Waterdeep

1 Visitors

Midnight’s eyes, as dark and deep as the night, followed the shadow as it moved behind the upturned roots of a toppled willow tree. A strong wind whispered through the dark forest, rustling bushes and shaking tree limbs, filling the wood with dancing silhouettes of ambiguous form and size. Overhead, the clouds of a passing storm raced by the moon, dragging heavy shadows through the tangled grove like silent warriors.

Midnight and two companions were camped at the south end of a tear-shaped wood. Her friends were sleeping in a small lean-to shelter erected between two trees. One of the men, Kelemvor, was snoring with deep soft rumbles that sounded like a growling wolf.

While her companions rested, Midnight sat twenty yards away, keeping watch. Not yet thirty and gifted with a lean body, she was a woman of sultry charms. Eyebrows as thin and black as painted lines hung over her eyes, and a long braid of jet-black hair trailed down her back. Her only flaw, if it could be called that, lay in the premature worry lines furrowed over her brow and etched around her mouth.

Those worry lines had grown deeper over the last few days. Adon, Midnight, and Kelemvor had been aboard a small galley bound for the port city of Ilipur, where they intended to find a caravan bound for Waterdeep. As the vessel entered the final leg of its journey, through a sheltered sea called the Dragonmere, an unnatural storm rose out of the calm waters and almost tore the ship to pieces. The storm had lasted for three nerve-wracking days, and the galley had only been saved by the valiant efforts of its crew.

The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhentish trireme that had been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and put the three companions ashore.

A rustle sounded from the lean-to and Midnight turned to see Adon creeping toward her. In his right hand, the cleric carried a mace he had bought from a sailor. With his left, he held a set of saddlebags. One bag contained a flat stone about a foot wide and a foot and a half high—the Tablet of Fate their company had recovered in Tantras.

Even now, in the middle of the night, Adon’s sandy hair was meticulously brushed. His build was slight, though muscular enough and well proportioned, and his green eyes sparkled with a light of their own. Adon’s other features were symmetrical if somewhat plain, save for the red scar that traced a dark path from the left eye to his jawline.

The scar was a grim reminder of the personal crisis that the cleric had suffered over the past few weeks. On the night of the Arrival, when Ao had cast his gods from the Planes, all of the clerics in the Realms had lost their power. Unless they were within a mile of their deity, their prayers for spells simply went unanswered. At first, this had not shaken the optimistic Adon, and he had remained faithful to his deity, Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.

Then, near Tilverton, he had been scarred in an ambush. At first, Adon had feared the blemish was punishment for some unknown offense against his goddess. This feeling had grown steadily stronger. Finally, during the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster suffered an accident and Adon found himself powerless to help the ancient sage. The cleric then fell into a catatonic depression. When he finally recovered, several weeks later, his faith in Sune had been lost. Instead, the cleric had focused his fervor and dedication on his fellow man.

“Why are you awake?” Midnight asked, whispering loud enough to make herself heard over the wind.

Crouching next to her, Adon answered in a whisper, “Who can sleep with that racket in his ear?” He nodded at Kelemvor’s slumbering form, then offered, “I’ll take over if you’re tired.”

“Not yet,” Midnight said. She turned back to the toppled willow tree. The shadow she had observed earlier was still crouched behind the tree’s upturned roots.

“Is something wrong?” Adon asked, noting Midnight’s interest in the willow. He followed her gaze and noted the dark form skulking behind the tangle. “What’s that?”

Midnight shrugged and replied, “A shadow I’ve been watching.”

The moon poked its face through the clouds and cast a silvery light into the grove. On the top of the shadow, Midnight could see the silhouette of a head and shoulders.

“It looks like a man,” Adon observed, still whispering.

“So it does.”

The cleric looked toward the lean-to. “We should wake Kelemvor.”

