Waterdeep

2 The Warning

“The men will see no rest tonight,” Dalzhel said, slipping past the cockeyed door.

A burly man who stood nearly six and half feet tall, Dalzhel resembled a bear both in build and disposition. He had broad, hulking shoulders, a heavy black beard, and a long tail of braided hair that hung down his back. His brown eyes were calm and observant.

Cyric didn’t respond to Dalzhel’s comment. Instead, he watched warily as his lieutenant entered the room. The thief and his men were five miles north of Eveningstar, in the great hall of a ruined castle. The hall was fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. An imposing fireplace dominated one end of the dusty chamber, the roaring fire within providing the room’s only light. In the middle of the floor sat a thirty-foot banquet table, gray and cracked from age and neglect. Around the table and scattered in the hall’s corners were a dozen rickety chairs.

Cyric had placed the sturdiest chair before the fireplace and was sitting in it. With a hawkish nose, narrow chin, and dark, stormy eyes, his sharp features were equally suited to sly humor or sinister moods. A recently acquired short sword lay across the thief’s lap. The blade’s reddish luster left little doubt that it was an extraordinary weapon.

Removing his wet cloak, Dalzhel moved to the fire. Beneath the cloak the Zhentish soldier wore a shirt of black chain mail. Though the armor weighed at least thirty-five pounds, Dalzhel removed it only to sleep—and then only when safely hidden away.

“You could not have picked a darker lair,” Dalzhel noted, warming his hands over the hearth. “The men are calling this place the Haunted Halls.”

Though he did not say so aloud, Cyric understood the sentiment. Located in the bottom of a deep gorge and overlooking the turbulent currents of the Starwater River, the ruin was as forlorn a place as he knew. The castle had been built before Cormyr had become a kingdom, yet many of its brooding walls and black towers remained intact. It was a hundred yards long and fifty wide, with outer walls still rising to a height of thirty feet in places. The gatehouses showed no signs of the castle’s age, though their elaborate portcullises had long since fallen into disrepair.

The great hall, residential apartments, kitchen, and stable had once stood snuggled against the keep’s interior wall, their doors and windows opening onto the courtyard. Only the great hall—built from the same black granite as the gatehouses—remained completely intact. The other buildings, constructed of some lesser stone, had fallen into ruins.

Given the castle’s combination of crumbled walls and imposing edifices, it did not surprise Cyric that the men found the place unsettling. Still, he had little stomach for their complaints. Dalzhel and the rest of the troops had arrived at the castle that morning, in plenty of time to avoid the storm that had raged all afternoon. Cyric, however, had not come until dusk—cold, tired, and wet after an afternoon in the rain. He had no wish to listen to the men simper.

Heedless of his commander’s mood, Dalzhel continued to speak. “There’s something beyond the outer curtain,” he said, trying to gain Cyric’s interest. He removed his scabbard and placed it upon the dusty banquet table. “Or so the watch says.”

Cyric had little concern for what lurked outside the walls to frighten his men. He decided to change the subject and asked, “How is my pony? That fellow carried me well, considering how hard I rode.”

“With rest it’ll recover—provided someone doesn’t kill it first,” Dalzhel said, returning to the fireplace. “There are those who grumble that it has eaten better than the men.”

“It’s proven more use!” Cyric snapped. The pony had carried him nearly one hundred and fifty miles over the last three days. A war-horse could not have done better. He considered threatening death to anyone who touched the pony, but rejected the idea. The order would breed resentment, and someone might take up the challenge. “If it survives until morning, take the pony to the plain and free it.”

“Aye. That’s for the best,” Dalzhel responded, surprised at his commander’s unexpected hint of compassion. “The men are in a foul mood. Couldn’t we have stayed elsewhere?”

“Where would you suggest?” Cyric growled, glaring at Dalzhel’s standing form. “Eveningstar?”

“Of course not, sir,” the soldier responded, stiffening his posture.

Dalzhel had meant the question to be rhetorical. Given that he and all the men wore Zhentish armor, few things would have been as foolish as seeking lodging in a Cormyrian town.

