Shadowdale (27 page)

A storm had been on the horizon when the heroes first spotted the gates of Tilverton, and the threat of bad weather had hung above their heads ever since. Steel-gray skies stood behind ominous black clouds. Tiny flashes of lightning were visible in the distance all morning, and the roar of far-off thunder drifted across the plains.

A few hours later, they reached the town of Tilverton and were promptly stopped by a group of men wearing white tunics with the insignia of the Purple Dragon. The men seemed tired but alert, and they were filthy. Six crossbows had been readied and aimed at the adventurers even before the leader of the Cormyrian patrol asked to see their charter. Kelemvor found the false charter Adon had bought back in Arabel and offered it to the captain. The patrol leader examined the charter, handed it back, and waived them on. They rode past the patrol, and entered the town without incident.

The adventurers rode into Tilverton tired and without humor. The hour of highsun was upon them, and their stomachs growled like beasts searching for release. Cyric was exhausted from the trip, and as the heroes stopped in front of an inn, the thief tried to get down from Midnight’s horse. He got to the ground, but fell back into the red-maned beast with a grunt. His second attempt to walk was only slightly more successful, and he got two steps from the mount, but could go no further.

Midnight dismounted and threw one of the thief’s arms around her neck. The magic-user was taller than the thin, dark-haired man, and she had to crouch slightly as she helped Cyric stumble into the inn. Kelemvor and Adon rode in behind Midnight. The cleric, whose hearing had returned to normal, immediately rushed to help Midnight, but the fighter dismounted and led both horses to the stables behind the gray stone inn.

The sign above the door identified the inn as the Flagon Held High. As Midnight and Adon struggled to reach the door handle, they noticed a young man with pale gray eyes sitting in the shadows beside the door.

“Your assistance if you would,” Midnight said as she tried to get a better grip on the sagging thief.

The young man continued to stare directly ahead, ignoring the magic-user’s request.

Now, a dirty brown rain started to fall on the city. Midnight struggled with the door, and with Adon’s help, the mage dragged Cyric inside. Kicking the door of the inn shut behind her. Midnight helped Cyric to a wooden chair beside the door. At first she thought the inn was deserted, and then she saw a flickering light and heard voices in one of the dining rooms. She called out, but her requests for assistance went unanswered.

“Damn,” she hissed. “Adon, you stay here with Cyric.” Midnight went off in search of the innkeeper.

As she entered the common room, Midnight saw that it was crowded. Men were scattered throughout the room. Some appeared to be soldiers, bearing the coat of arms of the Purple Dragons. A few had been wounded, although their wounds had been bound. Others appeared to be only civilians. All seemed sullen and withdrawn.

“Where is the innkeep and his help?” Midnight asked the closest soldier.

“Off to pray, I suppose,” the man said. “It’s about that time.”

“It’s always about that time,” another men said, nursing his drink.

“I don’t understand,” Midnight said. “No one is here to tend the inn?”

The soldier shrugged. “There may be a guest or two upstairs. I don’t know.” Midnight turned away, but the soldier continued to speak. “You can just take what you need. No one will care.”

Midnight walked away from the common room, shaking her head. She returned to the foyer of the inn, where Adon was standing beside Cyric.

“Where’s Kel?” she said. Adon shrugged and looked back to the door, holding his hands up in confusion.

Midnight cursed again and ran from the inn. She saw Kelemvor’s back at the far end of the street, and she called to him. “Where are you going? You owe me!”

The fighter stopped and lowered his head. What I owe you is to get out of your life, Kelemvor thought. There are too many secrets between us, too many questions that you would not like the answers to.

But he chose not to tell Midnight any of this. Instead, the fighter barked, “The debt will be paid!” then continued on his way.

Midnight stood trembling for a moment, then she returned to the inn and sat beside Cyric.

“Perhaps he needs time,” Adon said, slightly louder than he should have.

“He can have a lifetime,” Midnight said, her harsh expression falling away as the door opened and she rose to her feet. A white-haired man who had seen more than fifty winters stood in the doorway, his expression cold as he looked to the travelers. He walked by them to a small antechamber and vanished, ignoring Midnight’s attempts to get his attention. When he emerged from the room, stinking of some foul liquor, he was surprised that the travelers were still there.

