Waterdeep

3 Black Oaks

Kelemvor reined his horse to a stop and lifted his waterskin to his lips. He thought he smelled smoke, but that was no wonder. Despite the absence of the sun, which had simply failed to appear that morning, the day was blistering. A flickering, swirling orange fog clung to the ground, bathing everything it touched in dry heat.

The fog had leached all moisture from the soil, turning the road into a ribbon of powdery dust that choked man and beast alike. The horses moved slowly and resentfully, stopping every few steps to sniff for the cool odor of a river or pond. Kelemvor knew they would find no water. The company had already crossed several brooks, and the only thing in the streambeds had been billows of orange mist.

After washing the dust from his mouth, Kelemvor turned his rugged face to the left. Through the fog, the forest that ran along the road’s left flank was barely visible. He sniffed the air and definitely smelled smoke. It carried a greasy odor resembling burned meat. Visions of battles involving razed towns and villages came unbidden to his mind.

“I smell smoke,” Kelemvor said, twisting around to face his companions.

The second rider, Adon, stopped and sniffed the air. “So do I,” he said. He kept his head slightly turned to hide the scar beneath his left eye. “I would guess there’s a fire, wouldn’t you?”

“We should have a look,” Kelemvor said.

“What for?” Adon demanded, waving his hand at the fog. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the air itself were burning.”

Kelemvor sniffed again. It was difficult to be sure, but he still thought he smelled scorched meat. “Can’t you smell it?” he asked. “Burned flesh?”

The third rider stopped behind Kelemvor and Adon, her black cape now gray with road-silt, her hair braided into a pony tail. “I smell it, too,” Midnight said, inhaling. “Like charred mutton?”

Sighing, Adon turned to face Midnight. “It’s probably a campfire,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Absent-mindedly, the cleric rested a hand on the reason for his concern, the saddlebags containing the Tablet of Fate. Nothing was more important than getting it to Waterdeep as quickly as possible. Adon did not want to waste a single moment with detours, especially after the troubles of the last few days.

Kelemvor knew the source of Adon’s concern. After escaping the zombie riders, they had gone to Wheloon to rest. However, the trio had scarcely arrived when Lord Sarp Redbeard accused Kelemvor of murdering a local merchant. When the town watch attempted to seize the fighter, the trio had been forced to escape on stolen horses.

If Adon wasn’t worried about the Wheloon Watch, then he was concerned about the Zhentilar. After Wheloon, the three companions had ridden to Hilp and turned south toward Suzail. From there, they intended to take passage across the Dragonmere to Ilipur, where they could join a caravan bound for Waterdeep.

They had made it only as far as the Starwater Bridge when six Zhentilar had ambushed them. Kelemvor had wanted to stay and fight, but Adon had wisely insisted upon fleeing. Though the green-eyed warrior had been strong enough to fight, Adon and Midnight had been too weary to face two-to-one odds.

Kelemvor doubted that the Zhentilar or the Wheloon Watch was pursuing them. The watch consisted of merchants and tradesmen. They had surely turned back after a day’s ride. It was even more certain that the Zhentilar were not following. Inside Cormyr, they might survive hiding by day and skulking about at night. But if the Zhentish soldiers dared to move openly, it would be only a day or two before a Cormyrian patrol tracked them down and finished them.

“Don’t worry, Adon,” Kelemvor said. “We have time to do a little exploring. I’m sure of that much.”

“What are you unsure about?” Midnight asked. She had long ago learned what Kelemvor left unstated could be more important than what he said.

Knowing it would be futile to hide his concern, Kelemvor said, “I don’t understand why we met Zhentilar in Cormyrian territory. It makes no sense.”

Midnight relaxed. “It makes plenty of sense. They serve Cyric. He’s trying to keep us from using the southern route.”

Kelemvor and Adon exchanged knowing glances. “If I believed Cyric wished us to go north,” Kelemvor snapped, “that would be reason enough to go south.”

“At any cost,” Adon added, nodding.

“Why do you say that?” Midnight asked sharply.

“Because Cyric wants me dead,” Kelemvor replied.

It was an old subject. For nearly a week, Midnight had been laboring to convince her friends that Cyric had not betrayed them by joining the Zhentilar.

“Whose arrows saved us five nights ago?” Midnight demanded, referring to the mysterious archer who had aided them against the zombie riders. She looked away and stared into the forest, confident they could not provide a satisfactory answer.

“I don’t know,” Kelemvor responded, determined not to let Midnight have the last word. “But they weren’t Cyric’s. He wouldn’t have missed me and hit the riders instead.”

Midnight started to protest, but thought better of it and dropped the subject. Kelemvor would not change his opinion easily. “Let’s get on with it,” she said sternly.

“Yes,” Adon agreed, urging his horse onward. “Every hour forward is an hour closer to Waterdeep.”

Kelemvor grabbed Adon’s reins. “Into the forest,” he said.

“But …” Frustrated by Kelemvor’s refusal to accept his leadership in even this simple thing, Adon jerked his reins out of Kelemvor’s hand. “I won’t go,” he pouted. “It’s just someone roasting a sheep.”

Annoyed by Adon’s obstinacy, Kelemvor set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. But he stopped himself from being as stubborn as Adon. Instead, he said, “If you’re right, this will only take a minute. But if you’re wrong, somebody might need our help.”

Despite his reasonable tone, Kelemvor was determined not to leave without investigating the smoke. It carried the smell of death by fire, and to him that meant someone was in trouble.

And now that he could, Kelemvor Lyonsbane was anxious to offer his help to anyone who truly needed it.