Cyric looked away and glowered into the fire. “Never question my orders!”

Dalzhel did not respond.

The hawk-nosed thief decided to further chasten his lieutenant by bringing up a sore subject. “Where are your messengers?” he demanded harshly.

“Holed up with two-copper wenches from one end of Cormyr to another,” Dalzhel retorted, standing more or less at attention.

Cyric had ordered sentries to watch all roads leading out of Cormyr, and it had fallen on Dalzhel’s shoulders to execute the command. So far, not a single messenger had reported.

“And I’d be with ’em,” Dalzhel continued, “if my mother had blessed me with the sense of an ox.”

Cyric wheeled on Dalzhel, the rose-colored short sword in his hand and the desire to use it in his breast.

In return, the Zhentish lieutenant backed away and snatched his scabbard off the banquet table, then met his commander’s angry glare with a puzzled gaze. His reply had been out of line, but Cyric had never before responded to unruliness with such vehemence.

Three tentative raps sounded at the cockeyed door. The intrusion brought Cyric back to his senses and he thrust the short sword into its scabbard. “Enter!” he ordered.

The night sergeant, Fane, slipped into the room. He was a stocky man with a scraggly red beard. Water dripping from his cloak, he turned to Dalzhel and reported, “Alrik is missing from his post.”

“You’ve looked for him?” Dalzhel demanded, laying his scabbard back on the table.

“Aye,” Fane replied, hardly daring to meet Dalzhel’s gaze. “He’s nowhere to be found.”

Dalzhel cursed under his breath, then said, “Assign another to his place. We’ll deal with Alrik come morning.” He turned away, indicating the audience was over.

Fane did not leave. “Alrik isn’t one to desert,” he insisted.

“Then double the guard,” Dalzhel snarled, turning back to the sergeant. “But don’t let the men grumble to me about it. Now go.”

His eyes betraying irritation, Fane nodded and backed out the door.

As the sergeant left, Cyric realized that he had turned on Dalzhel for a minor infraction. It was not a smart thing to do. Without exception, the men were cutthroats and thieves, and he needed Dalzhel to watch his back. It would not do to have his bodyguard angry at him.

By way of apology, Cyric said, “Everything depends upon those messengers.”

Dalzhel understood the explanation for what it was and accepted it with a nod. “It shouldn’t be as difficult for the messengers to avoid Cormyrian patrols. The storm must have muddied the roads and slowed their pace. It seems that Talos the Raging One is against us.”

“Aye,” Cyric replied, dropping back into his chair. “All the deities are against us, not just the God of Storms.” He was thinking of five nights ago, when he had been spying upon Midnight’s camp and a group of zombie riders had appeared. It was possible they had been just another aspect of the chaos plaguing the Realms, but Cyric thought it more likely a god had sent them to capture Midnight and the tablet.

“Not that it gives me fright, understand,” Dalzhel said, watching Cyric closely. “But this business hardly seems the affair of common soldiers. It makes a man curious.”

Cyric kept his silence, for any man privileged to know his intention might try to usurp his place.

“The blood between you and the three we seek must be bad indeed,” Dalzhel pressed.

“We were once … friends, of a sort,” Cyric responded guardedly. He saw no harm in admitting that much.

“And what of this stone?” Dalzhel asked. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his interest was more than casual. Cyric wanted the flat stone the trio carried as much as he wanted them. Dalzhel wished to know why.

“My orders are to recover it.” Cyric tried to intimidate Dalzhel with an angry stare. “I don’t care to know why.”

Cyric was lying. Before the battle of Shadowdale, he and his companions had helped the goddess Mystra attempt to leave the Realms. The god Helm had refused to let her pass unless she presented the Tablets of Fate, which had been stolen from Ao, the mysterious overlord of the gods. Cyric knew little else about the tablets, but he suspected that Ao would pay a handsome reward for their return.

