Shadowdale (7 page)

It was clear to Cyric that Caitlan wasn’t telling them everything, and for that reason alone the thief maintained his silence and covered his advancing smile with a gloved hand.

“Tell me again why we should risk life and limb simply to help you and this mere girl who promises great riches yet wears nothing but rags?” Adon said to Kelemvor.

Cyric noticed that the cleric seemed anxious — so anxious, in fact, that he flinched every time the doors of the inn admitted a new customer. The cleric had been acting strangely ever since he arrived in answer to Kelemvor’s summons, and he was now in a mood that made him unfit for human company. The effect was disconcerting.

“Expecting someone?” Cyric said to the nervous cleric. Adon simply grimaced.

“Certainly there’s a risk,” Kelemvor said finally. “But what else is life, if not a series of risks? I don’t know if I speak for the two of you, but I cannot bear the thought of spending another day locked within these maddening walls.”

“And my lady is trapped within that unholy place, a prisoner for all time unless you three can rescue her!” Caitlan had become increasingly pale as she spoke, and beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead.

Adon looked away and saw that the serving girl who had smiled at him was drawing closer. She was petite, with flaming red hair that reminded him of Sune herself. She carried a tray filled with drinks and stopped at the table nearby.

Suddenly he remembered their conversation from two nights before, when he met her as a fellow patron at the High Moon Inn. Adon liked the company at that inn, and the girl’s wages were too low for her to think of indulging herself in the fineries of the Pride of Arabel.

“Adon,” she said, taking in his full measure.

He could not remember her name. “My dear.”

A moment later Adon was on the floor, the impact of the serving tray still ringing in his ears. “Fine advice you gave me, you lout! Demand equal pay! Fair treatment as a person and not merely a serving wench to be ogled at and fondled by the rich drunkards in their fancy clothes who pass through these doors!”

Adon attempted to shake some sense into his rattled brain and failed. Yes, the words certainly sounded like his…

“The conversation was not a success?” the cleric said quietly.

The serving girl trembled with rage. “I lost my place in line to become the next fine lady of the inn, wife to the innkeeper. A life of luxury thrown away because of you!”

She threw down the tray and Adon was careful this time to avoid it. The serving girl stormed off and Adon regarded his companions.

“How soon can we leave?” Adon said, then accepted Cyric’s helping hand.

“Well met,” Cyric said, his smile hidden no longer.

“We must take into account more than our haste to take flight and our desire for adventure,” Kelemvor said. “Even though magic is untrustworthy, we should bring a mage along on this journey.”

Cyric frowned. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But who?”

After a moment, Adon said, “What about Lord Aldophus? He is a sage of great repute, and firm friends with King Azoun.”

“‘Curious happenstances abound — and all burning Hell breaks loose,’” Cyric said quietly, repeating the phrase Aldophus coined, a phrase whose meaning had taken on a new, somewhat darker significance than the sage had intended when first he uttered those words.

“Aldophus is a dabbler in the physical sciences.” All heads turned to stare at the dark-haired woman who stood before the adventurers. “I doubt heartily the practice of divining the qualities of base metals and simple dirt will be of much help where the lot of you intend to tread.”

Kelemvor sneered. “I suppose you could do better?”

The woman raised an eyebrow and Kelemvor studied her face. Her eyes were a deep and fathomless black, with flecks of scarlet that danced within. Her skin was deeply tanned, and he guessed she was from the South. Her lips were full and as red as blood, and a cool smile had etched itself upon her intriguing face, which was itself framed by long black hair that had been braided.

She was tall for a woman, slightly taller than Kelemvor, and she wore a cloak that allowed only a glimpse at a beautiful blue-white star pendant she wore beneath. Her clothing was a deep violet in color, and two large books, bound together by a leather strap, had been slung over her shoulder.

This is man’s business, Kelemvor thought, and she’s interfering. He started to tell her that, but cried out as his tankard split apart and a dragon made of bluish white fire with a wingspan the size of a man suddenly leaped into existence with a roar that seized the attention of all the inn’s guests. The dragon opened its jaws and revealed its fangs, which appeared as sharp as daggers. Then the creature reared up and rushed forward with the sole intent, Kelemvor was certain, of snapping off his head, thus ending the bloodline of the Lyonsbanes.