For five generations, the men in Kelemvor’s family had been forced to sell their fighting skills because of their ancestor’s greed. Kyle Lyonsbane, a ruthless mercenary, had once deserted a powerful sorceress in the midst of battle so he could loot an enemy camp. In retaliation, she had cursed him so that he changed into a panther whenever he indulged his greed or lust. In Kyle’s descendants, the curse had reversed and manifested itself whenever they attempted to perform selfless acts.

The curse had been more of a prison than any man could imagine. Forced into a career as a mercenary, Kelemvor had appeared to be as ruthless as his ancestor had been. Consequently, his life had been one of isolation and loneliness.

As strange as it seemed, Lord Bane, the God of Strife, had changed all that. Through a complicated series of events, Kelemvor had tricked Bane into removing his family curse. He was now free to help others, and he was determined to never again turn away from someone in need.

When Adon showed no sign of agreeing to Kelemvor’s request, it was Midnight who settled the matter. Sniffing the air again, she said, “I do smell burned flesh.” Despite the fact that she was still angry at the fighter for his condemnation of Cyric, Midnight agreed with Kelemvor. “Come on, Adon. Kel’s right.”

Adon sighed, resigned to the detour. “Then let’s make this as fast as we can.”

Kelemvor led the way into the forest. There, the fog did not seem as thick, nor the temperature as hot. As far back into its depths as they could see, the forest was ablaze with blood-colored sumac leaves. The three companions continued forward, pausing every few minutes to sniff the air and make sure that they were continuing in the right direction.

Presently, they found a path leading farther into the wood. As they progressed, the odor of smoke and charred flesh became stronger. Eventually, they had to dismount and lead their horses, for the trail was narrow and ran beneath low-hanging branches. After five minutes of walking, the path started up a small hillock. Every now and then, gummy black smoke rolled down the trail, mixing with the orange fog. Presently, the sumacs thinned out, giving way to a ring of black oaks that towered eighty feet over the tops of the smaller trees nearby.

In the center of the ring of oaks was a scorched and trampled circle fifty yards in diameter. A fire had cleared the entire area. Here and there, rubble lay heaped in knee-high mounds. Though the village had obviously burned some time ago, several wrecked houses still emitted thin columns of greasy smoke.

Pointing at a pile of stones around a pit, Midnight was the first to speak, “That must have been a well.”

“What happened?” Adon gasped.

“Let’s see if we can find out,” Kelemvor said, tying his horse to a sumac tree. He went up the hillock to the first pile of rubble, then began tossing aside sooty stones.

The small structure, no more than fifteen feet on a side, had been constructed with great care. A fine mortar and rock foundation extended four feet into the ground, and someone had used mud to chink the walls and keep out the wind.

Eventually, Kelemvor came upon a tiny hand. Had it not been wrinkled and weathered, he would have assumed it belonged to a girl. He quickly pulled the rest of the body from beneath the stones. The hand belonged to a woman. Though no taller than a child and lighter than Kelemvor’s sword, she had been old. The oils and pigment had long ago drained from her skin, leaving it ashen and cracked. Her face had been a kind one, with eyes that were friendly and soft even in death.

Kelemvor gently laid her on the ground beside her collapsed home.

“Halflings!” Midnight exclaimed. “Why would anybody raze a halfling village?”

Kelemvor simply shook his head. Halflings did not hoard gold or treasure. In fact, they usually had little of value to creatures other than halflings. The fighter went back to his horse and began taking the saddle off.

“What are you doing?” Adon demanded, calculating they had at least two hours of light left.

“Making camp,” Kelemvor replied. “This may take some time.”

“No, absolutely not!” Adon objected. “We came up here, and now we’ve got to go! I’m very firm about that.”

“A man—even a small man—deserves a burial,” Kelemvor said, pausing to glare at Adon. “There was a time when I would not have needed to remind you of that.”

Adon could not hide the hurt Kelemvor had caused him. “I haven’t forgotten, Kel. But Waterdeep is weeks away, and each hour we delay brings the world closer to ruin.”

Kelemvor dropped his saddle, then removed the bit from his horse’s mouth. “There may be survivors who need help.”

“Survivors?” Adon screeched. “Are you mad? The place has been sacked to the last rat.” When Kelemvor did not respond, Adon turned to Midnight. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him we don’t have time. This may take days.”

Midnight didn’t respond immediately. Though he was as stubborn as ever, this was not the Kelemvor she remembered. That man had been selfish and untouchable. This one was consumed by the misfortune of a people he didn’t even know. Perhaps his curse had been responsible for more of his callousness and vanity than she realized. Perhaps he had truly changed.

Unfortunately, Midnight knew that Adon was right. Kelemvor had picked a poor time to exhibit his new personality. They had a long journey ahead of them and could not afford to waste a single day.

The mage dismounted and moved to Kelemvor’s side. “You’ve changed more than I would have believed possible,” she said, “and this gentle Kelemvor is one I like. But now is not the time. We need the old Kelemvor these days, the man whom a titan could not sway.”

He looked at Midnight. “If I turn away from these halflings, what good has it done to remove my curse?”

It was Adon who answered. “If you let the Realms perish, what will it matter that your curse has been lifted? Stop thinking of yourself and let’s be on our way!”

Kelemvor simply turned toward the halfling village and, over his shoulder, said, “You do as you must and I’ll do the same.”

Midnight sighed. There would be no reasoning with Kelemvor now. “I’ll make camp,” she said. “We need a rest anyway, and this place looks well hidden.” She tied her horse to a tree and began clearing brush away from an area at the hillock’s base.

Frowning, Adon resigned himself to Kelemvor’s stubbornness and also tied his horse. Then he gave the saddlebags with the tablet to Midnight and moved to help Kelemvor.