Cyric had spent most of his life putting bread in his mouth by thieving or fighting, always without a sense of destiny or purpose. For more than a decade, this shiftless existence had seemed an empty one, but the thief had been unable to find a higher purpose in life. Every time he tried, the matter ended as in Shadowdale, his efforts unappreciated. Often as not, Cyric found the very people he had tried to help chasing him from town.

After Shadowdale, Cyric finally realized that he could only believe in himself—not in the abstract concept of “Good,” not in the sanctity of friendship, not even in the hope of love. If his life was to have a purpose, it had to be his own best interest. After deciding this, Cyric began to formulate a plan that not only gave meaning to his life, but one that would literally allow him to choose his own destiny. He would recover the Tablets of Fate and return them to Ao in return for a reward that would doubtlessly make him as wealthy as any king.

Without knocking, someone brushed past the heavy wooden door and stepped into the room. Cyric stood and brandished his short sword. Dalzhel grabbed his own weapon. Both men turned to face the intruder.

“I beg your pardon, my commanders!” It was Fane again, still dripping wet. His eyes were locked on the naked blades in the hands of Dalzhel and Cyric, and his eyebrows were arched in fright. “I’ve merely come to report,” he gasped.

“Then do it!” Dalzhel ordered.

“Edan’s post is also empty.” Fane winced as he said the words, half-expecting Dalzhel to strike him.

The Zhentish lieutenant merely frowned. “He could be hiding with Alrik.”

“Edan is unreliable,” the sergeant admitted.

“If two men have abandoned their posts,” Cyric interrupted, addressing Dalzhel, “your discipline is not half as strict as you claim.”

“I’ll fix that come morning,” Dalzhel growled. “Still … have you doubled the guard?”

“No,” Fane replied, blanching. “I didn’t think you meant that as an order.”

“Do it now,” Dalzhel snapped. “Then find Alrik and Edan. Your punishment for disobeying my order will depend on how quickly you find them.”

Fane gulped, but did not reply.

“Dismissed,” Dalzhel said.

The sergeant turned and scrambled out the door.

Dalzhel turned to Cyric. “This is bad. The men are unruly, and unruly men fight poorly. Perhaps their spirits would be lifted if they saw a reward in sight—that halfling village we raided provided little enough loot.”

“I can’t help how the men feel. We have our orders,” Cyric lied. If he could keep the men in line a week or two longer, the tablets would be his.

Dalzhel didn’t put his sword back in its scabbard. “Sir, the men know better. We followed you from Tantras because you had brains enough not to get us killed there. But we’ve never believed your orders come from Zhentil Keep. You’re no more a Zhentilar officer than you are the High Lady of Silverymoon, and we’ve known it for a long time. Our loyalty is to you and you alone.”

Dalzhel paused, looking squarely into Cyric’s eyes. “A few answers would go a long way toward holding that loyalty.”

Cyric glared at Dalzhel, angered by his lieutenant’s half-spoken threat. Still, he recognized the truth in the words. The men had grown resentful and rebellious. Without the promise of reward, they would soon desert or mutiny.

“I suppose I should be flattered that the men chose me over their homeland,” Cyric said, then paused and pondered what he should reveal to Dalzhel.

He might tell him about the Tablets of Fate or the fall of the gods. Cyric could even tell his bodyguard that he suspected that one of the trio they were chasing held the power of the dead goddess Mystra. The hawk-nosed thief shook his head. If he was hearing that story for the first time, he might not believe it.

“What are you after?” Dalzhel asked, his curiosity aroused by Cyric’s long pause.

“I’ll tell you this much,” the thief said, looking at Dalzhel. “The stone I want is half of a key to great power. The other half lies in Waterdeep, where the woman and her friends are going. The woman, Midnight, has the power needed to turn that key. We’ll capture her and the stone, then go to Waterdeep and find the stone’s twin. When that’s done, Midnight will put the key in the lock—and I’ll turn it! I’ll be more powerful than any man in the Realms, and I’ll reward you and the men with gold or whatever you desire.”

Cyric turned back to the fire. “That’s all I’ll say. I don’t want anyone to make the mistake of believing he can take my place.”

