Waterdeep

4 High Horn

“Let down your guard, friend Adon,” said Lord Commander Kae Deverell. A robust man with red hair and a deep, jolly voice, Lord Deverell sat at the head of a long oaken table. Behind him, a fire roared in a magnificent hearth, illuminating the room with flickering yellow light.

To Deverell’s right sat Kelemvor, and to Kelemvor’s right, stretched down the table like horses at a trough, sat fifteen Cormyrian officers. A mug of ale and a plate of roasted goat rested before each man. Iron candelabras stood on the table every few feet, supplementing the light from the fireplace.

Sneakabout occupied the first seat to Lord Deverell’s left, followed by Adon. The saddlebags containing the tablet rested on the floor next to the cleric’s chair. To Adon’s left sat Midnight, who was drinking wine instead of ale, and on her left sat six Cormyrian war wizards.

Three serving wenches bustled in and out of the shadows at the room’s edge, keeping everyone’s mug filled and making sure no plate was ever empty.

“You and your friends are safe enough here,” Deverell continued, still addressing Adon.

The cleric smiled and nodded, but did not relax.

Midnight grimaced inwardly, embarrassed by Adon’s rudeness. After losing her spellbook, she could sympathize with his caution. But he was acting as though the company were camped along the road. There was no reason for his insulting behavior in a Cormyrian stronghold.

Inside High Horn, the tablet was safe—if any safe place existed in the Realms. Protecting the only road across the Dragonjaw Mountains, the fortress had been built for defense. It stood upon the summit of a cragged peak, and its curving walls overlooked thousand-foot cliffs. Only three paths, each heavily fortified and guarded, led to the mighty castle. Even then, each road ended in a drawbridge and a triple-doored gatehouse as secure as any in Cormyr.

Due to the chaos in the Realms, seventy-five men-at-arms and twenty-five archers manned the outer curtain’s frowning towers at all times. A similar force guarded the inner curtain, and eight more soldiers stood constant watch at the entrance to the keep tower. The guest enclave had been converted into barracks for the fortress’s expanded complement. Travelers now had the choice of camping in the mountains or staying outside the walls at a cold, hastily erected guesthouse.

The four companions had been spared this discomfort because Kae Deverell was a Harper, and he wished to atone for the poor treatment Midnight and Adon had suffered at Harper hands during their trial in Shadowdale. Unknown to the four companions, the Cormyrian commander had also received a message from Elminster requesting that he aid Midnight and her company if they passed his way.

Deverell grabbed a mug of ale from a serving wench’s hand, then sat it in front of Adon. “Don’t ridicule my hospitality by drinking less than your fill,” he said. “Not a rat enters High Horn without my permission.”

“It is not rats that concern me,” Adon replied, thinking of Cyric’s visit to the inn. The thief had said that Bhaal was pursuing them. Adon doubted that even High Horn’s defenses could keep the Lord of Murder at bay.

A surprised murmur rippled down the long banquet table and a dark cloud settled on Deverell’s face.

Before the lord commander voiced his indignation, Midnight spoke, “Please forgive Adon, Lord Deverell. I fear his weariness has crushed his sense of courtesy.”

“But not mine!” Kelemvor said, grabbing the cleric’s mug. The warrior had spent many evenings with men like Deverell and knew what they expected of guests. “To please Your Lordship,” he said, draining the mug in one long swallow.

Deverell smiled and turned his attention to the fighter. “My thanks, Kelemvor Mugbane!” The lord commander grabbed a full mug and gulped it down as fast as Kelemvor had. “Of course, host duty dictates we match you cup for cup!” He called the serving wench and motioned to the officers seated to Kelemvor’s right. “Until he can lift it no longer, see that no man’s mug goes empty!”

The Cormyrians gave a perfunctory cheer, though more than one man grimaced at the command. Adon also groaned inwardly; when Kelemvor drank too much, he could be difficult. The cleric thought they might have been safer camping in the guesthouse.

As the officers finished their cheer, a page rushed into the room and approached Deverell. The lord commander nodded for the page to approach. Though the young man whispered into Deverell’s ear, his words were not lost to Sneakabout’s keen hearing.

“Milord, Captain Beresford bids me inform you that two guards are absent from the outer curtain.”

Deverell frowned, then asked, “Is it still raining?”

The page nodded. “Aye. The drops are as red as blood and as cold as ice.” The boy could not keep his fear from showing itself in his voice.