“I suppose you’ll finish sooner with an extra pair of hands,” the cleric said gruffly. The statement sounded more harsh and vindictive than he’d meant it to. Adon had no wish to see the halflings remain unburied, but he couldn’t help being angry at Kelemvor.

The fighter eyed Adon coldly. “I suppose the halflings are beyond caring who lays them to rest,” he said.

They worked for an hour and a half, uncovering two dozen bodies, many of them burned horribly. Adon’s mood turned from angry to downcast. Although three halfling males had perished defending the outskirts of the village, the victims were mostly women and children. They had been beaten, slashed, and trampled. When they had run into their homes for refuge, the structures had been put to the torch and pulled down on top of them.

There were no survivors, at least in the village, and no indication of why the settlement had been destroyed.

“Tomorrow, we’ll dig their graves,” Kelemvor said, noting that the daylight was fading and it was almost dusk. “We should be finished and on our way by noon.” He hoped the delay would be acceptable; he had no wish to antagonize Adon further.

“I saw no sign of a burial ground,” Adon said. “It might be better to cremate them tonight.”

Kelemvor frowned. He suspected Adon was trying to rush him, but he was no expert on halfling funerals. If anybody knew the form of the ceremony, it would be Adon. “I’ll think it over while we rest,” the fighter replied.

They returned to the edge of the hillock, where Midnight had created a small clearing and made beds from cut brush. As Kelemvor and Adon approached, Midnight said, “I’m starving! Where are the corn biscuits?”

“In my saddlebags,” Kelemvor responded, pointing at his gear.

Midnight grabbed his saddlebags and looked inside, then turned them upside down. A few crumbs fell out, but nothing else.

Kelemvor frowned. “Are you sure those are mine?” he asked. “There should be a dagger, a heavy cloak and gloves, a bag of meal, and several dozen cakes of cornbread in there.”

“I think they’re yours,” Midnight replied. She grabbed another set of saddlebags and turned them over. The tablet and Adon’s mirror spilled out, but nothing else.

“We’ve been robbed!” Adon yelled. His cloak, food, and eating utensils were gone.

Alarmed, Midnight grabbed her own saddlebags and began rummaging through them. “Here’s my dagger, my spellbook, my cloak …” She pulled each item out as she named it. “Nothing’s missing.”

The three companions stared dumbly at their camp for a minute, hardly able to believe that someone had robbed them. Finally, Adon picked up the tablet and hugged it.

“At least they didn’t take this,” he said, putting it back in his saddlebags. Though he would miss the rest of his gear, he was so relieved not to have lost the tablet that he felt happy.

Kelemvor wasn’t so optimistic. “We’ll have a hungry night unless I catch us something to eat,” he said. “Perhaps you should start a cooking fire, Adon.” He removed the flint and steel from the pouch that hung at his neck and handed them to the cleric.

Midnight nodded, then gathered her things and placed them near Adon. “I saw a butternut tree as we came in. Its fruits are nourishing, if bitter.” The mage stood up and brushed herself off. “Take care of what the thieves left us, Adon,” Midnight said, turning toward the forest.

“Don’t worry,” Adon assured her. “It’s one thing to rifle unwatched packs and quite another to steal from beneath an attentive guard’s nose.”

“Let’s hope so,” Kelemvor grumbled, heading into the forest in the direction opposite Midnight. Though he did not say so, the fighter hoped that he would run across some sign of the thief.

An hour later, Kelemvor returned with nothing save a healthy dread of the nuts he would have to call dinner. Night had fallen quickly, and he had been unable to see any tracks or droppings. Even when he’d sat quietly alongside the trail, the fighter had heard nothing but the hooting of an owl.

Midnight sat beside a small fire, opening gummy husks with her dagger. In her lap was a pile of shriveled nuts that looked about as appetizing as gravel. Adon had gathered a sizable stack of wood and was using his mace to smash it into fire-sized sticks.

“No meat?” the cleric asked, obviously disappointed. He had already tasted some of the butternuts and was hoping that Kelemvor would bring back something else for eveningfeast.

“Plenty of meat,” Kelemvor answered. “All on the hoof and far away.” He grabbed his saddlebags and poked around inside, hoping the thief had missed a broken corner of corn cake. Save for a few crumbs, the sack was completely empty. Kelemvor sighed, then decided to put away his remaining belongings before they also disappeared. “Let me have my flint and steel,” he told Adon.

“In your sack,” the cleric replied, throwing a stick onto the fire.

“They’re not there,” Kelemvor said, turning the saddlebags over.

“Look again,” Adon snapped, irritated by the fighter’s failure to return with a decent meal. “I put it there a half-hour ago.”

Kelemvor’s heart sunk. “The thief has returned,” he announced.

Midnight grabbed her own saddlebags and turned them over. They were empty. She turned on Adon. “You stupid oaf, my spellbook’s gone!”

“You were supposed to be guarding—” Kelemvor stopped in midsentence and fought back his rage. Anger would not recover their belongings. “Forget it. Anybody who can rifle packs beneath your nose is no ordinary thief.”

Midnight studied the fighter in open astonishment. “You can’t be Kelemvor Lyonsbane!” It was not like him to be so forgiving. The fighter’s calm demeanor made Midnight feel embarrassed by her own anger. Still, she couldn’t contain it. Without her spellbook, she was powerless.

Adon was paying no attention to either of them. He snatched up the saddlebags containing the tablet and slung them over his shoulder. He felt like a fool for letting the thief return, but he could live with embarrassment as long as they had the tablet.

Though he had conquered his anger, Kelemvor wasn’t ready to give their possessions up for lost. He went to the edge of the campsite and carefully inspected the shrubbery. After several minutes of searching, he found a few crumbs of corn biscuit. The warrior quietly called his companions over and pointed out the crumbs.