Dalzhel stared at Cyric for a full minute, considering the story. The promises were grand, but they were also vague. Cyric sounded as though he expected to make himself an emperor without a battle. Dalzhel had once fought for a petty Sembian noble, Duke Luthvar Garig, whose delusions of grandeur had resulted in the destruction of an entire army. It was not an experience Dalzhel was anxious to repeat.

However, Cyric spoke with a purpose and lucidity Luthvar had lacked, and Dalzhel had never thought of his commander as a man given to wild imaginings. Besides, the Realms were in chaos, and Dalzhel knew his legends well enough to know that kings were just mercenaries who had enough courage to carve a realm out of anarchy. It seemed he had found himself in the service of a king in the making.

“If any other man made such promises,” Dalzhel noted, “I’d count him a fool and leave. But I swear my allegiance to you, and so shall the others.”

Cyric smiled as warmly as he could. “Be careful of what you swear,” he warned.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dalzhel replied. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders and put his sword back into its scabbard. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll attend to our men.”

Cyric nodded and watched Dalzhel go, wondering if his lieutenant knew that he might be standing against the gods themselves. The thief had no doubt that one or two of the gods, at least, would be chasing Midnight as soon as they learned she had the tablet.

In following Midnight from Tantras, Cyric’s original intention had been to seize her and the tablet when her ship docked in Ilipur. But, as they entered the Dragonmere, a squall had risen from a calm sea. It had been impossible to say whether the storm was a deity’s work or just another of the chaotic phenomenon plaguing the Realms.

Regardless of its source, the storm had driven Midnight’s ship north. Cyric had followed as best he could, but maintaining contact had proven impossible. Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, the storm had died. Cyric had sailed north, correctly guessing the galley would limp toward the Port of Marsember. He quickly intercepted the small ship, but discovered that the superstitious captain had set his passengers ashore somewhere near the mouth of the Immerflow. Cyric had reversed his course and, over a span of sixty miles, set scouts ashore to search for his old friends.

It had been Cyric himself who located Midnight’s camp, in a small wood near the mouth of the Immerflow. He had sent his companion to summon Dalzhel and the twenty-five men held in reserve with their ship. Then he had crept up to the camp, hoping for an opportunity to kidnap Midnight or steal the tablet.

But the storm had muddied the fields and delayed his reinforcements. Before Dalzhel could arrive, the mysterious zombie riders had attacked Midnight’s camp. Without showing himself, Cyric had used his bow to aid his former allies enough to keep the tablet from falling into the zombies’ hands.

During the combat, one of Midnights spells had misfired and set the wood ablaze. Unfortunately, Cyric had been trapped on one side of the fire, Midnight and the tablet on the other. She, Adon, and Kelemvor had escaped before he could follow.

By the time Dalzhel had arrived with reinforcements, Cyric had been forced to adopt a desperate plan. Because he had little hope of finding Midnight and his old friends in Cormyr, where soldiers wearing Zhentish armor would be killed on sight, Cyric had to force Midnight to find him. He decided to herd her north, making sure she and her company had little opportunity for rest. His intention was to attack after they reached Eveningstar.

He posted patrols of six men along all the major roads leading south. The patrols were to remain inconspicuous until they saw Midnight’s company. Then they were to attack and drive her north.

Cyric and the rest of his Zhentilar marched northwest on foot, moving at night to avoid Cormyrian patrols. Along the way, Cyric visited the towns of Wheloon and Hilp, arranging unpleasant receptions in case Midnight and company stopped there. North of Hilp, Cyric’s Zhentilar had stumbled across an isolated halfling village. Of course, they had plundered it, which was where Cyric had acquired his new sword and the pony.

Afterward, Dalzhel and the men had continued north on foot, dispatching sentries to watch key crossroads. Cyric had taken the pony and arranged more trouble for Midnight’s company in the other cities they might visit.

The hawk-nosed thief felt that his plan was both a sound and subtle one. But with no word from his messengers, he didn’t know whether or not it was working.