Deverell stopped whispering. “Then tell Beresford to worry no more, and we’ll discipline the derelicts come morning. I’ve no doubt the guards are hiding from the strange weather.”

The page bowed and left. Deverell returned his attention to the banquet table. “What a night we shall have!” he cried, addressing Sneakabout. “Shall we not, short friend?”

Sneakabout smiled and lifted his mug to his lips. “I will long remember it.”

Adon made a mental note to be sure all the pewterware remained on the table at the evening’s end. He had seen for himself that the halfling’s fellows were incorrigible thieves, and Sneakabout had already provided reason to doubt that he had the sense to leave their host’s property alone.

After escaping The Lonesome Tankard in Eveningstar, Sneakabout had tried to convince the company to ambush the Zhentilar. He was convinced that Cyric’s band was the one that had destroyed his home. The halfling had been so determined to take vengeance that Kelemvor had been forced to restrain him. Afterward, Sneakabout had been furious. The halfling had claimed then that the only reason he didn’t leave the companions immediately was because Cyric would soon catch them again.

It was a reasonable assumption. The company’s head start from the Lonesome Tankard had earned them only a fifteen-minute advantage. Twenty-five riders had appeared on their trail as soon as they’d left town. Six exhausting hours later, when the company rode into Tyrluk, Cyric and his fastest riders were barely two hundred yards behind. Adon had led the way straight through the village, hoping the local militia would assail Cyric’s company of Zhentilar. But the hour had been early, and if any watchmen had seen Cyric’s band, they had elected not to sound the alarm.

From Tyrluk, the companions had fled in the only possible direction: into the mountains. An hour later, they had caught a troop of Cormyrian mountain soldiers on the way to High Horn. It had taken little effort to persuade the captain that Cyric’s company was Zhentilar, especially after the band fled at the first sign of the Cormyrians. The captain had pursued, but Cyric’s men had escaped easily. On the open road, the Cormyrians’ mountain ponies were no match for horses—even when the horses were exhausted from hours of hard riding.

The Cormyrian captain had assigned a few scouts to trail the Zhentilar band, then resumed his journey, saying that High Horn would dispatch a charger-mounted patrol to deal with the intruders. This plan had not thrilled Midnight, who still had no wish to see Cyric hurt, but she could hardly have objected.

After chasing Cyric away, the captain had invited the company to ride with him to High Horn. The rest of the journey had been uneventful. When they had reached the fortress and the captain had made his report, Kae Deverell had offered the companions the safety and comfort of the keep. After thirty-six hours in the saddle, there had been no thought of refusing. Kelemvor and Midnight were glad to let down their guards and relax—though certainly not around each other. In fact, they had barely spoken since Eveningstar.

Thinking about his friends’ relationship, Adon could only shake his head. He did not understand what attracted Midnight and Kelemvor to each other; the closer they grew, the more they fought. This time, Kelemvor was angry because Midnight had not sounded the alarm upon discovering Cyric outside their rooms. Midnight was angry because Kelemvor had pulled his sword on their old friend.

The cleric had to take the warrior’s side in this particular dispute. Cyric wouldn’t have crept into the inn if he had not intended them harm. Adon rubbed the ugly scar beneath his eye thoughtfully, for finding himself in agreement with Kelemvor always gave him pause.

“Does it hurt, milord?”

Snapping out of his reverie, Adon looked at the serving girl who had asked the question. “Does what hurt?”

“The scar, milord. You were rubbing it awfully hard.”

“Was I?” Adon asked, dropping the offending hand to his lap. He also turned his head so the red mark would be less visible.

“I have a small jar of soothing ointment. Could I bring it to your chamber this night?” she asked hopefully.

Adon could not help but smile. It had been a long time since a woman had presented herself so boldly. And the serving girl was pretty enough and had a generous figure that had been toned by plenty of hard work. Her yellow hair spilled onto her shoulders like a silk shawl, and her blue eyes sparkled with an innocence that in no way implied lack of experience. She seemed much too beautiful to spend her life serving ale in the halls of this bleak outpost.

“I fear the ointment wouldn’t do any good,” Adon noted softly. “But I’d welcome your company.”

The chatter at the head of the table died, and Kelemvor glanced at the cleric with a raised eyebrow.

Realizing he had made a social gaff, Adon quickly added, “Perhaps we could discuss your—er, your—”

“Milord?” the girl asked, impatient with his floundering.

“Are you happy as a serving wench? Surely, you have other ambitions. We could talk—”

“I like what I do,” she answered in a huff. “And it wasn’t talking I had in mind.”