Midnight started into the forest at a sprint, heedless of the noise she was making. Kelemvor and Adon quickly caught her.

“Slowly,” the fighter suggested, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“We don’t have time!” she retorted. “The thief has my spellbook!”

“He won’t get far tonight,” Kelemvor replied. “But if he hears us coming, we’ll never find him.”

“What makes you think he’s afraid of the dark?” Midnight snapped, twisting free of Kelemvor’s grip.

“Fan out and be quiet,” Adon ordered, taking charge of the situation. He knew Kelemvor was right about moving quietly, but he also thought it unlikely they would find the thief on the basis of a few crumbs. “We need another clue before we know which way our thief went.”

Midnight sighed and did as the cleric suggested. Ten minutes later, she found a ball of sulfur wax on the ground. It was one of the extra spell components she had kept in one of her saddlebags.

“It’s not much,” Adon noted, turning the ball over in his hand, “but it’s all we have to go on.” He traced a line from where Kelemvor found the crumbs to where Midnight found the wax. It led away from camp at an angle ninety degrees to the direction Midnight and Kelemvor had originally intended to go. “I’d say he’s out there somewhere. We’d better approach quietly.”

The trio began picking their way through the dark forest. Several times, a foot fell on a dry stick and snapped it, and once Adon tripped and could not contain a groan as he landed. Nevertheless, the heroes’ eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dark and they became more adept at moving quietly.

Soon, the telltale glimmer of a campfire danced off the tree trunks ahead. The companions slowed their pace and crept up to the edge of a clearing.

Two dozen halflings, mostly women and children, sat in a circle. They wore the same simple cotton clothes as the dead halflings from the village. A matronly woman was using Kelemvor’s dagger to slice corn cakes into bite-sized portions. Three juicy rabbits, each large enough to feed the entire camp, roasted over the fire.

Several halfling children huddled together beneath a tent made from Kelemvor’s heavy cloak, while an old man poured wine down his throat from the thumb of Kelemvor’s glove. Although the camp did not appear cheerful, neither was it melancholy. The halflings were resolutely continuing their lives under adverse conditions, and Kelemvor could not help but admire their determination.

Adon signaled the fighter to circle around to the left side of the camp, then instructed Midnight to circle around to the right. The cleric silently indicated that he would stay where he was.

Kelemvor moved to obey and, seven steps later, put his foot on a stick. It cracked with an alarming pop. The halflings turned toward the sound, and the adults grabbed nearby large sticks to serve as weapons.

The warrior shrugged and stepped into the clearing. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, holding his empty hands in plain sight.

The matronly halfling stared at Kelemvor in astonishment and fright. The others stepped away, brandishing their weapons and chattering between themselves in their own language. The children began to cry and ran behind the adults.

Kelemvor kneeled, hoping to appear less intimidating. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated.

A moment later, Midnight stepped into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. She said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice was comforting and melodious. The halflings looked startled, but they did not flee.

A shrewd look of comprehension crossed the matron’s brow, then she turned to Kelemvor. “What you want? Come back to finish job?” She held the stolen dagger toward the fighter.

Adon stepped into the light, taking advantage of the opportunity to say, “No. We’re not the ones who—”

“Phaw!” the woman spat, turning Kelemvor’s dagger in Adon’s direction. “Tall Ones all the same. Come to loot rich halfling cities.” She waved the weapon menacingly. “Not take Berengaria without fight. Cut off—”

“Please!” Adon cried, pointing at the dagger. “That’s our knife you’re using to threaten me!”

“Mine now,” Berengaria replied. “Spoils of war, like tent—” She waved at Kelemvor’s cloak. “—and wineskin.” She pointed at his glove.

“We’re not at war!” Kelemvor interrupted, his patience strained. Considering how close they lived to Hilp, these halflings seemed remarkably wild and uncivilized. Perhaps they weren’t welcome in the city, for halflings were commonly considered to be a race of thieves. Apparently, it was a well-earned reputation.

“We at war,” Berengaria snarled. She nodded at two old men and they stepped forward, bearing spears folded into two pieces. Despite the old men’s trembling arms, Kelemvor was nervous. Their spears were woomeras, a special weapon he had seen used to good effect. The woomera was simply a three-foot stick with a groove along the length and a cup at the end. The halfling warrior placed his spear in the groove, then used the stick like an extension of his arm, launching the spear with incredible speed and accuracy. In the proper hands, the weapon was as accurate and powerful as a longbow.

Adon stepped forward, careful to keep his empty hands in sight. “We didn’t destroy your village. We’re your friends.”

“To prove it,” Kelemvor added, “we’ll make a gift of the dagger, the tent, and the wineskin.” He pointed at the items as he mentioned them.

Adon frowned but said nothing. The “gifts” Kelemvor had named belonged to him, and it was his business if he wanted to give them away.

The matron studied the heroes for a long time, shrewdly appraising their words. “Gifts?”

Kelemvor nodded. “To help your village recover.”

“What you want in return?” Berengaria demanded, squinting at the warrior.

“The book,” Adon said. “And Kelemvor’s flint and steel. We need those to survive.”

Berengaria frowned in concentration, but the children began giggling and she said, “Done. We all—”

Midnight, silent until now, let out a cry of anguish and rushed to the fire. Pulling his sword, Kelemvor leaped past Berengaria and her two old men. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“My spellbook!” the raven-haired mage yelled. “They burned it!” She snatched Kelemvor’s sword, then started poking at a wide strip of shriveled leather in the fire. Kelemvor knew the book was where Midnight stored her spells when they were not committed to memory, so he could understand why she was so upset. Still, he grabbed his sword away from her and put it back into its sheath; fire was no better for a sword’s temper than it was for a spellbook.