Adon’s suggestion made sense. Neither the cleric nor Midnight were at full strength. Like the abilities of all mages, Midnight’s powers had become unstable since the fall of the gods. Adon’s condition was no better. Even if he had still believed in his deity, Sune was certainly too distant for him to call upon her power.

But Midnight wanted to let Kelemvor snore a while longer. She was not convinced the shadow was dangerous, and if it was, the mage didn’t want to alarm it with a sudden flurry of activity. Besides, even without their spells, she and Adon were capable fighters. “We can take care of ourselves if need be,” she said. “But I don’t think there’s any danger.”

A cloud covered the moon again, plunging the wood back into darkness. Adon squinted at the root mass, puzzled by Midnight’s assertion. “Why not?”

“If that’s a man, he means us no harm. He’d have done something by now if he did,” Midnight answered. “He wouldn’t be sitting there watching us.”

“If he didn’t mean us harm, he would have come into camp by now,” Adon countered.

“Not necessarily,” Midnight said. “He might be afraid to.”

“We hardly look like thieves,” Adon said, waving his hand at himself and the magic-user. “Who’d have reason to fear us?”

Midnight did not answer immediately and avoided the cleric’s gaze. As soon as Adon had asked his question, it had occurred to her that the shadow might belong to Cyric, the trio’s missing comrade. It had been only a few weeks since the thief had disappeared on the River Ashaba, but already it seemed that he’d been gone for years. She missed his grim wit, his aloof bearing, even his dark temper.

After Midnight did not respond to his question for several moments, Adon turned toward the lean-to. The magic-user grasped his shoulder to keep him from leaving. “It might be Cyric,” she whispered.

Spinning around to face Midnight, Adon hissed, “Cyric! It couldn’t be!”

“Why not?” Midnight asked, glancing back at the shadow. “The trireme that worried our ship captain did seem to be following us.”

“That’s still no reason to think Cyric was aboard,” Adon countered. “How could he have known we were leaving Tantras, much less which ship we were on?”

“Cyric has his ways,” Midnight said grimly.

Adon frowned and squeezed his mace until his knuckles turned white. “Yes, he proved that in Tantras.”

Both Midnight and Adon turned to look at Kelemvor. The fighter had seen Cyric last, in Tantras. A Zhentish assassin had attacked Kelemvor, but failed to kill him. When the battle was over, he spotted Cyric in the crowd, watching the attempted murder.

Removing Midnight’s hand from his shoulder, Adon declared, “I’m getting Kelemvor.”

“But he’ll kill Cyric,” Midnight said, concern creeping into her voice.

“Good,” Adon responded. The cleric again turned toward the lean-to.

“How can you say that?”

“He’s joined the Zhentilar,” Adon snapped over his shoulder. “Or have you forgotten?”

According to rumor, Cyric had been with one of the Zhentish armies that had come to attack Tantras. Given Cyric’s presence at the attempt on Kelemvor’s life, Adon believed the rumor.

“What did you expect?” Midnight inquired, still unconvinced of her friend’s betrayal. “Cyric’s a schemer. Faced with joining Bane’s Zhentilar or dying, he’d join. That doesn’t mean he’s betrayed us.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t,” Adon said, still speaking over his shoulder. The wind gusted, whipping the grove into a clamor of rattling branches.

“A few weeks ago, Cyric was a trusted friend and a good ally,” Midnight said. “Or have you forgotten that he was the one who saved our lives in Shadowdale?”

“No,” Adon admitted, finally turning around to face Midnight again. “And I haven’t forgotten that Cyric would have left me for the executioner’s axe if you hadn’t refused to abandon me.”

Midnight didn’t know what to say, for the cleric was right. After Elminster disappeared during the Battle of Shadowdale, the people of the town had convened a hasty trial and accused Adon and Midnight of the old sage’s death. Unfortunately, Elminster’s disappearance had also been the event that triggered Adon’s catatonic depression, so he was unable to say anything in his own defense. He and Midnight were quickly found guilty and condemned to death.