Lord Deverell roared in laughter. “Your charms are wasted on him, Treen,” he said to the wench, breaking into a new fit of laughter.

The officers slapped the table and guffawed. Kelemvor frowned, uncertain as to whether he had missed the joke or the situation simply wasn’t funny. Finally, Deverell brought his mirth under control and continued, “Perhaps, Treen, you’d have better luck with Kelemvor—a tower of virility if ever I saw one!”

Treen obliged her liege by rounding the table to Kelemvor. She ran her hand over his arms. “What do you say, Sir Tower?”

Midnight and Adon were the only ones who did not burst into laughter.

Kelemvor took a long swig of ale, then sat his mug on the table. “Why not?” he asked, glancing at Midnight. “Someone must make amends for Adon’s rudeness!” The warrior was intentionally trying to provoke Midnight. He was confused and hurt by the bitterness of their disagreement concerning Cyric, and could not help but believe there was more to it than he understood. If his flirtation angered Midnight, then at least he would know she cared enough to become jealous.

When Treen slipped her fingers beneath Kelemvor’s shirt, Midnight could hold her temper no longer. She sat her wine goblet down hard. “This is one thing Adon should do for himself,” she said coldly.

A surprised mutter ran around the table. Kelemvor smiled at Midnight, who simply glowered back. Treen withdrew her fingers from beneath the warrior’s shirt. “If this man belongs to you, milady—,” Treen began.

“He belongs to no one!” Midnight snapped, standing. She did not doubt Kelemvor had meant to hurt her, and he had succeeded. The raven-haired magic-user frowned and turned to Deverell. “I am weary, Lord, and wish to retire.” With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the gloom.

The table remained silent for several moments, then Treen turned to Lord Deverell. “I’m sorry, Lord. I meant—”

Deverell held up a hand. “A jest gone awry, girl. Think no more of it.”

Treen bowed, then retreated into the kitchen. Kelemvor drained his mug, then lifted it to be filled again.

Adon was glad to see the girl go. In the days ahead, it would be difficult enough for Midnight and Kelemvor to get along. The cleric knew the pair loved each other, though at the moment petty anger prevented them from realizing that fact themselves. But if they didn’t come to grips with their feelings soon, the journey ahead would be a long one. It would have been much simpler, it seemed to Adon, if Midnight had been a man, or, better yet, Kelemvor a woman.

The page entered again and approached Lord Deverell. In the room’s silence, it was impossible not to hear his whisper. “Milord, Captain Beresford orders me report the absence of three sentries from the inner curtain.”

“The inner curtain?” Deverell exclaimed. “There, too?” He considered this for a moment, mumbling to himself. Like most of the men in the hall, he was rather drunk—too drunk to be making command decisions. “Beresford’s discipline must be sorely lacking,” he said at last. “Tell the captain I will personally correct this problem—in the morning!”

Sneakabout frowned at Adon. That five guards would abandon their posts in one night seemed strange. “Perhaps we should sleep lightly tonight,” the halfling whispered, glancing at Kelemvor. The warrior had just downed his third mug of ale since Midnight’s departure.

Adon nodded, a sudden sense of doom and foreboding overcoming him. “I’ll see if I can slow him down.” Like Sneakabout, the cleric did not feel comfortable sleeping in a castle where the guard abandoned its post. He would feel even more uncomfortable if Kelemvor went to bed inebriated.

Before Adon could speak to Kelemvor, though, Lord Deverell lifted his mug. “Let us drink a health to Sir Kelemvor and the Lady Midnight. May they both rest well—” He winked at Kelemvor. “—though it be in separate beds!”

A wave of laughter ran around the table and the officers chorused, “Here, here!”

“I don’t know about Lady Midnight,” Kelemvor said, raising his mug to his lips. “But Sir Tower will not sleep this night!”

“If you have another mug of ale,” Adon noted as he stood up, “the choice will be out of your hands. Come along—we’ve had a hard ride and need some rest.”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Lord Deverell cried, glad to see his party resuming a festive air. “There will be time enough to rest tomorrow. Midnight said she wanted a day to replenish her spellbook, did she not?”

“True enough, milord,” Adon replied. “But we’ve been on the trail a long time and aren’t accustomed to such rich fare. Kelemvor may feel this night for days to come.”

The green-eyed fighter frowned at Adon, resentful of the unexpected supervision. “Come morning, I’ll be as strong as my horse,” he bragged, standing and swaying slightly. “Besides, who named you captain?”

