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Forgotten Realms - Avatar 3 Waterdeep - Richard Awlinson & Troy Denning

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Midnight's Route

Elver suit

Prologue

The patrol had been from Marsember, charged with protecting the coastal farms

around the tear-shaped grove called Hermit's Wood. The sergeant, Ogden the

Hardrider, was one of Cormyr's best, well known for keeping his sector free of

brigands.

Twelve riders had served under Ogden. They were typical soldiers: a half-dozen

youthful good-for-nothings, two drunks, two good men, and two murderers. Ogden

gave the dangerous assignments to the murderers. Predictably, the pair was

insubordinate and had made a pact to add Ogden to their short list of

victims—though neither one had ever gathered the courage to attack the sergeant.

Now, they would never have the chance. Ogden's patrol lay a hundred yards north

of Hermit's Wood, dead to the last horse. The Purple Dragon, the crest of King

Azoun IV, still glimmered on their shields, and their armor still gleamed

whenever the moonlight slipped past the stormclouds and played over their

corpses.

Not that spit and polish mattered now. The jackals and crows had come yesterday,

leaving a gruesome mess in their wake. Ira's ears were gone. Phineas's toes had

been gnawed off. Ogden had lost an eye to the crows. The rest of the patrol had

fared worse. Parts of their bodies were scattered all over the field.

Even without the scavengers, the patrol would have been a grisly sight. They had

been riding through the field when the ground started belching poisonous black

gas. There had been no reason for the deadly emission. The field wasn't

RICHARD AWLINSON

located dose to any volcanoes, near any fens or bogs, or even within a hundred

miles of a cavern where fumes might collect- The black vapor was simply one more

example of the chaos plaguing the Realms.

That had been two hot days ago, and the patrol had been lying in the heat since.

Their limbs were bloated and swollen, sometimes twisted into odd shapes where

the riders had broken them. The sides of the bodies closest to the ground were

black and puffy with settled blood, while the sides closest to the heavens were

doughy gray. The only sign of Ufe that remained in Ogden's patrol was the

unsettling red tint that burned in their eyes.

Because their spirits had not yet departed, the soldiers were completely aware

of their condition. Being dead was not at all what they had expected. They had

been prepared to take positions with the glorious hosts of Tempus, God of War,

or to find eternal sorrow beneath the cold lash of the Maiden of Pain, the

goddess Loviatar. They hadn't expected their consciousness to linger in their

corpses while their flesh slowly decomposed.

So, when Ogden received the command to rise and form a line, he and his soldiers

were relieved to find that they could obey. The men and the horses stood,

stiffly and without grace, but they stood. The soldiers took the reins of their

dead mounts and arranged themselves into a perfect row, just as they would have

done had they been alive.

The command to rise had come from the city of Water-deep, where ninety apostles

of wickedness and corruption kneeled in a dimly lit temple. The room was just

large enough to hold them all, and looked more like the inside of a moldy crypt

than a temple. Its stone wails were black with mildew and slime. The room was

lit only by two oily torches set into sconces behind the huge stone altar.

The apostles wore brown ceremonial robes of filthy, coarse material. They stared

at the floor, so fearful of disturbing the figure at the bloody altar that they

scarcely dared to breathe.

The man at the altar was tall, emaciated, and leprous. His

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deformed face was lined by deep wrinkles and covered with lumpy lesions. Where

minor injuries had destroyed the diseased skin, patches of stinking gray flesh

hung off his face and hands. He had made no attempt to hide his condition. In

fact, he cherished his maladies and left his affliction exposed for all to see.

This unusual attitude toward disease wasn't surprising, though, for the figure

at the altar was Myrkul, God of Decay and Lord of the Dead. He was deep in

concentration, tele-pathically spanning the continent to give his orders to

Ogden's patrol. The effort was taxing on Myrkul's strength, and he had been

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forced to take the spirits of five faithful worshipers to give him the power he

needed. Like the other deities of the Realms, Myrkul was no longer omnipotent,

for he had been exiled from the Planes and forced to take a human host—an

avatar—in the Realms.