“What do you want?” he asked at last.

“Food, lodgings, perhaps some information —”

The old man waved her away. “You can take the first two. No one will stop you. Information comes at a price.”

Midnight wondered if the man was mad. “We have no coin to pay for our lodgings, but perhaps we can provide protection from those who seek to rob you of your valuable services —”

“Rob me!?” the man said, alarmed. “You misunderstand.” He leaned in close, and the smell of the cheap liquor made Midnight recoil. “You can’t rob what someone no longer cares to keep! Take what you like!”

The man returned to the antechamber. “I no longer care,” he cried from the dark room.

Midnight looked to the others, then leaned against the wall, defeated. “Perhaps we should get our things,” she said at last. “We may be here awhile.”

They brought their gear to the first available room, then Adon took the keys which were hanging behind the counter in the small room where the innkeep lay drunk. The room the heroes took was quite pleasant and came with two beds. Adon settled his things on one bed and went about changing his clothes, indifferent to the magic-user’s presence.

It was still raining outside and the room was dark, so Midnight lit a small lantern beside the bed. Adon checked on Cyric with a cursory examination, then set off to explore the city.

Midnight helped Cyric out of his clothes, laughing as the thief actually blushed. “Have no worry,” Midnight said at one point, “I’m a complete amateur.”

Cyric winced. “You’re doing fine,” he said as he pulled the covers back up to his chest.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Midnight said at last. “I prefer it for my back. You remember to keep covered and warm.”

Cyric frowned. “I’m too old to be mothered. You should worry about yourself, not about me —”

Midnight held out her hand, motioning for him to stop. “We must make you well,” she said softly. “You must be strong for your journey.”

Cyric seemed confused. “What journey?”

“Your search for that better place,” the mage said. “You don’t have to accompany me any farther. The way between Tilverton and Shadowdale should be clear. I can make it there alone.”

Cyric shook his head and tried to sit up. Midnight gently pushed him back on the bed. “There is no need,” he said. “No need to go on alone.”

“But, Cyric, I can’t ask you to come with me. You need to rest, to heal —”

Cyric had already made up his mind. “There must be healing potions in this place. Medications, salves. Everything in town seems to be here for the taking. Find something to heal me, and I’ll be by your side for as long as you need me.”

“I wouldn’t have left until you were well,” she said.

“Your mission is urgent. You can’t afford to wait.”

“I know that,” Midnight said. “But I would have stayed just the same. After all, you’re my friend.”

For the first time in a long time, Cyric smiled.

Kelemvor was alone on the streets. The storm was hanging directly overhead, and the drops of rain, now orange, fell on him as he searched for the smithy. Eventually, he found the blacksmith hard at work in the shelter of his shop, and he ducked inside as the rain started to fall harder.

The smith was a burly man with a build similar to Kelemvor’s. He had curly black hair, and the flesh of his bare arms was bruised in places and seared black in others. The smith did not look up from his work as the fighter approached. The bright metal shoes he created for the nearby horse were almost ready, and he turned to test the pair he had set aside to cool.

“A moment of your time,” Kelemvor said.

The blacksmith ignored the fighter, training his gaze on the job before him. Kelemvor cleared his throat noisily, but that, too, was ignored. However, Kelemvor was cold and tired and in no mood to be insulted.

The fighter peeled off the armor where the brigands’ arrows had struck him. He threw the steel plates at the smith, knocking the red-hot tools from his hands. The man bent low to retrieve the instrument before the hay at his feel could catch fire, and he examined the armor plating. Then he looked up to see the ravaged flesh of the fighter’s arm, where fragments of the brigands’ arrows had lodged themselves.

“I can mend this,” the smith said without emotion. “But I can do nothing for your wounds.”

“Are there no healers in Tilverton?” Kelemvor asked. “I saw a large temple over the roofs of the shops down the street.”

The man turned away. “The Temple of Gond.”

“All right, I saw the Temple of Gond. There must be clerics who could —”

“Remove the rest of your armor so I can get to work,” the smith interrupted. “Then you can go to the temple yourself. I only heal metals.”