Fane rapped on the door, interrupting Cyric’s reflections, then entered without awaiting permission. His face was as pale as bone. “We’ve found Alrik and Edan,” he said. “Dalzhel requests your presence.”

Cyric frowned, then rose and grabbed his cloak. “Lead the way.” He kept his short sword in his hand, just in case Fane was leading him into a mutinous ambush.

They slipped past the hall’s crooked door into the dark courtyard. Cyric’s boots sank to the ankle in mud. A driving rain, so cold it should have been sleet, stung his face. The eerie wail of the wind echoed from the keep’s stone walls.

In the opposite corner of the courtyard, torchlight flickered between what had once been the guards’ barracks and the blacksmith’s shop. That was where the well was located. Fane led the way across the yard, each step creating a slurp that punctuated the hard patter of the raindrops. Three men stood beneath the inner curtain’s eaves, trying to shelter their torches and themselves from the rain. Two of the men were pointedly looking away from the well. Since it still provided water, it was the one item the castle’s periodic inhabitants kept in good repair.

A moan, low-pitched and feral, issued from the well’s depths. Tied to the blood-smeared crossbar was a gray cord that descended into the dark pit. Dalzhel stepped forward and grabbed the cord. Without speaking, he began to pull. An anguished scream rang out deep down the well. Dalzhel allowed the cry to continue for several seconds before dropping the cord.

“What was that?” Cyric asked, peering into the black depths.

“Edan, we think,” Dalzhel reported.

“He’s still alive,” Fane added informatively. “Every time we try to pull him up, he screams.”

Though he had seen many slow deaths, and had caused one or two himself, Cyric’s stomach turned as he tried to imagine what had happened at the other end of the rope.

Fane drew his sword to cut the rope.

Cyric grabbed Fane’s arm and said, “No, we need the well.” He turned to the two men holding torches. “Pull him up and end his misery.”

They paled, but did not dare object.

Next, Dalzhel and Fane led the way to a latrine on the outer curtain. The castle had been abandoned too long for the thing to stink from use, but it exuded a coppery odor that was equal parts blood and bile. From inside came a plaintive groan.

“Alrik,” Fane reported.

Cyric peered inside. Alrik faced the corner, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He held his hands cupped in front of his stomach. A barbed, wooden tip protruded from his lower back, suggesting that a stake had been driven through his body. Because of the barbs, the stake could not be removed without dragging Alrik’s intestines out with it.

When Cyric pulled his head out of the cramped room, Dalzhel said, “I’ve never seen such cruelty. I’ll lay my blade into whoever—”

“Don’t promise what you might not dare to deliver,” Cyric said coldly. “Put an end to Alrik’s misery. Fane, wake every man and send them out on patrol in threes.”

“They’re awake already,” Fane reported. “I could not have—” He was interrupted by a terrified yell from the inner gatehouse.

“No!” A high screech followed. It did not fade, even after the man’s throat should have gone hoarse.

Cyric turned toward the gatehouse, unsure of what he would find. Few humans were capable of the efficient brutality with which Alrik and Edan had been tortured. Still, the thief moved at his best pace. If he appeared frightened of the murderer, his men would no longer be afraid of him—and that was an invitation for mutiny.

Dalzhel and Fane followed close behind. By the time they reached the gatehouse, the scream was no longer audible. A dozen men had gathered in the stairwell, standing in a line running up to the second floor. Their torches cast a flickering yellow light on the walls.

The men did not even notice Cyric when he arrived, so Fane bellowed, “Out of the way! Stand aside!”

When the onlookers made no move to obey, Fane muscled a path up the stairway. Cyric and Dalzhel followed, eventually reaching a doorway. Five men stood inside, staring at a crumpled form in the center of the room. A dark pool was spreading about their feet, and the barest whisper of a croak came from the shape on the floor.

“Let your betters have a look!” Fane ordered, pushing his way into the crowded chamber.

