Shadowdale (9 page)

Come first light of morning, Cyric woke the slumbering pair with news that his mission had also proceeded smoothly. Kelemvor immediately dressed and went to check on Caitlan’s condition. He was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting up, attacking the breakfast that Zehla had only just brought.

“Kelemvor!” Caitlan cried when she saw the fighter. “When do we leave?”

Zehla gave Kelemvor a warning glance.

“As soon as you are able. And —”

“Is Midnight with you? I have such questions for her,” Caitlan said. “She’s a wonder, don’t you think? So beautiful and intelligent and talented —”

“She won’t be coming with us,” Kelemvor said, noting the distressing effect his words had on Caitlan. The girl turned pale before his eyes.

“She has to come with us,” Caitlan said.

“There are other magic-users —”

“It’s my quest,” Caitlan said, her true age showing for the first time. “You take Midnight or you don’t go at all!”

Kelemvor rubbed his forehead. “You don’t understand. Zehla, explain to her that a woman is not appropriate for a mission of this type.”

Zehla rose from the bed and crossed her arms. “And a child is?”

Kelemvor realized he had been defeated, and gave in with a sigh. His quest for a magic-user the previous evening had been futile. The few mages who had shown any interest in the adventure were enthusiastic, but quite incompetent. One mage even burned himself out of house and home in an attempt to prove his worth.

“I suppose I could try to find her,” Kelemvor said. “But Arabel is a large city. It may take more time than we have.”

Caitlan looked away. “Then we’ll wait.”

“What about your lady?” Kelemvor said suspiciously, and again his words produced distressing effects.

“We’ll wait just a little while,” Caitlan said softly.

Zehla ushered Kelemvor out of the small room and joined him in the hallway. “I noticed the healing potions were untouched,” Zehla said.

“I’m many things,” Kelemvor said. “But I’m not a thief. Do you have any idea what caused her condition?”

“Exposure, exhaustion… her system was weak, and susceptible to any illness. It seems she’d been wandering the city for quite some time, trying to choose her champion.”

Adon and Cyric had entered the hallway in time to hear this, and immediately joined the discussion.

“That’s flattering,” Adon said brightly. “She must have seen something special in you, Kelemvor.”

“Actually, she’d become desperate. Kelemvor was simply the first likely candidate to speak to her,” Zehla said. “She’s a talkative little thing, once you get her going.”

Kelemvor flinched slightly. What else had the girl mentioned to Zehla? Had she revealed his secret?

“We have work to do,” Kelemvor said, and motioned for Cyric and Adon to follow.

Escaping unnoticed from the city would be a difficult matter. Both Kelemvor and Cyric would be expected on duty shortly after eveningfeast. Cyric may have had stealth enough to make it past anxious guards or over unclimbable walls, but the squarely built fighter with a child, a foppish cleric, and a magic-user in tow surely could not.

“Cyric, go buy clothing and whatever else you think we could use to disguise ourselves. Adon, try to find Midnight. We’re going to… have to settle for her. I’ll be here, finishing the packing and working on a plan,” Kel said as soon as the three adventurers got outside.

An hour later, when Kelemvor emerged from his room, he almost collided with two of Zehla’s men carrying armfuls of food. Outside, he found Cyric and Adon packing the supplies with a surprising lightness of step.

Adon grinned and nodded to the shadows of the stables, from which Midnight appeared, leading a magnificent black horse with a blazing red mane. Kelemvor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the memory of Caitlan’s face and the possible loss of the gold she had promised weighing down his acid tongue.

“Do you gamble, Kel?” Midnight asked, playfully.

“It seems I am about to,” he grumbled.

Midnight held out her hand. In it, she had a huge, braided tangle that resembled the head of a mop. “Courtesy of your friend, Thurbrand,” Midnight said. Kelemvor recognized the strands as human hair; all the human hair, it seemed, that had been left on Thurbrand’s head.

“Is he?…”

“Quite upset, aye.”

Kelemvor smirked, despite himself. “You just mentioned gambling?”

Midnight nodded. “Consider this my stake to enter your game.”

This time Kelemvor did laugh, a hearty laugh that was cut short as he noticed the disguises that peaked out from the packages that sat beside Cyric’s mount. He examined the packages to find wigs, surprisingly lifelike masks, and the tattered dresses of a pair of elderly beggar women.

Caitlan appeared behind them, looking bright and healthy. She greeted Midnight as if the woman had been the answer to her prayers, then looked beyond the party, as if to a sight beyond the walls of Arabel, her expression once again turning serious.

“We must go,” Caitlan said gravely. “There isn’t much time.”

Midnight looked to Kelemvor. “I can help Adon with the supplies, if you’d like.”

Kelemvor nodded, and snatched up the packages that contained their disguises. Cyric followed him into the inn.

“What’s the name of the place we’re going to again?” Midnight asked.

“Castle Kilgrave,” Adon said.

Midnight shrugged and removed her cloak to work more freely. Her blue-white star pendant glared in the sunlight as she placed her cloak on her mount’s back.

In the shadows of the stables, a single shade broke away from the darkness, assumed the form of a raven, then burst from the stables and flew over the heads of the adventurers, flying at speeds no creature of nature could ever attain.