“You did,” Adon answered quietly, speaking the truth as he knew it. Kelemvor had lost his sense of purpose. The detour to Black Oaks had been only one example of the warrior’s inability to focus on recovering the tablets. Someone needed to fill the void, and Midnight, intelligent as she was, seemed unwilling to take charge of the company. That had left only Adon to be the leader, and he was determined to fill the role as best he could.

“I did not,” Kelemvor responded slowly, dropping back into his chair. “I wouldn’t follow a faithless cleric.”

Adon winced, but made no retort. He knew the warrior had to be very upset—and very drunk—to lash out at a friend so fiercely.

Sighing, the cleric said, “Have it as you will.” He picked up the saddlebags with the tablet.

Kelemvor frowned, realizing that he had treated Adon cruelly. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”

“I understand,” Adon replied. “Even if you don’t go to sleep, try not to drink too much.” He turned to Lord Deverell. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”

Kae Deverell nodded and smiled, glad to be rid of the killjoy.

After Adon had gone, Kelemvor’s mood grew even darker. He spoke little, and drank even less. It fell on Sneakabout’s shoulders to keep Lord Deverell’s party jolly and exuberant, which he did by reciting halfling stories and poems. Finally, two hours later, Lord Deverell drank one ale too many and slumped into his chair, unconscious.

The six Cormyrian officers who had outlasted their commander breathed sighs of relief and stood. Grumbling about the lateness of the hour, they picked up the lord commander and went to put him to bed. From their impatient attitude, the halfling guessed that similar duties fell on their shoulders with too great a frequency for their liking.

After seeing Kelemvor to his room on the tower’s third floor, Sneakabout went down to the second floor and peeked in on Midnight and Adon. Both were sleeping soundly, so he began an investigation of the keep tower.

While the halfling explored, Adon drifted through the night in the mists of a sleep as deep and peaceful as he could remember. Though the cleric had not realized it until leaving Lord Deverell’s table, the previous two days of riding had truly exhausted him. He had collapsed into bed without undressing.

But Adon had not forgotten the five missing guards or the danger that pursued their company, and part of his mind remained alert. So when he suddenly found himself completely awake with the dim memory of hearing a scream, he did not doubt for an instant that something was wrong. His first thought was that Bhaal had come for the tablet. The cleric slipped his hand beneath the straw mattress and felt the reassuring texture of the leather saddlebag.

Adon lay motionless, listening for another scream. The only sounds were his own panicked breath and the patter of rain on the shutters. For another thirty seconds, nothing stirred in the black room. Adon began to suspect he had dreamed the scream and silently chuckled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d been afraid of the dark.

But Adon knew better than to feel silly for being frightened. Bhaal was on their trail, and from the Lord of Murder, there was only one protection: the blessing of another god. Adon could no longer provide that protection, and he worried for an instant that it had been wrong to turn away from Sune Firehair. The cleric caressed the ugly scar beneath his eye. Certainly, it had been wrong to turn away because she hadn’t removed the blemish. In a time of so much strife, it had been selfish to expect her to repair his marred visage. Adon could accept that fact now, just as he accepted the imperfection.

What he could not accept, however, was the gods’ indifference to their worshipers. Since his youth, he had venerated Sune, believing the goddess would watch over him in return for his dedication. When she had allowed him to be scarred, Adon had fallen into a deep despair, realizing Sune cared little about her worshipers. Recovering from that disappointment had been a slow and tedious process. His confidence and will to live had returned only when he’d turned his devotion to his fellow man.

But this newfound devotion had not renewed the cleric’s faith in Sune. In fact, the more dedicated to other men he became, the more Adon resented Sune—and all the gods—for abusing the faith of their mortal worshipers.

Unfortunately, it had been faith in Sune that supplied Adon with clerical abilities. No matter how deeply felt or sincere, devotion to fellow man would never restore those powers. Gods were magical, supernatural, and, for reasons of their own, they rewarded fervent belief in their existence with the barest fraction of their power.

The door to the stairwell creaked open, abruptly ending Adon’s reflections. A sliver of yellow light slipped into the room. Watching the partially opened door, Adon reached for his mace and put his feet on the floor.

As the cleric stood, a black shadow flew out of the doorway, striking his face with a cold weight. Shrieking in surprise, Adon fell back onto the bed.

“Quiet!” Sneakabout hissed. “Put that on.”