The night before the scheduled execution, Cyric had come to rescue Midnight. The thief had been disgusted by Adon’s collapse during the trial, however, and had taken the cleric along only upon Midnight’s insistence. Then, as the trio had fled down the River Ashaba, Cyric had treated Adon like an unwanted dog, speaking to the cleric only to insult him, and occasionally even hitting him. Midnight had been forced to intervene on Adon’s behalf many times.

As the magic-user remembered the unpleasant journey, the moon appeared again and pale light bathed the forest. This time, it looked as though the moon would shine for a while, for the only clouds near it were the ones the wind had just blown past.

Adon took the opportunity to look squarely into Midnight’s eyes. “I owe Cyric nothing,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m indebted to you for saving me at Shadowdale.”

“Then I want you to pay back that debt,” Midnight responded, returning Adon’s stare. “Don’t assume that Cyric has betrayed us just because he’s treated you badly in the past.”

“You don’t know Cyric like Kel—”

Midnight held her hand up to silence the cleric. “Are you going to honor your debt or not?” she demanded.

Adon frowned angrily. “I’ll never trust Cyric.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Midnight responded, looking back toward the shadow. “All I ask is that you give Cyric the benefit of the doubt. Don’t kill him on sight.”

Adon’s face betrayed his frustration and he looked away. “All right … but you’ll never convince Kelemvor.”

Midnight breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll handle that problem when we come to it. First, I think I’d better find out what Cyric wants.”

Without waiting for a reply, Midnight began crawling toward the willow roots. Soggy leaves cushioned her knees and hands, muffling what would otherwise have been a loud rustle.

“Wait!” Adon hissed. “You don’t even know if that’s him.”

“We’ve got to find out, don’t we?” Midnight responded, pausing only an instant. “You can wake Kelemvor if it isn’t.”

Sighing in frustration, Adon slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and prepared to rush to the mage’s aid if the need arose.

As Midnight advanced, the hiss of the wind muffled Kelemvor’s snoring, though the soft growl did remain audible. The magic-user gripped her dagger tightly, realizing that the farther away from her friends she crawled, the more she exposed herself to attack. As Adon had pointed out, they could not be sure the man behind the root tangle was Cyric. It could just as easily be a thief or a Zhentish spy who had trailed them from Tantras. But Midnight did not see that she had any choice except to go out and see.

Twenty feet later, the mage put her hand on a stick and snapped it. The shadow didn’t stir, but as Midnight glanced back, Kelemvor rolled over, found his swordhilt, then returned to his snoring. She turned back toward the willow roots and advanced another ten feet.

The wind suddenly calmed, leaving the grove eerily quiet. To the north, the pop and crack of snapping sticks rang through the wood. Alarmed, Midnight stopped and looked in the direction of the commotion. Several large silhouettes were moving through the undergrowth.

“Get Kelemvor,” Midnight called to Adon. “Something’s coming!” She glanced back at the willow’s roots and saw that the shadow was gone.

Two hundred feet to the north, thirteen Cormyrian soldiers—once the patrol under Ogden the Hardrider—were slowly riding south, still searching for Midnight and her companions. Most of the men were missing ears, fingers, noses, even whole hands or feet. Jagged wounds laced their torsos where carrion eaters had torn them open in search of an easy meal. The horses were no better off, with great strips of hide ripped away and the tender portions of their bodies gnawed away.

Back at the lean-to, Adon put his hand over Kelemvor’s mouth, then shook the fighter’s shoulder. The brawny warrior woke with a start, then instinctively thrust Adon aside, knocking the cleric onto his back. A moment later, the fighter realized that it had been Adon’s hand on his face and pulled his friend back into a sitting position—not thinking to apologize for knocking him over.