The reason was that someone had stolen the Tablets of Fate, the two stones upon

which Lord Ao, overlord of the gods, recorded the privileges and

responsibilities of each deity. Unknown to the other gods and Ao, Myrkul and the

late God of Strife, were the ones who had stolen the two tablets. They had each

taken one and concealed it without revealing its hiding place to each other. The

two gods had hoped to use the confusion surrounding the tablets' disappearance

to increase their power.

But the pair had not foreseen the extent of their overlord's anger. Upon

discovering the theft, Ao had banished the gods to the Realms and stripped them

of most of their power. He had forbidden his subjects to return to the Planes

without the tablets in hand. The only deity spared this fate was Helm, God of

Guardians, whom Ao charged with guarding the Celestial Stairways leading back to

the Planes.

Myrkul was now a mere shadow of what he had been before the banishment. But,

relying upon the spirits of sacrificial victims for energy, he could still use

his magic. At the moment, he was using that magic to inspect the patrol of dead

Cormyrians, and he liked what he saw. The soldiers and their horses, which were

beginning to decompose

RICHARD AWLINSON

nicely, were clearly corpses. But they were not exactly inanimate. Myrkul had

been lucky, for he had discovered the patrol before their spirits strayed from

their bodies. These zombies would be more intelligent and more graceful than

most, since they had died a relatively short time ago. If the soldiers were to

accomplish what Myrkul wanted, they would need those extra advantages.

Myrkul had Ogden point toward Hermit's Wood, then gave the patrol its orders

telepathically. There are two men and a woman camped in that grove. In the

saddlebags they carry, there is a stone tablet. Kill the men, then bring me tbe

woman and the tablet.

The tablet was, of course, a Tablet of Fate. It was the one Bane had hidden in

Tantras, which was in turn discovered easily by another god and a few humans.

The Black Lord had desperately tried to regain the artifact by mobilizing his

army. This grand scheme was his downfall. Bane's marauding hosts had alerted his

enemies, who gathered their forces and defeated the God of Strife— permanently.

Myrkul was determined to pursue a safer course. Where Bane had used an army to

retrieve the tablet, Myrkul would send a patrol to recover it. Nor would Myrkul

make the mistake of believing that once the tablet was in his grasp, keeping it

would be an easy matter. At this very moment, the trio bearing Bane's tablet was

being pursued by a ruthless betrayer. This traitor would stop at nothing to

steal the tablet from them or even from Myrkul's zombies. But the Lord of the

Dead knew of the cutthroat's plans, and he had already sent an agent to

discourage the traitor.

As Myrkul pondered al! these things and more, a golden, shimmering disk of force

appeared in a part of Waterdeep far removed from Myrkul's moldy temple. The

immaculate tower stood nearly fifty feet tall, and was built entirely -of

granite blocks. Even near the top, it had no visible entrances or windows, and

resembled nothing quite so much as a pillar of polished stone.

An ancient man stepped out of the golden disc, then turned and dispersed the

portal with a wave of his hand.

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Despite his age, the man appeared robust and fit. A heavy maroon traveling cloak

hung off his bony shoulders, not quite disguising the leanness of his form. His

face was sharp-featured and thin, with alert, dancing eyes and a long straight

nose. He had a head of thick white hair, and a beard as heavy as a lion's mane.

"Whom may I say is calling?" The imperious voice came from the tower's base,

though no speaker was visible.

The old man regarded the tower with distaste, then said, "If Khelben no longer

knows his teacher, then perhaps I've come to the wrong place."

"Elminster! Welcome!" A black-haired man stuck his head and shoulders right

through the tower's second story wall. He had a neatly trimmed black beard,

steady brown eyes, and handsome features. "Come in! You remember where the

entrance is?"

"Of course," Elminster responded, walking to the base of the tower and stepping

through the wall as if it was a door. He stopped in a neatly arranged sitting

room cluttered with dragon horns, iron crowns, and other trophies from the

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wizard's adventures. Elminster withdrew his meerschaum pipe from his cloak, lit

it from a burning candle, then sat down in the room's most comfortable chair.