Adon angrily peeled the mail shirt from his head, then slipped into it. “What’s happening?” he asked.

But Sneakabout, who had spent the last three hours examining every trap in the keep tower, had already disappeared. As the halfling reached the bottom of the stairs, the doors to the banquet hall opened. Six Cormyrian guards rushed into the room carrying torches and weapons.

“Jalur, help me bar the doors!” ordered the sergeant, waving his drawn sword at the entrance. “Kiel, Makare, and you others—to the stairwell!”

Surprised at how quickly the Cormyrians had retreated into the keep, the halfling crept toward the kitchen. His destination was the room directly below Adon’s, the steward’s office. Unfortunately, the office was locked and Sneakabout would have to pick the lock or find a key. Then he would have to rearrange the furniture so he could reach the crank. It would take time—time he might not have. The halfling had no idea what it was that the guards were fighting, but he knew that it had torn through them with frightening speed.

The guards knew little more about their opponent than Sneakabout. Orrel had seen something crawl down a dark corner of the inner wall. A moment later, a timid-looking man had stepped out of the shadows and walked nonchalantly to the keep’s entrance. Orrel and another guard had stepped out of the foyer to challenge him. He had knocked their halberds aside, then slipped a dagger out of his sleeve and killed them both with a single, long slash.

A third guard had yelled an alarm, which had also proven fatal. The stranger had thrown a dagger through the guard’s throat, silencing him in midscream. Fitch, the sergeant, had ordered the survivors to retreat inside. He felt foolish for running from a lone attacker, but the smooth efficiency with which the man killed left no doubt that he was no ordinary assassin. Because their assignment was to protect the keep tower, Fitch thought it wisest to retreat and bar the door, then send a man to call for help.

His strategy didn’t work. The doors were thick and heavy, designed for strength instead of maneuverability. As the sergeant and a guard pushed them into place, the stranger stepped out of the foyer. The guard died an instant later, the attacker’s fingers wrapped around his larynx.

Brandishing his sword, Sergeant Fitch yelled his last order to the men on the stairs. “In Azoun’s name, keep him downstairs!”

On the second floor, Adon heard the sounds of a brief scuffle, which was followed by a few words he could not understand. A flickering torch lit the landing that separated his room from Midnight’s. Her door was also ajar, but the chamber was too dark for him to see inside. The magic-user might be there, or she might have already fled.

To Adon’s left, the stairs descended in a gentle, clockwise spiral. Five feet down, another torch hung in a sconce, casting its dingy light upon the cold stone steps. Where the stairwell curved out of sight, the shadows of four Cormyrians were retreating up the stairs. Each silhouette held a polearm.

Judging from the shadows, it appeared a single man was pursuing them. One of the Cormyrian silhouettes lunged. A flurry of activity followed, then a weak chuckle rolled up the stairs. An instant later, a man screamed in agony.

The other three guards retreated another step. Their chain-mailed backs were visible to Adon now, but the attacker remained unseen. Adon could not believe a single man pressed so fiercely, but the shadow appeared to be nothing more.

The cleric had no doubt that the mysterious attacker had come for the tablet. He went to the window inside his room and opened the shutters. An icy, driving rain struck him full in the face. Dismissing any thought of the storm, Adon propped the tablet in the window. If necessary, he would shove the tablet out the window rather than let it fall into an enemy’s hands. With any luck, one of Deverell’s men would pick it up at the tower’s base and flee.

When Adon returned to the door, clutching his mace, only two guards remained. They stood on the second floor landing, facing their attacker despite the terror in their faces. Two steps below them stood the mysterious assassin. When Adon saw the little man, he could not help but be puzzled by the Cormyrians’ fear.

The man stood no taller than five and a half feet, and had a slight build. His bald head was tattooed with swirls of green and red, but that was the only thing about him that was even remotely frightening. From the stranger’s apprehensive brow hung a timid nose, with nervous, bulging eyes on either side. The only prominent features on the entire face were two flaplike ears and a set of buckteeth. The face was the kind that made Adon thankful for his own good looks, scar and all. The man’s body had been allowed to wither into a gaunt bag of bones held together by sinew and willpower alone. Small gouges and cuts covered him from head to toe.

“What’s wrong?” Adon demanded. “Stop him!”

One of the Cormyrians glanced in the cleric’s direction. “You try it—or get out of the way!”

A clamor arose outside the tower as word spread that the keep was under attack. The tattoo-headed man turned to listen for an instant, then calmly returned his gaze to the two guards in front of him. The stranger stepped forward, slapping their halberds aside as if the weapons were no more than sticks.