Midnight stared into the fire, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gone,” she whispered.

“It’s not so serious,” Kelemvor said, trying to comfort her.

Midnight whirled on him, her hands clenched into fists. “Serious!” she screamed. “You oaf! Those were my spells—without them, I’m nothing!”

A pall of silence fell over the camp. For several minutes, Midnight stared at Kelemvor as if the fighter had burned the spellbook himself. Finally, she hissed, “Was burying those halflings worth this?” She turned away and stared into the fire.

A moment later, Berengaria approached Adon. “We still have deal?” she asked timidly. “We still friends?”

Adon nodded. They had nothing to gain by punishing the halflings. “We’re still friends. You didn’t understand.”

“She might not have realized what the spellbook was,” said a clear, masculine voice. “But that’d be all she didn’t understand.” A gaunt halfling male stepped into the clearing. His skin was the color of ash, his eyes were rimmed with red, and a sloppy bandage circled his forehead.

The other halflings backed away from the newcomer, whispering amongst themselves. He knelt beside the fire and picked up two roasted rabbits. “Have these,” he said, giving one to Adon and one to Kelemvor. “There are plenty more where they came from, and it’s only a fair trade for all you’ve lost.”

Kelemvor accepted the rabbit, but made no move to eat it. The warrior had an uneasy feeling about this halfling, and it was not just because the others feared him. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Atherton Cooper,” the halfling replied, his gaze never faltering from the fighter’s. “But most call me Sneakabout. Now eat up. Berengaria has not been a good hostess this night.”

“Yes, please do,” Berengaria added. “We can always catch more coneys.” The matronly halfling put the dagger away and smiled.

It did not escape Adon’s notice that Berengaria’s Common had suddenly improved. It was clear to the cleric that the halfling had been playing them for fools.

“You’ve known all along we didn’t attack your village, haven’t you?” Adon demanded. “You were stealing our gear while we collected your dead!”

“That’s correct,” Berengaria replied, wincing. Then she turned to Kelemvor and added, “But that doesn’t negate our deal. What’s done is done. Besides, our need is great.”

The green-eyed fighter grunted and took a bite from the rabbit. He had no intention of demanding back what he had offered to the halflings, for Berengaria spoke the truth about their need. Nevertheless, he didn’t enjoy losing his possessions through guile and trickery.

The warrior chewed slowly, considering Atherton Cooper. Sneakabout was taller and thinner than most of his race, and there was a certain menace to his manner. The tall halfling was the only able-bodied male in the camp, and that in itself was suspicious. Still, Sneakabout was the only halfling who had not stolen from or lied to the heroes, and Kelemvor was determined to treat honesty and respect in kind.

“Where are the other men?” the fighter asked between mouthfuls of rabbit. “There weren’t many in the village, and there are fewer here.”

“Gone to massage their vanity while their womenfolk starve in the forest,” Sneakabout replied.

Berengaria turned from Midnight, whom she was trying to comfort, and added, “The menfolk were hunting when the Zhentilar—”

“Zhentilar?” Adon interrupted. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, I’m sure,” Berengaria replied. “They wore the armor of Zhentil Keep, didn’t they? Anyway, the men were gone, or there would have been a different story to tell in Black Oaks. Now our warriors have gone to track down those sons-of-sows!”

“And to get themselves killed,” Sneakabout added bitterly.

Berengaria glared menacingly at Sneakabout. “They’ll be fine without your company,” she snapped.

Sneakabout snorted in reply. “They’ll be outnumbered, outsized, and outwitted.”

Kelemvor agreed with Sneakabout, though he didn’t say so. Even if the halflings caught the raiders, the Zhentilar would cut the inexperienced warriors to shreds. The soldiers of Zhentil Keep were vicious sneaks and backstabbers who would never fight unless assured of an easy victory.

After a thoughtful pause, Sneakabout glumly noted, “I wish I were with the fellows.”

“Why aren’t you?” Adon asked, watching the halfling suspiciously, still not comfortable with the demihuman’s sinister bearing.

“They wouldn’t have me,” the halfling answered, shrugging.

“It was his fault they came in the first place!” grumbled Berengaria, pointing a gnarled finger at Sneakabout’s face. “He had his own pony and a magic sword. That’s what they wanted!”

Adon turned to Sneakabout. “Is that right?”

The halfling shook his head and looked at the ground. “Maybe,” he mumbled. Then he lifted his gaze. “But I doubt it. They wouldn’t have needed to raze the whole town to get what they wanted—they caught me on their way in.”

The halfling’s red-rimmed eyes grew hard and distant. “Say, you wouldn’t be going north, would you? I’d sure like to catch those Zhentish pigs!”

Kelemvor swallowed a bite of rabbit and said, “As luck would have it—”

“Kelemvor!” Adon hissed sharply. “We’ve got our own trouble.”

Sneakabout drew himself up before Adon. “Without your spellcaster’s book, you’ll need all the help you can get. I’m as fine a scout as you’ll meet outside of Elventree.”

Adon shook his head firmly. “I’m afraid—”

“He can ride with me,” Kelemvor noted flatly, his voice a throaty growl. “Where’s your sense of courtesy, Adon?”

The young cleric glared at the warrior for a long moment, once again irritated by Kelemvor’s refusal to listen to him. At last, he decided not to argue the point, as long as the fighter was willing to yield something to him. “Then we leave at dawn!” Adon said, summoning his most commanding voice.

Kelemvor would not be bullied. “No. The halfling dead—”

“Will be buried by halflings!” Adon finished, pointing at Kelemvor with a grease-covered finger. “You don’t care about these people! You only want to prove your curse is gone. Don’t you think we know that?” He glanced at Midnight, who was still staring at the remains of her spellbook. “Your test has cost us too much, Kel.”