A moment later, Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun rushed down the stairs, hurriedly

pulling a purple cloak over the plain robe of white silk he usually wore while

alone in his tower. The dark-haired mage wrinkled his nose at the overly sweet

odor from the pipe, then took a seat in the chair usually reserved for guests.

"Welcome back to Water-deep, my friend. What brings you—"

"I need thy help, Bfackstaff," Elminster said, pointing his pipe stem at tbe

younger wizard.

Blackstaff grimaced. "My magic's not been—"

"Don'tye think I know that?" the old sage interrupted. "It's the same all over.

Not a month ago, my favorite pipe blew up in my face when I used a pyrotechnics

spell on it, and the last time I tried a rope trick I had to cut myself loose."

Blackstaff nodded sympathetically. "I contacted Pier-

RICHARD AWIJNSON

geiron the Paladinson telepathically and ended up broadcasting our thoughts to

the entire city of Waterdeep."

Elminster stuck his pipe back in his mouth and puffed on it several times. "And

that's not the worst of it. Chaos is running rampant through the land. The birds

of Shadowdale have started digging burrows, and the River Arkhen is full of

boiling blood."

"It's the same here in Waterdeep," the younger wizard said. "The fishermen won't

leave the harbor. Schools of mackerel have been sinking their boats."

The old sage absent-mindedly blew a green smoke ring, then said, "Ye know the

reason for all of this trouble?"

Blackstaff looked uncomfortable. "I know it started when Ao cast the gods out of

the Planes for stealing the Tablets of Fate. I've had trouble learning more than

that."

Elminster sucked on his pipe thoughtfully, then said, "Fortunately, I haven't.

Shortly after the Arrival, I was sought out by a company of four adventurers—a

female mage named Midnight, a cleric called Adon of Sune, a fighter named

Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and a thief who went by the name of Cyric. They claimed they

had rescued the goddess Mystra from Bane's grasp. Afterward, Mystra had tried to

return to the Planes, but had perished when Helm refused to let her pass. With

her dying breath, they claimed, Mystra had sent them to warn me that Bane would

attack Shadow-dale, and to seek my help in finding the Tablets of Fate.

"At first I didn't believe them," Elminster continued, pausing to puff on his

pipe twice more. "But the woman presented a pendant that the goddess had given

her. And, as they had promised, Bane attacked Shadowdale. The four comported

themselves very well in the dale's defense."

The sage purposely left out any mention of the hardship the heroes had suffered

as a result of his own disappearance during the Battle of Shadowdafe. The

townsfolk had accused Midnight and Adon of murdering him. Fortunately, that

matter had been cleared up.

"In any case," Elminster noted, "I soon learned that one of the tablets was in

Tantras. After briefly being separated as a

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result of the Battle of Shadowdale, I once again met Midnight, Kelemvor, and

Adon in Tantras."

"What of the thief — Cyric, did you say?" Blackstaff asked. He was a keen

listener and had not missed the fact that Elminster had left Cyric's name out of

his last statement.

"The thief left the party on their journey to Tantras. I'm not sure what

happened, but it seems he may have betrayed his fellows. In any case, he's not

important to what came next. Bane followed Midnight and her friends to Tantras,

then tried to recover the tablet himself. The god Tbrm, who had taken up

residence in the city, met Bane in combat. The resulting battle threatened to

destroy Tantras, but Midnight rang the Bell of Aylan Attricus — "

"She what?" Blackstaff interrupted, rising to his feet. "Nobody can ring the

bell— not even me!"

"Midnight did," Elminster confirmed. "And she activated the anti-magic shield

surrounding the city. The avatars of both gods were destroyed." The old sage sat

quietly puffing on his pipe.

After a moment, Blackstaff asked, "And then what?"

Elminster blew a series of smoke rings. "And that is where we begin," he said at

last. "Midnight and her friends are bringing the tablet to Waterdeep."