“Get back!” screamed the second Cormyrian, kicking at the bald man.

The guard’s boot caught the stranger square in the forehead. The blow should have sent him tumbling down the stairwell, but the tattooed head simply rocked back. Then the little man growled and, moving with astounding speed and grace, struck the offending leg and broke it. The guard screamed and fell, his head striking a stone step with a sickening thump.

Adon suddenly knew why the guards had not stopped the attacker. The little man was an avatar.

“Bhaal!” Adon gasped, unconsciously lifting his mace.

The avatar turned toward the cleric and drew his thin lips back in an acknowledging smile.

A wave of fear washed over Adon, and he could not force it away. When he had faced the god Bane in similar circumstances, Adon had had his faith to strengthen him. Death had not been frightening then, for he had believed that dying in Sune’s service was a high honor that would bring a great reward in the afterlife.

There were no such guarantees now. Adon had abandoned the goddess, and if he died, only endless despair and nothingness would follow. Worse, there would be nobody to set the matter straight. Bhaal would take the tablet and plunge mankind into darkness and misery.

The last guard dropped his halberd and drew his sword. He crouched into a fighting stance and slowly traced a defensive pattern in the air.

Still two steps below the landing, Bhaal turned his attention back to the guard.

The Cormyrian hazarded a glance at Adon. “Are you with me?”

Adon swallowed. “Aye,” he said. The cleric stepped out of his room and stood over the guard who had fallen a moment earlier.

The remaining live soldier shifted to the other side of the landing, then raised his sword. The guard was deliberately giving the god an opening so Adon could attack.

Heedless of the trap, Bhaal stepped forward, and Adon swung his mace at the avatar’s head. The god easily ducked the blow. Before the Cormyrian could slash, however, the Lord of Murder punched him in the abdomen. The man barely retained his balance and stumbled back on the landing. Bhaal now stood next to Adon.

Staring the avatar in the eyes, Adon brought his mace into a guarding position. The Cormyrian staggered a step forward and lifted his sword, too.

“What now?” the guard asked, gasping for breath.

“Attack!” Adon yelled.

The Cormyrian obliged with a vicious overhead slash. Bhaal sidestepped it easily, moving backward toward Midnight’s chamber.

The magic-user’s door flew open. Midnight stood in the entrance to her room, dagger in hand. She had been watching the battle in silence, cursing the loss of her spellbook and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Finally, it had come. She thrust the blade into the avatar’s back.

Bhaal’s eyes widened in surprise. He started to turn, and Adon seized the chance for an easy attack, smashing his mace into the avatar’s ribs. The god’s knees buckled and he tumbled down the stairs, roaring in a rage.

The avatar came to rest six steps down, Midnight’s dagger still planted in his back.

“Is he dead?” Midnight asked.

Bhaal rose and glared at the magic-user, cursing in a language no human could duplicate. Without paying any attention to his wounds, the Lord of Murder jumped for the landing.

The Cormyrian yelled and leaped to meet the avatar, blade flashing. Bhaal met the guard in midair, blocking the soldier’s sword arm with a bone-crunching blow and simultaneously driving his fingers into the man’s throat. The avatar reached the landing with the guard’s gasping body in his hands, then dropped the corpse down the stairs without a second thought.

It was then that Adon understood. Nothing they could do would stop the avatar. Bhaal was animating the body with his own life force.

The tramp of boots and a chorus of yells announced that reinforcements had entered the keep tower.

“Run, Midnight!” Adon yelled. “We can’t kill him!”

The cleric turned toward his own room, intending to shove the tablet out the window. Bhaal grinned, then turned toward Midnight.

“Adon!” the magic-user screamed. “What are you doing?” She could not believe her friend would desert her.

Midnight’s cry brought Adon back to his senses. In his concern to protect the tablet, he had forgotten she was defenseless. He turned and hefted his mace, finding Bhaal’s back to him. It was as good a chance as he’d ever have.

Adon brought the mace down hard on the back of Bhaal’s head. Bone splintered beneath the weapon. The surprised avatar teetered and stumbled, and Adon thought for a moment the god might actually fall.

Bhaal lifted a hand and felt the wound. His fingers came away bloody. Without so much as turning around, he kicked backward, catching the cleric in the ribs. Adon flew into his chamber, crashed into his bed, then crumpled to the floor gasping for breath and wondering how he would ever pick himself up.