Kelemvor’s appearance was as rugged as his manner. Standing just shy of six feet tall, he was heavily muscled and broad-shouldered. Three days’ growth of black beard covered the chiseled features of his face, and his green eyes were hidden beneath a frowning brow. The warrior moved with a feline grace that was the only remaining trace of the lycanthropic curse of which he had recently freed himself.

“What is it?” Kelemvor asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Something’s coming from the north,” Adon replied, slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder and hefting his mace. “Midnight didn’t say what.” The cleric did not mention the shadow that might or might not have been Cyric, for he had promised not to kill the thief on sight. Informing Kelemvor of Cyric’s presence would amount to the same thing.

“Where is she?” Kelemvor asked, kneeling.

Adon turned back toward the willow roots. Midnight was nowhere in sight. “She was here a minute ago,” he said.

Kelemvor cursed and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. “We’d better find her.”

At that moment, Midnight had just crawled to within a hundred and fifty feet of the shadows north of camp. She could see the silhouettes of eight mounted men, though the mage heard the sounds of other riders behind them. The eight riders that she could see were moving slowly toward the lean-to, so the magic-user began looking for a place to hide.

By the time she found it, pressed against the back side of an alder tree, Kelemvor and Adon had begun their search for her. The fighter had crawled behind a fallen tree’s tangled roots and was looking for signs of her there. Adon was crouched halfway between the lean-to and the roots.

“Midnight?” the cleric whispered. “Midnight, where are you? Are you safe?”

Though she could barely hear Adon’s queries, Midnight did not answer. The horsemen were only a hundred feet away, and she feared they would hear her reply. She gripped her dagger tightly, praying the riders had entered the wood by coincidence and intended no harm. But as they came closer, Midnight saw two dozen red eyes burning out of the darkness and doubted her prayer would be answered.

The magic-user pressed herself closer against the tree, hoping to fade into the shadows against its trunk. She rummaged through her cloak pockets, taking an inventory of spell components. This battle, she feared, would not be won without magic.

While Midnight prepared a spell, the riders continued advancing. In the pale light of the moon, the first sign of life they saw was Adon crouched between the willow roots and the lean-to. The two point riders charged. Behind them, a second wave of six horsemen spread out through the wood and trotted forward, trying to flush Midnight and Kelemvor from their hiding places. The other five riders remained deep in the forest, still hidden from Midnight’s sight.

The two point riders made straight for Adon. They did not see the dark figure lurking fifty feet beyond the cleric, hidden beneath a broad-leafed bush. Suddenly, the figure rose to his knees, lifted a short bow, and twanged the bowstring. The arrow took the first horseman in the throat, knocking him out of his saddle. The rider landed on his left arm, rolled four times, and came up holding his sword. With the arrow still protruding from his throat, he rushed into the forest to search for the archer.

Unaware of his companion’s fate, the second point rider continued toward Adon. The cleric dove for cover beneath a fallen log that was ten feet to the left of the root mass. The rider hung off his saddle, his shoulder only three feet off the ground, and lifted his sword.

As the horseman rode past, Kelemvor leaped from behind the root tangle. His blade flashed once, and the rider’s head bounced along beneath his mount’s hooves. The warrior immediately slipped back behind the roots, his thoughts occupied by the arrow that had knocked the first horseman out of the saddle. Kelemvor knew Adon had not fired the arrow, for the cleric had been right in front of him. The warrior also doubted that Midnight had fired it, for he had never seen her use a bow and arrow.

The fighter’s deliberations were interrupted when the second wave of riders approached. Five of the horsemen rode past Kelemvor’s hiding place without slowing down, but one stopped ten feet in front of the willow roots.

The overwhelming stench of rotten flesh forced the air from Kelemvor’s lungs. The fighter staggered and nearly dropped his guard. Then he saw the rider’s red eyes and knew that he couldn’t let his attacker’s odor put him off guard.