The younger wizard considered this for a long time, looking for some reason for

making such a long and hazardous journey. Finally, he could find none and asked,

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"Why?"

Elminster smiled. "For two reasons," he explained. "First, there is a Celestial

Stairway nearby. Second, because the other tablet is here and we need both of

them to return the gods to the Planes."

"A tablet is in Waterdeep?" Blackstaff asked. "Where?"

"That's why I need you," the sage said. "All I could learn was that I might find

a tablet by going to Waterdeep."

The younger mage rolled his eyes. " Waterdeep's a big city."

Elminster put his pipe away. "Then let's get started. I'd like to find the

tablet by the time Midnight arrives."

VisitoRs

Midnight's eyes, as dark and deep as the night, followed the shadow as it moved

behind the upturned roots of a toppled willow tree. A strong wind whispered

through the dark forest, rustling bushes and shaking tree limbs, filling the

wood with dancing silhouettes of ambiguous form and size. Overhead, the clouds

of a passing storm raced by the moon, dragging heavy shadows through the tangled

grove like silent warriors.

Midnight and two companions were camped at the south end of a tear-shaped wood.

Her friends were sleeping in a small lean-to shelter erected between two trees.

One of the men, Kelemvor, was snoring with deep soft rumbles that sounded like a

growling wolf.

While her companions rested, Midnight sat twenty yards away, keeping watch. Not

yet thirty and gifted with a lean body, she was a woman of sultry charms.

Eyebrows as thin and black as painted lines hung over her eyes, and a long braid

of jet-black hair trailed down her back. Her only flaw, if it could be called

that, lay in the premature worry lines furrowed over her brow and etched around

her mouth.

Those worry lines had grown deeper over the last few days. Adon, Midnight, and

Kelemvor had been aboard a small galley bound for the port city of Ilipur, where

they intended to find a caravan bound for Waterdeep. As the vessel entered the

final leg of its journey, through a sheltered sea called the Dragonmere, an

unnatural storm rose out of the calm waters and almost tore the ship to pieces.

The storm had lasted for three nerve-wracking days, and the galley

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had only been saved by the valiant efforts of its crew.

The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhent-ish trireme that had

been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm

finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and

put the three companions ashore.

A rustle sounded from the lean-to and Midnight turned to see Adon creeping

toward her. In his right hand, the cleric carried a mace he had bought from a

sailor. With his left, he held a set of saddlebags. One bag contained a flat

stone about a foot wide and a foot and a half high—the Tablet of Fate their

company had recovered in Tantras.

Even now, in the middle of the night, Adon's sandy hair was meticulously

brushed. His build was slight, though muscular enough and well proportioned, and

his green eyes sparkled with a light of their own. Adon's other features were

symmetrical if somewhat plain, save for the red scar that traced a dark path

from the left eye to his jawiine.

The scar was a grim reminder of the personal crisis that the cleric had suffered

over the past few weeks. On the night of the Arrival, when Ao had cast his gods

from the Planes, all of the clerics in the Realms had lost their power. Unless

they were within a mile of their deity, their prayers for spells simply went

unanswered. At first, this had not shaken the optimistic Adon, and he had

remained faithful to his deity, Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.

Then, near Tilverton, he had been scarred in an ambush. At first, Adon had

feared the blemish was punishment for some unknown offense against his goddess.

This feeling had grown steadily stronger. Finally, during the Battle of

Shadowdale, Elminster suffered an accident and Adon found himself powerless to

help the ancient sage. The cleric then fell into a catatonic depression. When he

finally recovered, several weeks later, his faith in Sune had been lost.

Instead, the cleric had focused his fervor and dedication on his fellow man.

"Why are you awake?" Midnight asked, whispering loud enough to make herself

heard over the wind.

RICHARD AWLINSON

Crouching next to her, Adon answered in a whisper, "Who can sleep with that

racket in his ear?" He nodded at Kelemvor's slumbering form, then offered, "I'll

take over if you're tired."