Kelemvor gave the smith his armor and put on some clothes he had taken from the party’s supplies. The smith worked silently, ignoring the fighter’s questions no matter if he screamed them or couched them in all the politeness he could muster. When he was done hammering out the damaged armor, the blacksmith refused to take any payment.

“It’s my duty to Gond,” the smith said as Kelemvor wandered back into the street.

Kelemvor found the Temple of Gond without difficulty, despite the rain. Occasionally he passed a commoner wandering the streets or lying on the walk outside a shop, but the people he met were indifferent to his presence, their eyes vacant, staring at something only they could see. He also found the greatest concentration of smith shops he had ever seen in one area, though they were generally deserted.

When Kelemvor finally reached the temple, he saw that it had an entrance constructed in the form of a great anvil. The building itself was made of stark, powerful shapes that rose up to dwarf the hovels and shops around it. There were fires burning within the temple, and an unending chorus of worship sounded from the doorway.

As he entered the Temple of Gond, the fighter was surprised by the vast expanse of the main chamber. If there were quarters for the high priests in the temple, they must surely have been underground, since every square foot of the ground floor had been devoted to the chamber.

In the chamber, worshipers crowded around a hooded high priest who stood atop a huge stone anvil. Giant stone hands were visible at either side of the altar; a gigantic hammer was poised in one of them. Fires had been lit in the four corners surrounding the hooded man.

The support pillars that rose up to the arched ceiling were carved in the form of swords, and the windows were framed with an interlocking series of hammers. It was hard to understand the exact words of the high priest, as the continuous shouting from the audience drowned out all but a few key phrases, but it was clear that the high priest was issuing an endless series of praises to his god and an equal number of condemnations to the commoners of Tilverton.

“The gods walk the Realms!” a man beside Kelemvor shouted. “Why has Lord Gond forsaken us?”

But the man’s words were swallowed up in the endless flow of chants and screams. Kelemvor judged that nearly the entire population of the small town was crowded into the temple, though occasionally, a few worshipers would wander out.

“Wait!” the priest would cry as people tried to leave. “Lord Gond has not abandoned us. He has given me the gift of healing to keep the faithful well until he arrives!” Few seemed to be swayed by this, but some of the people were persuaded to stay.

Listening to the Tilvertonians, Kelemvor learned that they had devoted themselves exclusively to the worship of Gond, God of Blacksmiths and Artificers. When tales of the gods walking the Realms reached the city, the people began to prepare for the arrival of their deity. They stood at readiness, waiting for some sign, some communication.

They waited in vain. Gond had risen in Lantan and did not make any attempt to contact his devoted worshipers in Tilverton. When a small group from the town reached Lantan and requested an audience with the god, they were turned away. When they persisted, two of them were slain and the others forced to flee for their lives. When this story was related to the townsfolk, it broke their spirit. Now they spent almost every waking hour in the temple, attempting to contact their god, attempting to disprove what they already knew in their hearts.

Gond didn’t care about Tilverton.

Kelemvor was about to leave the temple when he noticed the silver-haired man standing to the rear of the chamber. A short, dark-haired girl stood beside him, her attentions riveted on his beautiful, unearthly face. No one else seemed to notice the man, and he turned away from the girl without acknowledging her presence. She turned and ran behind him as he walked to the place where Kelemvor stood and looked into the eyes of the fighter, a slight grin playing over his face. The eyes of the silver-haired man were bluish gray, with tiny red flecks floating through them. His skin was pale, although fine silver hairs were growing on his face and arms.

“Brother,” the man said simply, then walked away.

Kelemvor turned and tried to catch the man or the girl, but when the fighter got to the street, the silver-haired man was nowhere to be seen.

After standing for a moment in the purple and green hail that was now falling on Tilverton, the fighter returned to the temple. As Kelemvor again stood at the rear of the main chamber, a young woman, a priestess, caught his eye. The fires of belief had not dimmed in her eyes: they burned bright enough to set the night sky aflame. She was very beautiful and wore a white gown tied at the waist by a leather belt. Intricate patterns had been woven into the fabric of her gown, and steel plates covered her shoulders. The odd mixture of delicate silks and hard steel somehow lent even more power to her appearance.