In order to fight through the willow roots, the decaying horseman dismounted, being careful to keep his mount between him and Kelemvor. Then the rider stepped around his horse and quickly thrust his sword through the tangle of roots. Kelemvor sidestepped the blade, then plunged his own sword back through the tangle. The tip bit into the attacker’s spongy flesh, but the rider paid the wound no attention. It was then that Kelemvor decided he was fighting a corpse.

As the zombie attacked Kelemvor, Adon rolled out from beneath his tree, leaving the saddlebags—and the Tablet of Fate—hidden there. He scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the fight, hefting his mace. The cleric’s first blow caught Kelemvor’s undead assailant in the back of the head. Though the attack caused the zombie no pain, it knocked the thing off its feet. Kelemvor rushed around the root tangle, then he and Adon hacked and smashed the body into a dozen different pieces.

While the lone zombie fell to Kelemvor and Adon, the other five riders of the second wave were searching the forest for the elusive archer. So far, they had seen no sign of the woman they were supposed to capture. Incorrectly assuming she had been the one who had fired the arrows, they were determined to capture her before she escaped into the forest.

In actuality, Midnight was still standing next to the tree where she had taken refuge when the battle began. In her hands, she held a pinch of dust and her water flask. If Adon and Kelemvor had not destroyed their attacker, she would have used the components to create a magical ice storm. With luck, the resulting hail would have pounded the riders into bits—provided, of course, the spell had not misfired disastrously. Fortunately, however, Midnight had not been forced to risk using magic.

Like Kelemvor, Midnight was curious about the identity of the archer who had knocked the first zombie out of its saddle. She suspected the archer was Cyric, but if so, did not understand why the thief had not revealed his presence before the battle had begun. Perhaps he had overheard the discussion between her and Adon, and had decided to wait for a safer opportunity to present himself.

As Midnight contemplated the archer’s identity, four more riders thundered past her tree and went to attack Adon and Kelemvor. Adon had retrieved the saddlebags from where he had dropped them, and he and the fighter were again searching for Midnight.

“Midnight?” Kelemvor yelled. “Where in Myrkul’s realm are you?”

When Kelemvor and Adon heard the pounding of more hooves, the pair turned toward the reinforcements. The cleric draped the saddlebags holding the tablet over his shoulder, then he and Kelemvor slipped behind the fallen tree’s root mass. They intended to force the riders to dismount in order to attack.

Before the riders reached the two men, however, Midnight stepped away from her tree. In her hands, she still held the components for the magical ice storm. “Kelemvor, Adon!” she yelled. “Take cover!”

She poured some water onto the dust, then cast the spell. Immediately, her head began to spin in pain, her limbs went limp with fatigue, and her body started jerking in convulsions. A hundred silver streaks flashed from her fingertips, then, twenty feet behind the horsemen, abruptly gathered into a small cloud and rose into the treetops. An instant later, tiny balls of flame began falling from it. The cloud drifted toward Kelemvor and Adon, setting fire to everything below it. Within seconds, a wall of flame separated Midnight from her friends. The magic-user’s spell had misfired.

As the cloud drifted toward them, Adon and Kelemvor slowly rose to their feet. When Midnight had warned them to take cover, both men had realized she was risking a spell and had immediately dropped to the ground in fear.

The four horsemen stopped ten feet in front of the pair, then dismounted to attack through the root tangle. As the walking corpses came forward, their mounts fled into the forest to avoid the approaching rain of fire.

“Midnight’s on the other side of the fire,” the fighter said to Adon. “When I say to, get out of here and run into the forest. We’ll circle around the flames, then take Midnight and go.”

The cleric had no time to acknowledge Kelemvor’s plan. The zombies had arrived on the other side of the roots. Two of them immediately began poking their swords through the tangle. The other two tried to circle around to attack unobstructed.

Kelemvor moved to meet the corpses trying to get around the roots. Adon stayed behind the tangle to keep the other two from climbing through. When the second zombie jabbed its sword between the roots, the cleric brought his mace down on the blade and smashed it. The corpse hissed, then threw itself at the roots, pushing its arm through in an angry attempt to grab the cleric.