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"Not yet," Midnight said. She turned back to the toppled willow tree. The shadow

she had observed earlier was still crouched behind the tree's upturned roots.

"Is something wrong?" Adon asked, noting Midnight's interest in the willow. He

followed her gaze and noted the dark form skulking behind the tangle. "What's

that?"

Midnight shrugged and replied, "A shadow I've been watching."

The moon poked its face through the clouds and cast a silvery light into the

grove. On the top of the shadow, Midnight could see the silhouette of a head and

shoulders.

"It looks like a man," Adon observed, still whispering.

"So it does."

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

Adon's suggestion made sense. Neither the cleric nor Midnight were at full

strength. Like the abilities of all mages, Midnight's powers had become unstable

since the fall of the gods. Adon's condition was no better. Even if he had still

believed in his deity, Sune was certainly too distant for him to call upon her

power.

But Midnight wanted to let Kelemvor snore a while longer. She was not convinced

the shadow was dangerous, and if it was, the mage didn't want to alarm it with a

sudden flurry of activity. Besides, even without their spells, she and Adon were

capable fighters. "We can take care of ourselves if need be," she said. "But I

don't think there's any danger."

A cloud covered the moon again, plunging the wood back into darkness. Adon

squinted at the root mass, puzzled by Midnight's assertion. "Why not?"

"If that's a man, he means us no harm. He'd have done something by now if he

did," Midnight answered. "He wouldn't be sitting there watching us."

"If he didn't mean us harm, he would have come into camp by now," Adon

countered.

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"Not necessarily," Midnight said. "He might be afraid to."

"We hardly look like thieves," Adon said, waving his hand at himself and the

magic-user. "Who'd have reason to fear us?"

Midnight did not answer immediately and avoided the cleric's gaze. As soon as

Adon had asked his question, it had occurred to her that the shadow might belong

to Cyric, the trio's missing comrade. It had been only a few weeks since the

thief had disappeared on the River Ashaba, but already it seemed that he'd been

gone for years. She missed his grim wit, his aloof bearing, even his dark

temper.

After Midnight did not respond to his question for several moments, Adon turned

toward the iean-to. The magic-user grasped his shoulder to keep him from

leaving. "It might be Cyric," she whispered.

Spinning around to face Midnight, Adon hissed, "Cyric! It couldn't be!"

"Why not?" Midnight asked, glancing back at the shadow. "The trireme that

worried our ship captain did seem to be following us."

"That's still no reason to think Cyric was aboard," Adon countered. "How could

he have known we were leaving Tantras, much less which ship we were on?"

"Cyric has his ways," Midnight said grimly.

Adon frowned and squeezed his mace until his knuckles turned white. "Yes, he

proved that in Tantras."

Both Midnight and Adon turned to look at Kelemvor. The fighter had seen Cyric

last, in Tantras. A Zhentish assassin had attacked Kelemvor, but failed to kill

him. When the battle was over, he spotted Cyric in the crowd, watching the

attempted murder.

Removing Midnight's hand from his shoulder, Adon declared, "I'm getting

Kelemvor."

"But he'll kill Cyric," Midnight said, concern creeping into her voice.

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

"How can you say that?"

RICHARD AWLINSON

"He's joined the Zhentilar," Adon snapped over his shoulder. "Or have you

forgotten?"

According to rumor, Cyric had been with one of the Zhentish armies that had come

to attack Tantras. Given Cyric's presence at the attempt on Kelemvor's life,

Adon believed the rumor.

"What did you expect?" Midnight inquired, still unconvinced of her friend's

betrayal. "Cyric's a schemer. Faced with joining Bane's Zhentilar or dying, he'd

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join. That doesn't mean he's betrayed us."

"That doesn't mean he didn't," Adon said, still speaking over his shoulder. The

wind gusted, whipping the grove into a clamor of rattling branches.

"A few weeks ago, Cyric was a trusted friend and a good ally," Midnight said.

"Or have you forgotten that he was the one who saved our lives in Shadowdale?"