The cleric put his hand on the raven-haired mage’s shoulder. He looked at the fire and added, “I just hope we can make it to Waterdeep without Midnight’s spells to aid us.”

The four companions left Black Oaks at dawn—hungry, cold, and wet. During the night, the orange fog had changed to a chill drizzle that continued to fall through the morning. Breakfast had been nonexistent. The halflings had eaten the last of the corn biscuits the night before, and in the gray morning light, the greasy hare looked appetizing only to Kelemvor.

Adon took the lead, suggesting they travel north to Eveningstar, then rethink their route to Waterdeep. Sneakabout made the mistake of saying he knew a shortcut, so Adon insisted that the halfling ride with him to act as a guide. Neither enjoyed the experience. Despite his loss of faith, Adon’s conversation was no less pedantic, and Sneakabout was not a tolerant listener.

Kelemvor, his brow gloomy and troubled, followed next. Twice, he tried to apologize to Midnight for losing her spellbook. Each time his voice failed him and he barely managed a croak.

Midnight came last, still too upset to speak. There was a hollow knot of panic and sorrow in her stomach. Since her sixteenth birthday, she had carefully recorded every spell she could learn in the book, and it had become almost an extension of her soul. Without it she felt barren and worthless, like a mother without children.

Still, all was not lost. Midnight still had several spells firmly committed to memory, and she could copy these down in a new book. Some were so common that, given time and the help of a friendly mage, she could easily relearn them. With a week or two of research, the raven-haired mage might be able to rebuild others. But a few, such as the phantasmal force and plant growth spells, were so alien to her way of thinking that she could never reconstruct them. Those spells were gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

All in all, the situation was not as terrible as it had at first seemed. Unfortunately, that realization had not yet diminished Midnight’s anger. She desperately wanted to blame somebody for the book’s destruction, and since Kelemvor had been the one who had led them to Black Oaks, he was the easiest target.

But in her heart, Midnight knew that the warrior was no more responsible for the crisis than she was. He hadn’t thrown the spellbook in the fire, and even the halflings had not burned it in malice. It had been an accident, pure and simple, and nothing would be accomplished by venting her anger on friends.

However, Adon wasn’t helping to cool anyone’s temper. Several times, he had chastised Kelemvor for leading the company to Black Oaks, reminding the gloomy fighter that the spellbook would be intact if not for that detour. Amazingly, the warrior had accepted the assertion. Adon’s angry insight the night before had subdued the brawny warrior as no sword ever would, and Midnight resented the cleric for it. Despite her own pain, she did not enjoy seeing Kelemvor’s spirit broken.

Consumed by her melancholy reflections, the magic-user barely noticed as morning passed. By midday, the company was deep in the forest, and she still hadn’t set things right with Kelemvor. In part, this was because the path was too narrow for their horses to walk side by side. So, when Adon unexpectedly called a halt, she guided her mount forward and stopped at Kelemvor’s right.

“Kelemvor—,” she began.

Adon twisted around and held up a silencing hand. “Listen!”

Midnight started to object, then heard a loud rustle ahead. It came from far up the trail, and sounded as though an army were marching over a plain of dried leaves. Creaks and rasps, and then dull, distant thuds began echoing toward the company.

“What is it?” Midnight asked.

“I can’t imagine,” Adon replied.

Sneakabout slipped off Adon’s horse. “This is where I earn my ride,” he said, hustling up the path.

The halfling disappeared around a bend. For ten minutes, Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon sat on their horses. The rustle grew louder, until it could more properly be called an uproar, and the creaks and rasps became squeals and groans. The thuds assumed a rhythmic cadence and grew into thunderous booms.

Finally, Sneakabout quickly came running back, his short legs carrying him at his best sprint. “Off the trail!” he screamed. “Now!”

The halfling’s face was so terror-stricken that no one even thought of asking for an explanation. They simply spurred theirs mounts and crashed into the forest, regrouping thirty yards off the trail.

When Sneakabout joined them, Adon started to question him. “What—”

The cleric didn’t have an opportunity to finish. A hundred-foot-tall sycamore tree stepped into sight, swinging dozens of branches like arms. As its roots twisted forward, an ear-splitting creak echoed through the forest. The ground trembled as the roots flopped onto the trail. Another sycamore marched behind the first, and behind it, a hundred more.

For an hour, the company watched in flabbergasted silence as grim sycamores marched down the trail. By the time the thousandth tree passed, the company’s ears were ringing and their heads were spinning. Kelemvor’s horse grew skittish, and he managed to keep it under control only with the greatest effort.

Finally, however, the last tree passed out of sight and the company returned to the trail. Their ears rang for the rest of the afternoon, precluding discussion of the peculiar sight. But as they rode northward, they saw thousands of huge holes where every sycamore tree in the forest had torn its roots free and marched off.

Just before dusk, they reached the northern edge of the forest. Eveningstar lay a mile ahead, oil lamps already lighting its windows. The town was unfortified, with about fifty buildings of significant size. The companions rode to the outskirts of town, then paused before entering. Memories of the murder accusations in Wheloon were fresh in their minds.

As a crossroads village, Eveningstar had a few stables, inns, and provision markets at the edge of town. Toward the center stood shops of skilled craftsmen who produced wine, wool, farm tools, and, Midnight noted, parchment. The streets were clean and peaceful enough. Although the shops had already closed, men and women moved freely about, paying no attention to the four strangers.

After pronouncing it safe to proceed, Adon nudged his mount forward. Midnight asked the party to wait while she knocked at a parchment shop, hoping the proprietor was still there. Unfortunately, except for businesses serving travelers, it appeared Eveningstar closed at nightfall. She would have to wait until morning to buy the materials for a new spellbook.