Meanwhile, Kelemvor met the other two zombies and prevented the pair from flanking his position. The first corpse attacked and the warrior easily parried, then lopped off its sword hand. The second one slashed at Kelemvor’s head, but he ducked and backed away.

Behind Kelemvor’s attackers, the cloud began dropping tiny fireballs onto the ground. The underbrush immediately caught fire and flames began licking at the zombies’ backs.

“Go!” Kelemvor yelled. The warrior kicked the armed zombie in the chest, knocking it into the fire. In the same instant, the other zombie threw itself at Kelemvor, flailing madly. The fighter met its charge with a shoulder, then shoved it back into the fire beside its companion. Both zombies began to burn, but resolutely started back toward Kelemvor. He turned and ran into the forest on his right, confident the corpses would not catch him before being consumed by fire.

Adon simply backed away from the root tangle and climbed over the fallen tree’s trunk. He fled in the opposite direction from Kelemvor. The corpses that had been attacking him tried to climb the root tangle, then burst into flame as the cloud passed over their heads.

On the other side of the fire, Midnight tried in vain to see what was happening to her allies. Her limbs trembled and her head still throbbed from the effects of her misfired spell. Finally, she called, “Kelemvor, Adon!”

The magic-user heard no response, but suspected her voice would not carry through the noisy fire that separated them. The raven-haired mage didn’t know whether to try circling around the fire to meet her friends, or stay where she was and hope they could reach her.

Then Midnight heard the muffled thunder of more hooves behind her. Without turning around, the magic-user ran back to the shadows of her alder tree. The rider hammered past, the smell of rancid meat riding its wake. Midnight could not help gagging.

The zombie that was once Ogden the Hardrider drew up short and wheeled around to face the magic-user. The mount snorted, expelling an odor so foul it could only have come from the lungs of something dead and rotten.

Midnight presented her dagger in what she hoped was a threatening manner. She thought about reaching for a spell component, but rejected the idea. It would be impossible to use magic before the rider reached her. Besides, the incantation probably wouldn’t work.

The rider sheathed its blade, then walked its horse toward Midnight. Even in the pale moonlight, the magic-user could see her attacker in detail. The Purple Dragon of Cormyr decorated its shield. Its helm gleamed with reflections of the moon, and the zombie’s leather breastplate shined with oil and polish. But its gray skin hugged its cheekbones like shriveled leather, and a single red eye bulged from a sunken socket.

The horse must have once been magnificent, powerfully muscled, and well groomed. Now, the creature was more frightening than inspiring. Noxious black fumes discharged from its nostrils every time they flared, and the bit drew the beast’s lips back to expose a row of huge teeth that seemed fanglike and sharp.

Midnight started to back around the tree, being careful not to turn away from Ogden. The zombie urged its horse forward, quickly catching up to her. The magic-user kept her dagger pointed at the corpse and did not turn to run. Her chance of defeating the thing in combat was narrow, she knew, but her chance of outrunning it was nonexistent.

Finally, the horseman closed the gap entirely and leaned over to grab her. Midnight slashed at its ribs, opening a deep gash. The corpse didn’t care. Five icy fingers gripped the mage’s wrist and nearly jerked her arm from its socket as the zombie lifted her off the ground and draped her over the horse’s back.

A hand, as cold as granite and just as hard, pressed her down onto the saddle. Midnight tried to dislodge herself and slash at her captor, but it kept her pinned firmly in place and completely helpless. The rider started to walk its horse forward.

By now, Kelemvor had circled around the perimeter of the fire, and he saw Midnight being draped over the zombie’s saddle. The fighter immediately ran at a full sprint to cut the horseman off.

Before the rancid horse had taken a dozen steps, Kelemvor caught it. The fighter leaped out of the shadows and hit the zombie in the midsection, knocking both it and Midnight out of the saddle. The horse bolted. Midnight landed on the zombie, and Kelemvor landed on her.