"No," Adon admitted, finally turning around to face Midnight again. "And I

haven't forgotten that Cyric would have left me for the executioner's axe if you

hadn't refused to abandon me."

Midnight didn't know what to say, for the cleric was right. After Elminster

disappeared during the Battle of Shadow-dale, the people of the town had

convened a hasty trial and accused Adon and Midnight of the old sage's death.

Unfortunately, Elminster's disappearance had also been the event that triggered

Aden's catatonic depression, so he was un-abie to say anything in his own

defense. He and Midnight were quickly found guilty and condemned to death.

The night before the scheduled execution, Cyric had come to rescue Midnight. The

thief had been disgusted by Aden's collapse during the trial, however, and had

taken the cleric along only upon Midnight's insistence. Then, as the trio had

fled down the River Ashaba, Cyric had treated Adon like an unwanted dog,

speaking to the cleric only to insult him, and occasionally even hitting him.

Midnight had been forced to intervene on Aden's behalf many times.

As the magic-user remembered the unpleasant journey, the moon appeared again and

pale light bathed the forest.

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This time, it looked as though the moon would shine for a while, for the only

clouds near it were the ones the wind had just blown past.

Adon took the opportunity to look squarely into Midnight's eyes. "I owe Cyric

nothing," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm indebted to you for saving me

at Shadow-dale."

"Then I want you to pay back that debt," Midnight responded, returning Adon's

stare. "Don't assume that Cyric has betrayed us just because he's treated you

badly in the past."

"You don't know Cyric like Kel—"

Midnight held her hand up to silence the cleric. "Are you going to honor your

debt or not?" she demanded.

Adon frowned angrily. "I'll never trust Cyric."

"I'm not asking you to," Midnight responded, looking back toward the shadow.

"All I ask is that you give Cyric the benefit of the doubt. Don't kill him on

sight."

Adon's face betrayed his frustration and he looked away. "All right. .. but

you'll never convince Kelemvor."

Midnight breathed a sigh of relief. "We'll handle that problem when we come to

it. First, I think I'd better find out what Cyric wants."

Without waiting for a reply. Midnight began crawling toward the willow roots.

Soggy leaves cushioned her knees and hands, muffling what would otherwise have

been a loud rustle.

"Wait!" Adon hissed. "You don't even know if that's him."

"We've got to find out, don't we?" Midnight responded, pausing only an instant.

"You can wake Kelemvor if it isn't."

Sighing in frustration, Adon slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and prepared

to rush to the mage's aid if the need arose.

As Midnight advanced, the hiss of the wind muffled Kelemvor's snoring, though

the soft growl did remain audible. The magic-user gripped her dagger tightly,

realizing that the farther away from her friends she crawled, the more she

exposed herself to attack. As Adon had pointed

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out, they could not be sure the man behind the root tangle was Cyric. It could

just as easily be a thief or a Zhentish spy who had trailed them from Tantras.

But Midnight did not see that she had any choice except to go out and see.

TWenty feet later, the mage put her hand on a stick and snapped it. The shadow

didn't stir, but as Midnight glanced back, Kelemvor rolled over, found his

swordhilt, then returned to his snoring. She turned back toward the willow roots

and advanced another ten feet.

The wind suddenly calmed, leaving the grove eerily quiet. To the north, the pop

and crack of snapping sticks rang through the wood. Alarmed, Midnight stopped

and looked in the direction of the commotion. Several large silhouettes were

moving through the undergrowth.

"Get Kelemvor," Midnight called to Adon. "Something's coming!" She glanced back

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at the willow's roots and saw that the shadow was gone.

Two hundred feet to the north, thirteen Cormyrian soldiers—once the patrol under

Ogden the Hardrider— were slowly riding south, still searching for Midnight and

her companions. Most of the men were missing ears, fingers, noses, even whole

hands or feet. Jagged wounds laced their torsos where carrion eaters had torn

them open in search of an easy meal. The horses were no better off, with great

strips of hide ripped away and the tender portions of their bodies gnawed

away-Back at the lean-to, Adon put his hand over Kelemvor's mouth, then shook

the fighter's shoulder. The brawny warrior woke with a start, then instinctivelv

thrust Adon aside, knocking the cleric onto his back. A moment later, the

fighter realized that it had been Aden's hand on his face and pulled his friend

back into a sitting position—not thinking to apologize for knocking him over.