On Sneakabout’s suggestion, the heroes went to the Lonesome Tankard, the only inn in Eveningstar. The inn was clean and warm—a welcome relief after the chill ride. An expansive dining room, crowded with travelers and locals, occupied most of the ground floor. Midnight noted with approval that its wooden floors were free from dirt and grime. A stairway along the left wall led to the lodgings on the upper stories.

Sneakabout bribed the guard who was stationed at the desk to watch for unregistered companies. After accepting the halfling’s money, the guard studied Midnight warily. “You wouldn’t be a thaumaturgist?” he inquired.

“No, no,” Sneakabout answered for her, “she’s nothing of the sort. A lady of the arts, that’s all.”

The guard looked doubtful. “His Majesty King Azoun IV has decreed that enchanters of any type must register with the local herald when traveling in Cormyr.”

Sneakabout held out another gold piece. The guard snatched the coin away and said, “Of course, with all the folks on the roads these days, nobody can keep track of ’em anyway.” With that, he left the desk and allowed the company to conduct their business with the inn’s steward. After the company rented two rooms, the steward showed the four to a table near the back of the taproom.

A young serving girl immediately brought ale and wine, then asked if the company wished to eat. A few minutes later, she returned with steaming plates of sliced turnips, boiled potatoes, and roast pork. In spite of her mood, the aroma was enough to make Midnight hungry. She helped herself to generous portions of turnips and potatoes, but had only one slice of the pork.

Even with the fine food, the group had a dreary meal. Midnight wanted to apologize to Kelemvor, but not in front of her other companions. Adon and Sneakabout were the only ones who felt like making conversation, but not to each other. Adon tried to liven things up with a discussion of their route, but everybody else insisted upon postponing that chore until morning. Kelemvor was lost in his own thoughts, and Midnight’s patience was chafing under the relish with which Adon pursued his temporary position as group leader.

When the meal finally ended, the four climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hour was early for sleep, but they had ridden hard that day and would ride as hard tomorrow. Their rooms each contained two cots and a small window overlooking the dark currents of the Starwater.

“The men will take this room,” Adon said, indicating the one on the right. “You take that one, Midnight. I don’t think anyone will mind if we move a bed into the other room.”

“It’ll never fit,” Sneakabout said. “I’ll stay with Midnight.”

Kelemvor frowned jealously, but it was Adon who objected. “You can’t be serious!”

Midnight ignored Adon and smiled at the halfling. “Thanks, but I prefer Kelemvor’s company.”

Adon’s jaw dropped slack. “But you’re—”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to dictate sleeping arrangements, Adon,” Midnight said, her voice calm and even.

Adon shrugged. “You haven’t spoken to Kelemvor all day,” he said. “But it’s none of my business if you want to spend the night with him. I was only being considerate.”

Sneakabout sighed. After sharing the saddle with Adon all day, he had hoped to avoid spending the night with the pedantic ex-cleric.

Midnight stepped into her room without saying anything else. When Kelemvor didn’t follow her, she stuck her head back into the hall. “Are you coming or not?”

Kelemvor shook his head as if to clear it, then stepped inside. Midnight closed the door behind him, leaving Adon and Sneakabout in the hall.

Kelemvor glanced around the room nervously and fumbled at the clasp of his swordbelt. He finally released it and laid the scabbard on the nearest cot.

“What’s wrong?” Midnight asked, slipping her damp cape from her shoulders. “This is hardly our first night together.”

Kelemvor studied her, wondering whether she had forgiven him or lured him in here to take vengeance. “Your spellbook,” he said. “I thought you were angry.”

“Angry, yes, and more. But you aren’t the one who threw it in the fire.” She managed a weak smile. “Besides, I can rebuild it, given time and parchment.”

The fighter’s face showed no sign of relief.

“Don’t you understand?” Midnight asked. “The book’s loss wasn’t your fault. The halflings threw it in the fire. You couldn’t have prevented that.”

Kelemvor nodded. “Thanks for forgiving me. But Adon was right. I went to the village for selfish reasons.”

“Your reasons weren’t selfish,” she said, taking his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with helping strangers.”

For a moment, Kelemvor’s fingers remained limp and passive, his emerald eyes searching Midnight’s. Then he returned her grasp and pulled her close. A long-smoldering ember flared to life in both their bodies. Midnight’s apology had gone further than she intended, but she did not care.

Later that night, Midnight sat awake, Kelemvor snoring in the cot next to hers. Making love with him had been different than it had been before Tantras. The warrior had been gentler, more considerate. She had no doubt that he had truly changed with the lifting of his curse.

But her lover’s curse, or lack of it, was not the source of the magic-user’s wakefulness. This new Kelemvor was more appealing and attractive than the man he had been before Tantras, and Midnight was thinking about what that difference meant to her. He was more dangerous, for he gave more and therefore demanded more in return. But the mage didn’t know how much she could give, for her art had always been, and always would be, her first love.

Also, there was the mission to consider. She was growing more attached to Kelemvor, and the mage feared that an emotional attachment would influence her if she were forced to choose between his safety and the safety of the tablet.

In the hall, a foot scraped on the floor. Midnight slid out of bed and put on her cloak, fully alert. An hour ago, she had heard Sneakabout’s soft steps as he slipped out of Adon’s room. Where he had gone, she did not know. The little man had his own secrets, as she had hers, and it was not her place to intrude.

But this step had been too heavy to be Sneakabout’s, for halflings could walk as quietly as snowfall. Midnight slipped her dagger from its sheath and went to the door.