The fighter stood up immediately, sword in hand. Using his free hand, he jerked Midnight to her feet. The corpse kicked at Kelemvor’s legs, but the warrior hopped out of the way.

“Are you okay?” Kelemvor asked Midnight. At the same time, he used his free arm to push her clear of the battle.

“Fine. Where’s Adon and the tablet?” She stepped back from the fight, knowing Kelemvor needed room to maneuver more than he needed the little help she could provide with a dagger.

Before Kelemvor could respond, the zombie drew its sword and slashed at the fighter’s stomach. He had to retreat a step, and the corpse leaped to its feet. Kelemvor attacked with a backhand that the zombie blocked easily, then it countered with a series of vicious slashes.

Meanwhile, Adon, still carrying the tablet, had just circled around the other side of the fire. To the east, the cleric saw that most of the remaining zombies were being destroyed by the cloud of fire. A few of the undead were loping into the woods, but the cleric did not think he was in danger, as long as he moved away quietly. Then he heard the clanging of swords and decided to hazard moving faster.

Back with Kelemvor, Midnight hovered on the edge of the battle, dagger in hand. She was ready to strike if the zombie presented her an opening, but Ogden still moved with startling speed and grace. So far, she hadn’t even dared to approach within striking range of the undead creature.

Kelemvor slashed and the corpse parried, then thrust at the fighter’s head. He ducked inside the jab and smashed his hilt into the zombie’s jaw. The blow failed to stun the thing even slightly, so Kelemvor dropped to a knee and rolled away. He stumbled back to his feet just in time to block another of the corpse’s blows.

As she lingered on the edge of battle, it became increasingly clear to Midnight that Kelemvor was getting tired and would need help to destroy the zombie. The magic-user’s first thought was to try a magic missile, but after her earlier failure, she feared magic would do more harm than good. As risky as it was, she knew the best choice was stabbing the zombie in the back.

Then, as she started to circle around to the thing’s rear, Midnight saw Adon coming through the brush. The corpse seemed oblivious to him, so the magic-user decided to make sure the cleric remained unnoticed. She moved directly opposite Adon. Then, as Kelemvor slashed at the zombie’s head, Midnight hurled her dagger at its side.

The blade struck point first and sank several inches into Ogden’s torso. The zombie parried a thrust, then glanced at Midnight and snarled. The momentary distraction was all Kelemvor needed to land his first blow, opening a deep gash in the creature’s lower back. The corpse whirled on the fighter, slashing at him madly. Kelemvor barely managed to duck the wild swing, then the zombie raised its sword to strike again —and this time Kelemvor was so off balance, he would not be able to avoid the blow.

Adon stepped out of the brush and smashed his mace into the back of the zombie’s knees. The corpse dropped to the ground. Kelemvor stepped forward and separated the undead creature’s sword hand from its wrist. The cleric smashed his mace into the zombie’s nose, the fighter lifted his sword to strike again, and within moments Ogden the Hardrider no longer presented a threat.

For several seconds, Kelemvor stood panting over the foul-smelling body, too exhausted to thank Adon and Midnight for their help.

Regardless of whether he received thanks or not, Adon didn’t think it wise to allow the warrior to rest for long. “We’d better get out of here,” he said, pulling Midnight’s dagger out of the cadaver’s ribs and using it to point toward the woods. “There are still one or two zombies out there.”

“What about the archer who helped us?” Kelemvor panted. “He may be in trouble.”

“If they haven’t found him yet, they’re not going to,” Adon said, sharing a knowing glance with Midnight.

“I’m sure that this particular archer can take care of himself,” the magic-user added. If the archer was Cyric, as she and Adon suspected, the last thing he needed at the moment was to have Kelemvor roaming the woods, searching for him.

The warrior frowned. “Do you two know something I don’t?”

Midnight started walking to the north. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said.