Kelemvor's appearance was as rugged as his manner. Standing just shy of six feet

tall, he was heavily muscled and broad-shouldered. Three days' growth of black

beard covered the chiseled features of his face, and his green eyes were hidden

beneath a frowning brow. The warrior moved

with a feline grace that was the only remaining trace of the lycanthropic curse

of which he had recently freed himself.

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

"Something's coming from the north," Adon replied, slinging the saddlebags over

his shoulder and hefting his mace. "Midnight didn't say what." The cleric did

not mention the shadow that might or might not have been Cyric, for he had

promised not to kill the thief on sight. Informing Kelemvor of Cyric's presence

would amount to the same thing.

"Where is she?" Kelemvor asked, kneeling.

Adon turned back toward the willow roots. Midnight was nowhere in sight. "She

was here a minute ago," he said.

Kelemvor cursed and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. "We'd better find

her."

At that moment, Midnight had just crawled to within a hundred and fifty feet of

the shadows north of camp. She could see the silhouettes of eight mounted men,

though the mage heard the sounds of other riders behind them. The eight riders

that she could see were moving slowly toward the lean-to, so the magic-user

began looking for a place to hide.

By the time she found it, pressed against the back side of an alder tree,

Kelemvor and Adon had begun their search for her. The fighter had crawled behind

a fallen tree's tangled roots and was looking for signs of her there. Adon was

crouched halfway between the lean-to and the roots.

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

Though she could barely hear Adon's queries, Midnight did not answer. The

horsemen were only a hundred feet away, and she feared they would hear her

reply. She gripped her dagger tightly, praying the riders had entered the wood

by coincidence and intended no harm. But as they came closer, Midnight saw two

dozen red eyes burning out of the darkness and doubted her prayer would be

answered.

The magic-user pressed herself closer against the tree, hoping to fade into the

shadows against its trunk. She rummaged through her cloak pockets, taking an

inventory of

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spell components. This battle, she feared, would not be won without magic.

While Midnight prepared a spell, the riders continued advancing. In the pale

light of the moon, the first sign of life they saw was Adon crouched between the

willow roots and the lean-to. The two point riders charged. Behind them, a

second wave of six horsemen spread out through the wood and trotted forward,

trying to flush Midnight and Kelemvor from their hiding places. The other five

riders remained deep in the forest, still hidden from Midnight's sight.

The two point riders made straight for Adon. They did not see the dark figure

lurking fifty feet beyond the cleric, hidden beneath a broad-leafed bush.

Suddenly, the figure rose to his knees, lifted a short bow, and twanged the

bowstring. The arrow took the first horseman in the throat, knocking him out of

his saddle. The rider landed on his left arm, rolled four times, and came up

holding his sword. With the arrow still protruding from his throat, he rushed

into the forest to search for the archer.

Unaware of his companion's fate, the second point rider continued toward Adon.

The cleric dove for cover beneath a fallen log that was ten feet to the left of

the root mass. The rider hung off his saddle, his shoulder only three feet off

Side 7

Forgotten Realms - Avatar 3 Waterdeep - Richard Awlinson & Troy Denning

the ground, and lifted his sword.

As the horseman rode past, Kelemvor leaped from behind the root tangle. His

blade flashed once, and the rider's head bounced along beneath his mount's

hooves. The warrior immediately slipped back behind the roots, his thoughts

occu- • pied by the arrow that had knocked the first horseman out ] of the

saddle. Kelemvor knew Adon had not fired the arrow, for the cleric had been

right in front of him. The war- j rior also doubted that Midnight had fired

it, for he had * never seen her use a bow and arrow.