The swiftness and fury of the monster prevented Kelemvor from drawing his sword in time, and the dragon could easily have killed the fighter in an instant. But, suddenly, the creature stopped, let out an unearthly belch, and vanished completely.

Kelemvor’s seat was in pieces on the floor beneath him, and he sat, legs spread, sword before him, heart racing, eyes darting back and forth, when the woman grinned and let out a yawn. Kelemvor looked up sharply.

“Do better?” she said, repeating the fighter’s snide comment. “I suppose I could at that.” Then she pulled up a chair. “I am Midnight of Deepingdale.”

Swords found their sheaths, axes their proper places, bolts were removed from crossbows, and a general calm fell over the inn.

“A mere illusion! We need a magic-user, not an illusionist!” But Kelemvor’s throaty laugh was cut short by the sight of the table where the fire dragon had appeared: the heavy oak had been scorched.

Such control of magic was startling, especially from a woman, Kelemvor thought. Perhaps it was an accident.

Kelemvor used his sword for leverage and rose to his feet. Before the thought to return his sword to its sheath occurred to him, an all too familiar voice rang out.

“Nay! My eyes must deceive me! Surely it is not Kelemvor the Mighty come to grace this poor inn with his magnificent presence!”

Kelemvor rose, sword at the fore, and looked for the laughing face of the mercenary, Thurbrand. And Kelemvor saw that he was not alone. Two square tables had been pushed together to accommodate Thurbrand’s party, which consisted of seven men and three women, none of whom would ever be confused with a regular patron of the Pride of Arabel without a heady amount of imagination. The men had the look of combat veterans, despite their apparent youth. One man, an albino, reached for his dagger. Thurbrand gestured for the albino to remain at ease. A beautiful woman with short, blond hair sat beside Thurbrand, riveted to the mercenary’s every word and gesture. A girl with short, brown hair sat at the other end of the table, keeping to herself, eyeing Kelemvor suspiciously.

Kelemvor stared into the all too familiar emerald eyes of Thurbrand and found them as deceptive and hypnotizing as they always had been to him. Kelemvor grimaced.

“And here I thought the dogs were kept to the kennel,” Kelemvor spat out. “The keeper must surely be chastised!”

Thurbrand shook his head and smiled as he regarded his companions. The look he gave them made it clear they were not to interfere, no matter what might occur. “Kelemvor!” he said, as if uttering the name was a trial in itself. “Surely the gods could not be so cruel!”

Kelemvor glared at the onlookers from the other tables and one by one they averted their unwelcome stares. “You’re getting old,” Kelemvor said, his volume greatly reduced.

Thurbrand was just past thirty summers, scarcely older than Kelemvor himself, and yet the ravishes of age had truly begun to prey upon the fighter. Thurbrand’s hair, golden and fine, had gone to thinning, and was worn unusually long in an effort to cover huge patches of bald scalp. Thurbrand was obviously self-conscious about this, and he constantly patted his hair and cajoled it with fingers to keep it in place over the bald spots.

Lines had formed on Thurbrand’s forehead and around his eyes since Kelemvor had seen him last, and the manner in which he held himself, even when seated, suggested the slouch of a fatted businessman, not the conditioned posture of the finely honed warrior Kelemvor had shared a few wild adventures with in years past, before a disagreement — the subject of which was long forgotten by either man — had caused them to part ways. Still, Thurbrand’s face was red from too much sun, and his arms were as well-defined and powerful as Kelemvor’s.

“Old? Thurbrand of the Stonelands, old? Gaze into your own mirror once in a while, you lumbering wreck. And has no one told you that civilized men do not draw weapons unless they have a use for them?”

“I pity the man who mistakes either of us for civilized,” Kelemvor said, and sheathed his sword.

“Kel.” Thurbrand said. “You’ll shatter the frail bonds of my ruse. I’m a regular guest in this establishment. A respected agent of arms and experienced talent to wield them. Speaking of that, I may have a little job that you —”

“Enough!” Kelemvor said.

Thurbrand shook his head in a mockery of despair. “Ah, well. At least you know where to find me.”

“I wouldn’t know that unless I had eyes in the back of my head,” Kelemvor said, and turned his back on Thurbrand.