Adon felt the floor tremble faintly, then metal screeched against metal. He had no idea what could be causing the strange noise and vibration.

“What’s happening down there?” Kelemvor yelled from up the stairway. His voice was hoarse with grogginess.

Bhaal looked up the stairs, his head little more than a bloody pulp.

“By Torm’s mailed fist!” Kelemvor cursed, descending the keep’s stairs with heavy, unsteady steps. “What are you, I wonder?”

Bhaal turned back to the magic-user, apparently unconcerned with the warrior. Heart pounding with fear, Midnight held on to her door for support while searching her mind for a way to defend herself without a weapon.

A mighty roar echoed from the walls. Kelemvor flew into view, swinging his sword in a mighty arc. Bhaal dropped his shoulder, letting the fighter land on his back, then stood up and catapulted the warrior down the stairwell. Kelemvor flashed out of Adon’s sight as quickly as he had entered it.

A series of thumps and curses announced that the Cormyrian reinforcements had broken the fighter’s fall—and that they would be delayed even further. Adon forced himself to stand, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. His doorway was aligned directly opposite Midnight’s, and he could see Bhaal slowly advancing on the magic-user.

Midnight remained motionless as the Lord of Murder moved toward her. She had thought of a way to delay Bhaal, but it depended upon surprise. When the god reached the threshold to her room, she slammed the door, using its bulk as a weapon.

The move did catch Bhaal by surprise, and the heavy door hit him squarely in the face. The avatar stumbled back two steps, then Midnight pushed the door shut, slid the bolt into place, and braced her body against it. The tactic would not hold the Lord of Murder for long, but it might allow her time to think of something better.

Bhaal stood in the middle of the landing and stared at the closed door, venting his anger in a stream of guttural curses.

Adon could easily understand how Midnight’s move had stunned the evil god, for it had certainly astonished him. What he could not understand, however, was why Bhaal was concentrating so intently on her. Perhaps the god assumed that she carried the tablet, or, not realizing that her spellbook was lost, feared her magic more than Adon’s mace. Whatever the reason, the cleric decided to take advantage of the situation.

Adon stepped into his own doorway. Six feet down the stairs, Kelemvor and eight Cormyrians lay in a heap, dazed and groaning.

As the cleric raised his mace, the floor vibrated beneath his feet again, and faint metallic clinks echoed around the landing. Though he could not imagine what caused them, Adon shrugged off the strange vibrations and prepared to attack.

In the same instant, Bhaal rushed forward and kicked Midnight’s door. The bolt snapped off and the door flew open, sending the magic-user sprawling.

Adon missed Bhaal’s head and his mace struck the floor with a hollow clang. Two stones fell out of the landing. The cleric stepped back into the doorway to his room and frowned at the hole in astonishment.

Bhaal turned to face Adon, the avatar’s face betraying irritation. Then the entire landing collapsed, carrying the Lord of Murder and the body of one fallen guard with it. The landing crashed onto the first floor with a deafening clatter. Clouds of dust billowed up out the newly opened pit.

Midnight crawled back to her doorway, and, for a moment, both she and Adon stared down into the hole. When the air finally cleared, they both saw that Bhaal’s crumpled form lay in the rubble, its neck cocked at a severe angle and obviously broken. The small body, sprawled and twisted, had been crushed in a dozen places.

But the avatar’s eyes remained opened, and they were staring at Adon with deliberate wrath. The god curled first his left hand into a fist, then his right.

Midnight gasped, unable to believe the avatar still lived.

“What does it take to kill you?” Adon cried.

As if in answer, Sneakabout stuck his head out of a hole below the cleric’s doorway. It was where the beam supporting the landing should have been.

“That didn’t do it?” the halfling asked. “What have you dragged me into?”

“What happened?” Midnight asked, still staring in wonder at the collapsed landing.

“It was a trap,” Sneakabout noted casually. “A last line of defense. The landings in this tower are designed to collapse, in case the keep is breached and the residents need to slow down pursuit while they retreat to the roof.”

As the halfling spoke, Bhaal drew a knee up to his chest, then propped himself into a sitting position.

“Never mind,” Adon said, pointing at the avatar.

Sneakabout gestured at the top of Adon’s doorway. “There’s a crank behind the door!” he cried, waving his hand for emphasis. “Turn it!”

The cleric stepped behind the door. The crank was where Sneakabout said it would be. The cleric began turning it. A terrible, rusty screech filled the room. The beam overhead—the one that supported the landing on the third floor—began moving.