Visions of thieves and cutthroats dancing in her head, Midnight cracked the door open and peered out. A single oil lamp that hung over the stairs lit the hall. Its feeble light revealed a man standing at the top of the stairs, waving the steward away. The dark man’s other hand was tucked beneath his dripping cloak. He turned slightly to study the hallway, and his hawkish nose was silhouetted against the lamplight.

Cyric! Her heart pounding with joy and fear simultaneously, Midnight stepped into the hall. The thief turned to meet her, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Cyric!” she whispered, advancing toward him. “It’s so good to see you!”

“You—er, I’m happy to see you as well,” he said, removing his hand from beneath his cloak.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking his arm and guiding him farther down the hall. It was less likely they’d be heard there, and Midnight didn’t want to awaken Kelemvor or Adon. “Were your arrows the ones that saved us from the zombie riders?”

Cyric nodded, his eyes narrow slits. “I trust the tablet is safe?”

“Of course,” Midnight replied, nodding. “And the Zhentilar who’ve been forcing us north? They’re yours as well?”

“Right again,” he replied. “I wanted you in Eveningstar.” His hand slipped beneath his cloak.

Midnight grew serious. “Why? What hazards lie to the south?”

Cyric frowned for a moment, then smiled. “The forces of Bane’s allies, of course,” he said flatly. “The Black Lord may have perished, but he had many allies—and the zombie riders are the least of them.” The thief withdrew his hand from the cloak again and laid it across Midnight’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here.”

A sense of dread overcame Midnight. “If you’ve come to rejoin us, we must be careful. Kel and Adon have not forgotten Tantras.”

Cyric pulled his arm back hastily. “That’s not what I mean. I’ve come for you,” he said, “and the tablet.”

“You want me to abandon—”

“They cannot protect you,” Cyric snapped. “I can.”

Midnight shook her head, thinking of Kelemvor. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t.”

Cyric studied her angrily for several seconds. “Think! Don’t you realize the power that you possess?”

Midnight shook her head. “I lost my—”

“With the tablets, we can be gods!” the thief snapped.

Midnight had the uncomfortable feeling that Cyric was talking to himself. “Are you mad?” she asked. “That’s blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” Cyric laughed. “Against who? The gods are here, tearing the Realms apart in search of the Tablets of Fate. Our only gods should be ourselves. We can forge our own destinies!”

“No.” Midnight backed a step away.

Cyric grabbed her elbow. “The gods are on your trail. Two nights past, Lord Bhaal butchered three of my best men. I’ll not burden you with the details of their deaths.” The thief’s eyes seemed to glow red for an instant. “Had Bhaal wished to stay for a day or two, he could have killed me and all my men” the thief continued. “But he didn’t. Do you know why?”

Midnight did not respond.

“Do you know why?” Cyric repeated, gripping her elbow harder. “Because Bhaal wants you and the tablet! You’ll never make it to Waterdeep. He’ll catch and kill Adon and Kelemvor, kill them in ways more painful than you can imagine.”

“No.” Midnight pulled her arm away. “I won’t permit it.”

“Then come with me,” Cyric insisted. “It’s your only chance … It’s their only chance.”

Down the hall a little ways, the door to the mage’s room opened. “Midnight?” It was Kelemvor’s sleepy voice.

The thief’s hand slipped beneath his cloak and closed around the hilt of his sword.

“Go!” Midnight said, shoving Cyric toward the stairs. “Kel will kill you.”

“Or I’ll kill him,” Cyric said, drawing his weapon. The short sword’s blade had a reddish sheen.

The drowsy fighter stepped into the hall, pants hastily fastened and sword in hand. Upon seeing Cyric, he rubbed his eyes as if unable to believe what he was seeing. “You? Here?” The warrior brought his guard up and advanced.

Midnight stepped away from Cyric. “Don’t force me to choose between friends,” she warned.

The thief looked at her coldly. “You’re going to have to make that choice soon.” With that, Cyric slipped down the stairs and disappeared into the dark.

Kelemvor did not follow, knowing that in the dark, the advantage would belong to Cyric. Instead, he turned to Midnight. “So, you were right. He followed us. Why didn’t you call me?”

“He came to talk,” Midnight replied, unsure whether Kelemvor’s tone showed hurt or anger. “You’d have killed him.”

Just then, Sneakabout came bounding up the stairs with a rope slung over his shoulder and a book of parchment in his hands. When he saw Midnight and Kelemvor, he nearly fell over himself. “You’re awake!”

“Yes,” Kelemvor grumbled. “We had a visitor.”

“You’re about to have more. A Zhentilar band is riding this way.” The halfling gave the book to Midnight without explaining where he’d gotten it.

Kelemvor opened the door to Adon’s room. “Get up! Gather your things!” Then he turned to Midnight. “Do you still believe Cyric wanted to talk?”

“You drew your weapon first,” she replied, pointing at Kelemvor’s sword.

“Uh—can you finish this later?” Sneakabout interrupted. He took the rope off his shoulder.

“We may not have a chance,” Kelemvor answered. “We’ll never reach the stables—”

“No need to,” the halfling chimed, grinning widely. “When the Zhentilar started nosing around, I saddled our horses. They’re beneath my window.”

Kelemvor slapped Sneakabout on the back, nearly knocking him down. “Good man!” Then the fighter turned to Midnight and said, “Collect our gear. We’ll discuss this later.”

Though resentful of his tone, Midnight immediately did as Kelemvor asked. While the magic-user hastily packed, the fighter took the rope and looped it over a beam. Adon and Sneakabout climbed out the window and slipped into the saddle of the first horse. The warrior dropped the tablet and their gear to them. A moment later, Midnight returned with the remaining bags, then climbed out the window and slid down the rope to her waiting horse. Kelemvor dropped their packs to her and followed an instant later. The halfling guided them out of town by way of a back street, and they didn’t see even one of Cyric’s men.