Kelemvor found a new chair waiting, and spied a serving boy darting into the kitchen with the pieces of the shattered chair tucked beneath his arms. Midnight sat confidently between Cyric and Adon. Caitlan sat in silence, her gaze riveted to the magic-user’s pendant, which now rested outside Midnight’s cloak. The girl looked as if she might faint. Her skin was while and her hands were trembling.

“We were discussing the proper route, and the proper share of the booty for someone of my expertise,” Midnight said confidently, and Kelemvor felt every hair on his body prickle. “My suggestion is —”

“Get up,” Kelemvor said simply.

“You need me,” Midnight said incredulously as she reluctantly complied.

“Aye,” Kelemvor said. “Just as I need my throat cut in my sleep. Begone!”

Suddenly Caitlan stood up, her mouth moving as if she were about to cry out. She clutched at her throat and fell across the table.

Kelemvor looked down at the girl with panic in his eyes. “My reward,” he whispered. When he looked up, he realized the others were waiting for him to tell them what to do. “Adon!” Kelemvor said harshly. “Don’t just stand there. You’re a cleric. See what ails the child and heal her!”

Adon shook his head and held his hands open at his sides. “I cannot. With the gods in the Realms, our spells do not function unless we’re near them. Surely you know this.”

Kelemvor swore with disgust when he saw that Caitlan was shivering, despite the warmth of the room. “Then get a blanket or something to keep her warm.”

Midnight moved forward. “My cloak,” she said, and reached for the clasp by her throat.

Kelemvor looked up sharply. “You are not a part of this.”

A serving girl appeared with a spare tablecloth. “I overheard,” she said as she helped Kelemvor wrap the girl in the tablecloth, then backed away as the fighter hefted the unconscious girl in his arms.

Kelemvor looked into the faces of his companions. “Go with the magic-user or come with me,” he said simply. Adon and Cyric looked at one another, then at Kelemvor. They didn’t even look at Midnight.

“As you wish,” the magic-user said coldly. Kelemvor and his companions filed past her, and she watched as Adon held open the door for the others, then made his own exit.

Midnight turned, almost colliding with a serving girl whose slight form was capped with an uneasy smile. The girl played nervously with her apron. “Say your peace,” Midnight snapped.

“Your bill, milady.”

Midnight looked over to her original table, where the meal she had ordered had long since became cold. It hardly mattered. She had lost her appetite. Midnight followed the girl to the bar and paid the innkeeper.

“Are there any rooms available?” Midnight said.

The innkeeper handed Midnight her change. “No, milady. We are full up. Perhaps the Scarlet Spear? It is nearby…”

Midnight took the directions from the man and gave him a gold piece for his trouble. Before the man could even put words to his surprise at such an extravagant tip, Midnight was already halfway to the door.

As Midnight passed through the doors of the inn and greeted the biting chill of the thin night air, a dark figure rose up from a purposefully neglected table. There was little, it seemed, a fistful of gold could not purchase in Arabel — the right to sit undisturbed in a poorly lit corner of an inn the very least of what was available. The blackened pits of the stranger’s eyes seemed aflame with images of the adventurers. He grinned from ear to ear, then merged with the shadows and was gone before anyone was aware he had ever arrived.

Caitlan was slung over Kelemvor’s horse as he rode through the night, Cyric and Adon riding close behind. Soon, they arrived at the Hungry Man Inn, and Cyric helped Kelemvor as he lowered the girl to Adon’s waiting arms. The fighter leaped from his mount and ran for the door to the inn without bothering to tether his horse.

“Should we follow?” Adon said.

“Give him a moment,” Cyric said, and soon Kelemvor emerged from the inn, barking orders to take the girl around back.

They were met at the rear entrance by an old woman who carried a lantern and gestured frantically for them to get inside. Kelemvor seemed subdued in the woman’s presence.

“Zehla, this is Cyric, a fellow guardsman, and Adon of Sune,” Kelemvor said.

The old woman shook her head. “Time enough for pleasantries later. Follow me.”

Moments later they stood by Zehla’s side, in a room she had always reserved for emergencies, watching the fever-plagued motions of Caitlan Moonsong. As beads of sweat formed on the girl’s brow, Zehla wiped her forehead with a wet towel.

“She’s ill, possibly dying, Kel,” Zehla said, her wizened features and the lines of her face speaking volumes on her authority on pain and suffering.