The fighter's deliberations were interrupted when the second wave of riders

approached. Five of the horsemen rode past Kelemvor's hiding place without

slowing down, but one stopped ten feet in front of the willow roots.

The overwhelming stench of rotten flesh forced the air

from Kelemvor's lungs. The fighter staggered and nearly dropped his guard. Then

he saw the rider's red eyes and knew that he couldn't let his attacker's odor

put him off guard.

In order to fight through the willow roots, the decaying horseman dismounted,

being careful to keep his mount between him and Kelemvor. Then the rider stepped

around his horse and quickly thrust his sword through the tangle of roots.

Kelemvor sidestepped the blade, then plunged his own sword back through the

tangle. The tip bit into the attacker's spongy flesh, but the rider paid the

wound no attention. It was then that Kelemvor decided he was fighting a corpse.

As the zombie attacked Kelemvor, Adon rolled out from beneath his tree, leaving

ihe saddlebags—and the Tablet of Fate—hidden there. He scrambled to his feet and

rushed toward the fight, hefting his mace. The cleric's first blow caught

Kelemvor's undead assailant in the back of the head. Though the attack caused

the zombie no pain, it knocked the thing off its feet. Kelemvor rushed around

the root tangle, then he and Adon hacked and smashed the body into a dozen

different pieces.

While the lone zombie fell to Kelemvor and Adon, the other five riders of the

second wave were searching the forest for the elusive archer. So far, they had

seen no sign of the woman they were supposed to capture. Incorrectly assuming

she had been the one who had fired the arrows, they were determined to capture

her before she escaped into the forest.

In actuality, Midnight was still standing next to the tree where she had taken

refuge when the battle began. In her hands, she held a pinch of dust and her

water flask. If Adon and Kelemvor had not destroyed their attacker, she would

have used the components to create a magical ice storm. With luck, the resulting

hail would have pounded the riders into bits—provided, of course, the spell had

not misfired disastrously. Fortunately, however, Midnight had not been forced to

risk using magic.

Like Kelemvor, Midnight was curious about the identity of

RICHARD AWLINSON

the archer who had knocked the first zombie out of its saddle. She suspected the

archer was Cyric, but if so, did not understand why the thief had not revealed

his presence before the battle had begun. Perhaps he had overheard the

discussion between her and Adon, and had decided to wait for a safer opportunity

to present himself.

As Midnight contemplated the archer's identity, four more riders thundered past

her tree and went to attack Adon and Kelemvor. Adon had retrieved the saddlebags

from where he had dropped them, and he and the fighter were again searching for

Midnight.

"Midnight?" Kelemvor yelled. "Where in Myrkul's realm are you?"

When Kelemvor and Adon heard the pounding of more hooves, the pair turned toward

the reinforcements. The cleric draped the saddlebags holding the tablet over his

shoulder, then he and Kelemvor slipped behind the fallen tree's root mass. They

intended to force the riders to dismount in order to attack.

Before the riders reached the two men, however, Midnight stepped away from her

tree, in her hands, she still held the components for the magical ice storm.

"Kelemvor, Adon!" she yelled. "Take cover!"

She poured some water onto the dust, then cast the spell. Immediately, her head

began to spin in pain, her limbs went limp with fatigue, and her body started

jerking in convulsions. A hundred silver streaks flashed from her fingertips,

then, twenty feet behind the horsemen, abruptly gathered into a small cloud and

rose into the treetops. An instant later, tiny balls of flame began falling from

it. The cloud drifted toward Kelemvor and Adon, setting fire to everything below

it-Within seconds, a wall of flame separated Midnight from her friends. The

magic-user's spell had misfired.

As the cloud drifted toward them, Adon and Kelemvor slowly rose to their feet.

Side 8

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Forgotten Realms - Avatar 3 Waterdeep - Richard Awlinson & Troy DenningSoubarMidnight's RouteElver suitPrologueThe patrol had been from Marsember, charged with protecting the coastal farms around the tear-shaped grove called Hermit's Wood. The sergeant, Ogden the Hardrider, was one of Cormyr's best,...

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