“Hurry!” Sneakabout screamed.

Midnight backed away from her door, sensing it might be wiser to be completely inside her room when the landing fell.

Adon cranked harder. The supportive beams slowly withdrew, and a stone dropped out of the landing. Then two more dropped. Then a dozen. Finally, the whole thing crashed down, falling through the hole where the second floor landing should have been.

Sneakabout poked his head out of his hole again, and Midnight crawled to look out her doorway. The Cormyrian reinforcements finally reached the second floor, Kelemvor stumbling along behind them. Everybody peered through the hole and stared at the rubble on the first floor.

“Is he dead?” Sneakabout asked.

Adon shook his head. “No. When a god’s avatar dies, the destruction is immense.”

“A god!” Sneakabout gasped, nearly tumbling out of his hole.

Adon nodded. “Cyric wasn’t lying. Bhaal is chasing us.” The cleric paused and pointed at the rubble. “That’s him.”

As if in response to Adon’s revelation, the dust clouds cleared. Bhaal lay buried under a small pile of rock, a hand and foot protruding from beneath the stones.

“He looks dead to me,” Sneakabout declared.

The hand twitched, then it pushed a stone away.

Midnight gasped. “If we can’t kill him,” she said, looking to Adon, “isn’t there some way to imprison him?”

Adon frowned and closed his eyes, searching his memory for some trap that might hold a god. Finally, he shook his head, “Not that I know of.”

The hand pushed another stone away.

“To the first floor, men,” ordered the Cormyrian sergeant.

“Quick, before he frees himself!” Kelemvor added, turning and leading the way down the stairs—to die in a hopeless fight, Adon thought.

“Perhaps we should leave now,” Sneakabout offered weakly.

Midnight was not listening. As soon as she had suggested imprisoning Bhaal, a spell unlike anything she had ever studied had formed in her mind.

The mage went back into her room and rummaged through her cloak, then emerged with two balls of clay and some water. After soaking the first ball in water, Midnight crumbled it between her fingers and sprinkled it over the pile of rubble below.

“What are you doing?” Sneakabout asked, watching the bits of mud fall.

“Encasing him in stone,” Midnight explained calmly. She continued crumbling the clay.

“Magically?” Adon asked.

“Of course—do I look like a stonesmith to you?”

“What if you miscast it?” Adon objected. “You might bring the tower down around our ears!”

Midnight frowned. The spell’s appearance had excited her so much that she hadn’t considered the possibility of it going awry.

Bhaal shoved away several more stones.

“What do we have to lose?” Midnight asked. The magic-user closed her eyes and focused on her magic. She quickly uttered the chant, crushing the last of the first clay ball.

When she opened her eyes, the rubble had turned to a syrupy, translucent fluid the color of ale. She had expected mud, not pine sap, but at least Bhaal’s mangled form remained encased. His hateful eyes were focused on Midnight, and he was struggling to free himself.

Kelemvor and the Cormyrians charged into view on the first floor, then stopped at the edge of the golden glob. One tried to stick his sword through the goo and stab Bhaal, but the syrup gripped his blade and would not release it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the sergeant demanded.

“How are we supposed to attack through that mess?”

“I wouldn’t advise attacking at all,” Adon replied, “unless you have no other choice.”

Midnight soaked the other clay ball, then began sprinkling it over the yellow glob.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” the sergeant demanded, pointing at Midnight’s hand with his sword.

Sneakabout replied for the magic-user. “Never mind. By the way, I’d stand back if I were you.”

Midnight closed her eyes and recited another spell, this one designed to turn the sticky mess solid. When she finished, the golden fluid began hardening. The avatar’s struggles slowed and completely stopped within seconds.

The Cormyrian sergeant tapped the yellow glob with his sword. The blade chimed as if he had tapped granite.

“Where did you learn that?” Adon asked.

“It just came to me,” Midnight replied, her voice weak and tired. “I don’t understand myself.” She suddenly felt very dizzy, and realized that the spell had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

Adon stared at Midnight for a moment. Each day, it seemed the mage learned something new about her magic. Thinking of his lost clerical powers, he could not help but feel a tinge of jealousy.

“Will this hold?” Kelemvor asked, tapping the glob.

Adon looked at Bhaal’s prison. The liquid had dried into eighteen inches of clear, crystalline rock. Inside, the avatar continued to stare at Midnight.

“I hope so,” Adon replied, resting his own gaze upon Midnight’s weary face.