Cyric and Dalzhel shadowed Fane into the room. “Put a stop to that moan,” Cyric ordered. “And nobody walks alone tonight.”

Fane obeyed immediately, delivering the stroke of mercy with an unnerving lack of emotion.

A man standing in the doorway growled, “And come morning, I walk out of here!” The speaker was Lang, a lanky fighter skilled with both sword and bow. “I didn’t sign on to fight ghouls.”

Dalzhel immediately pulled his sword on the mutineer. “You’ll do as you’re told, and nothing else!” he said. Cyric moved to Dalzhel’s left and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. If this came to blows, they would stand or fall together.

“I’ve had too much danger and not enough loot, myself!” cried Mardug, who stood in the room behind their backs. “I’m with Lang!”

A muted chorus of agreement rustled down the stairs.

“Then you’ll go with Lang to the Realm of the Dead,” Dalzhel said evenly, turning and swinging his sword. He slapped Mardug in the head with the flat of his blade. The mutineer dropped to his knees.

Lang drew his blade and lunged at Dalzhel’s back. Cyric intercepted the attack and easily parried it with his short sword, then kicked Lang in the stomach and sent him crashing into the doorjamb.

Before Lang could recover, Cyric touched the tip of his sword to the mutineer’s throat. “On any other night, I would finish you,” he hissed, trembling with exhilaration. A bloodlust such as he had never known was coursing through Cyric’s veins, and it was all he could do to keep from pushing the sword forward.

“But we’re all upset by the deaths of our friends,” Cyric continued, “so I’ll make this allowance.”

The hawk-nosed thief let a heavy silence hang in the room for several moments, then turned to Dalzhel. “Lang and Mardug can leave now,” he said, speaking loudly so the men on the stairs would hear him. “Anybody else who wants to leave can join them. Everybody that’s still here at dawn is with me until the end.”

“Aye.” Dalzhel turned to the two mutineers. “Be gone before the commander changes his mind.”

The two men took their leave and pushed their way down the stairs. Nobody else moved to join them.

Cyric remained quiet. When he had lifted his sword, a powerful bloodlust had invaded his body, but it still hadn’t died away. If anything, it had grown stronger. Although he had never felt any compunction about killing, this was something new to him. Not only did he want to draw blood, he wondered how he would sleep if he did not.

After several moments of silence, Fane asked, “What are we going to do?”

“About what?” Cyric asked absently.

“The murderer,” Fane replied. He used his toe to turn the body over, strangely fascinated by its grotesque wounds. “We’ve got to find him.”

“That might be foolish,” Dalzhel said, grimacing at the way Fane played with the body. “If we send men to look for the murderer, we’re exposing them to attack.”

Cyric and his lieutenant were thinking along the same lines. During his life, Cyric had known many evil men. Not one was capable of what he had seen tonight. “Have the men gather in groups of six,” the thief ordered. “One group in the great hall—” A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions.

“The stable,” Dalzhel observed.

The men mumbled, but stood still and waited for their orders.

Again, the pony whinnied, this time sending chills down Cyric’s spine. “We’d better have a look,” he said, cringing at the thought of what they would find.

The men on the stairs reluctantly started toward the stable, Cyric and Dalzhel close behind.

By the time the hawk-nosed man reached the ground floor, the pony was quiet. As Cyric stepped into the courtyard, a ghostly wail whistled through the castle. Outside the stable, ten men stood with their swords drawn, peering inside and clearly reluctant to enter. Cyric slopped his way across the ward and pushed them aside. Grabbing a torch, he entered the stable, his sword arm aching with the desire to lash out at something.

The pony lay dead in its stall, a withered and puckered hole over its heart. The lips of its muzzle were twisted back in horror, and one eye stared directly at Cyric.

Dalzhel approached and stood next to his commander. For a moment, he observed in silence, wondering whether or not Cyric was mourning the beast’s death. Then he noticed something on the beam over the stall. “Look!”

A circle of drops had been drawn in blood. Cyric had little trouble recognizing the Circle of Tears. It was the symbol of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, God of Assassins.