others, there would be no shortage of dukes and princes near Bone Castle. “What else?”

“The best way to guard a treasure is to lull the thief into thinking it’s unguarded—then trap him when he tries to steal it. I’d expect a magical ward or two near the tablet.”

Midnight did not bother asking Sneakabout how he knew so much about theft. Though he had claimed to be a scout, and had proven that he was when he was alive, it was no secret that many halflings learned the basics of thievery to survive. Right now, Midnight was grateful that he had. She would never have been foolish enough to go after the tablet without looking for possible defenses, but it was good to have the halfling confirm her suspicions. “Anything else?”

“That’s enough,” Sneakabout said. “A thousand guards and a trap or two will safeguard almost anything—unless you happen to have pretty potent magic at your disposal.”

Though she knew the halfling had added this last comment to bolster her confidence, Midnight was hardly encouraged. “Let’s hope it will be enough.” She studied the tower for a moment, considering her plan of attack. “We’ll turn invisible—”

“No good,” Sneakabout interrupted. “The denizens—especially the dukes—will see through that without a second glance.”

Midnight frowned, then thought of another plan. “All right, then. We’ll fly up there, I’ll dispel the magical wards. Then we’ll take the tablet and be gone.”

Sneakabout considered this plan for a moment. “How long will that take you?” His use of the second person was deliberate. He knew he could not go with Midnight.

“Not long,” Midnight said confidently.

“Probably too long,” Sneakabout answered. “They’ll be after you in the time it takes you to fly up there, maybe less.”

“Then what can I do?” Midnight gasped.

“You’d better think of another plan,” the halfling said. “You can’t keep your promise if they capture you.”

Midnight fell into a long silence and tried to think of another approach. Finally, she said, “This will work. I’ll prepare our escape route before touching the tablet. Then, instead of going to the tablet, I’ll bring it to us. We’ll be gone in an instant.”

“That should work,” Sneakabout replied. “But I’ll take my leave before you try it.”

“Leave?” Midnight asked. “You aren’t coming with me?”

Sneakabout shook his head. “No. I’m dead. In the Realms, I’d be undead and more miserable than I am here.”

Midnight took the halfling’s hand. “You’ll never know what your help has meant to—”

“And I don’t care,” Sneakabout interrupted tersely. He could not help resenting the fact that Midnight would be leaving and he would not. “Just remember your promise.”

He pulled his hand away and walked up the alley.

Midnight watched him go, confused and hurt by his sudden coldness. “I’ll remember,” she said.

Sneakabout turned a corner and was gone.

Midnight looked after him for a moment, once again lonely and more than a little afraid. The mage silently vowed that, after returning the Tablets of Fate to Helm, she would find a way to help Sneakabout, and not only because of her promise.

But the first thing she had to do was recover the tablet and get out of Myrkul’s city before she was killed. The magic-user summoned Elminster’s worldwalk to mind. Then, remembering what Rhaymon had said about finding her way back to Waterdeep, she began to pick the spell apart, to look at how Elminster had put it together.

It required fifteen minutes of hard concentration for Midnight to understand the intricacies of Elminster’s construction. It took another fifteen minutes to alter the incantation so the other end of the portal would seek out the access well to Waterdeep. After finally finishing, Midnight was still unsure she would emerge near the City of Splendors. If she had known which one of the pinholes of light was the gate to Waterdeep, the alteration would have been much simpler. As it was, she would have to trust her fate to the fact that she had done her best.

Satisfied with her preparations, Midnight performed the worldwalk incantation. A tremendous surge of magical energy rushed through her body, tiring her. Still, it was nothing alarming—or even surprising, considering the power of the magic she was summoning.

A shimmering disk of force appeared. Midnight found herself wishing that she could see what lay on the other side, but there was no time for idle contemplation. Next, she summoned the incantation for telekinesis, then performed it with the tablet as the target. An instant later, in response to her probe, the tablet slipped out of its supports and rose an inch into the air.

Without wasting any more time, Midnight willed the tablet to come to her. It moved slowly at first, then began picking up speed, and was soon streaking in her direction. Though the mage could hear nothing above the cries of the Faithless in the wall, Midnight imagined a wild chorus of surprised yells and outraged bellows spreading through the boroughs around the castle. If anybody was looking toward the tablet, they could not fail to notice that Myrkul’s trophy was being stolen.

As if to confirm Midnight’s suspicions, something rose into view from the other side of the wall. Huge, batlike wings sprouted from its fat feathered body. With its multifaceted eyes and protruding fangs, the creature’s head looked like a cross between a vampire’s and a fly’s.

The tablet arrived and Midnight caught it. Immediately, she felt magic so powerful she could detect it without a spell. Something was wrong, for the other tablet had no magical aura at all. The magic-user suspected Myrkul had placed a ward or sigil directly on the artifact.

But it hardly mattered at the moment. A dozen more denizens had risen behind the first, and a hundred more forms were approaching from the other side of the keep’s bone-white tower. Midnight did not have time to pause for a close examination of the Tablet of Fate.

She stepped into the disk and found herself running up a short corridor of light. The last time she had cast the worldwalk spell, the mage had simply stepped through the disk and appeared on the Fugue Plain. There had been no tunnel. The mage began to fear she had spoiled Elminster’s spell by tinkering with it.

Then, thirty feet ahead, Midnight saw a wall of water covering the end of the corridor, as though she was running up the inside of a well. Remembering how she had altered the incantation so the portal would seek the access well to Waterdeep, the mage realized the worldwalk had worked exactly as specified. On the other side of the water lay Toril.

Midnight ran the rest of the way up the tunnel and stopped next to the wall of water. She turned around and tried to close the portal.

The shimmering disk remained in place, and the bat-winged denizen from Bone Castle entered the other end of the corridor. Midnight tried again to close the portal, and again she failed.

The creature smiled, baring its wicked fangs. “It won’t work,” the creature hissed, its voice like the sound of metal scraping stone. “Wherever the tablet goes, we go.”

Two more of the monster’s fellows flew into the portal.

“How?” Midnight gasped.

“It doesn’t matter,” the bat-winged creature said. “Give the tablet back.”

Then Midnight understood. The magic she detected on the tablet was one of Myrkul’s fiendish traps. He had made it impossible for anyone stealing it to escape his guards. The Lord of the Dead could have used variations on hold portal, dispel magic, gate, passwall, and a number of other spells to make the tablet a homing beacon for his minions.

Exactly how he had done it was unimportant, though. What did matter was that when Midnight took the tablet to Waterdeep, she would unleash Myrkul’s hordes—the tablet would hold the gate open for the denizens and draw them through. She couldn’t let that happen any more than she could return the tablet to the Lord of the Dead’s vassals.

Midnight realized she had to block the corridor, and the perfect incantation for doing so came to her. It was a prismatic sphere, a globe of scintillating colors that the denizens would never penetrate. While they clawed and scratched at its exterior, she would be tucked safely inside.

“Last chance, woman,” the bat-winged denizen said, starting up the corridor. “There’s no escape.”

“That’s what you think,” Midnight replied.

She performed the incantation. An instant later, a shimmering sphere encased her, at the same time blocking access to Waterdeep.

Midnight’s body felt like it was on fire, and her head hurt so badly she could barely think. Within the space of a few minutes, the mage had cast two of the most powerful spells known to mages anywhere. The effort had taken its toll on her body. It didn’t really matter, however. The mage was safe as long as the prismatic sphere held out. And in Midnight’s case, that could be a long time.