Rains Wild

Bane had not been idle in the two weeks since the time of Arrival, as his worshipers now called the night he was thrown from the heavens. Almost constant activity was needed to avert his attention from his distressingly mortal state, and on the few occasions when he allowed himself to turn his attentions inward and examine the frail mortal shell that necessity had forced him to assume, the Black Lord became lost in the endless intricacies of the machine that gave him movement and voice.

Such gifts and miracles he found within the submicroscopic areas surrounding the cortex! And when he immersed his consciousness in but a single cell of the body’s endless stream of blood and allowed the path of his explorations to be decided by the body itself. Bane felt a rapture that rivaled godhood itself.

It was then he understood the trap and forced himself to pull away. He placed barricades within the brain of the body he was forced to inhabit, and fortified his perceptions in an effort to train them outward, ever outward, and never again succumb to the dangers locked within his mortal frame. Bane was a god; miracles had always been boring and commonplace to him before. But now the miracles of the Planes were locked away from him, and he would have to concentrate on the task before him, so that he might one day soon reclaim the heavens and satisfy his ever-gnawing hunger for miracles and wonder in a manner that befitted a god.

During Bane’s first days in Zhentil Keep, the human rulers of the city fell on their knees in his presence and placed all their assets at Bane’s disposal. Bane was grateful the coup had been bloodless; he would need as much human fodder to grease the wheels of his machinations as he could get his talon-shaped grip on.

Construction of the Black Lord’s new temple had begun, and soon the rubble was cleared away and makeshift walls rose to hide the intricate planning sessions Bane called. Although Lord Chess, sensing his own position as nominal ruler of Zhentil Keep at risk, offered to place himself and his staff at Bane’s disposal, Bane chose to remain near his black throne. Besides, he didn’t care to experience the boredom of the day to day operations of the city, so long as its occupants were loyal and ready to become sacrifices at a moment’s notice.

On his third night in the Realms, Bane began to dream, and in his dreams he saw Mystra, smiling in the face of terror, laughing at Ao as the gods were delivered to their fate. Bane, the giver of nightmares, had finally fallen prey to one himself. He cursed his flesh for sharing this new weakness with him. Still, the nightmare served a purpose, and Bane once again pondered the meaning of Mystra’s enigmatic farewell to the Planes.

So Bane decided he should seek out Mystra and discover why she viewed Ao’s wrath so calmly.

Five days after the time of Arrival, Tempus Blackthorne, a mage of great power and importance, arrived with the news of Mystra’s location in the Realms. Bane set a seal upon the doors leading to his private chamber and teleported Blackthorne and himself to Castle Kilgrave. They found Mystra outside the castle, weakened and helpless from some trauma or attack. Perhaps she had attempted a spell that had gone awry. Bane thought, and laughed at the irony.

As the Black Lord stood over her, Mystra suddenly became aware of his presence and released a single shred of her power — a modified geas spell meant for her intended avatar. The spell took the form of a bluish white falcon, soared into the night sky, and escaped. Bane ordered Blackthorne to follow the magical creature. The emissary transformed into a great black raven that took flight after the falcon, only to lose sight of it in Arabel.

When he imprisoned the goddess in the dungeon of Castle Kilgrave with mystic chains born of enchanted fires, Bane felt a wave of power rush across the room. The barren rock dungeon shook as Mystra came to her senses and tested the strength of her bonds.

And then Bane summoned a horror to keep Mystra weak and tractable.

Come, monster, I call you into this plane, as my minions have so many times before.

Bane heard a growl, deep in the back of his mind as the creature replied, I come.

It first appeared as a swirling red mist, spiraling like a cyclone as it rose up and sprouted hundreds of quivering, misshapen hands that cleaved the air before the goddess hungrily. An equal number of pale yellow eyes suddenly opened, and they floated all around the swirling mist, passing like ghosts through their fellows as they darted back and forth, each eye anxious to study its prey from every angle. Finally, a score of wounds tore through the mists, revealing gaping mouths that reached back into an endless succession of dark dimensions. The mouths opened and closed rapidly as a cry that could only be considered one of hunger was loosed from them.

Mystra recognized the creature: it was a hakeashar, a being from another plane with a voracious appetite for magic. Bane had no doubt made a pact with the monster. In return for aid in crossing into the Prime Material Plane, the monster would give the Black Lord something he valued - power. For the hakeashar had the ability to release some of the magic it consumed, and Bane would want that raw energy to power his plans.

Mystra considered her options. If Bane had been foolish enough to enter into a pact with the creature, known for its treacherous nature, there might be a way she could use it to her advantage.

“We have much to discuss,” Bane said, the hakeashar hovering behind him.

“Why have you imprisoned me?” Mystra said.

“I will be happy to release you from these shackles once you have heard me out… And you agree to help me complete my plan.”

“Go on.”

“I wish to form an alliance of the gods,” Bane said. “Swear your allegiance to me and my cause, Goddess, and I will set you free.”

Despite the presence of the hakeashar, Mystra could not hold back her laughter. “You’re mad.” she said.

“No,” Bane said. “Merely practical.” He turned to the creature. “She’s yours,” Bane said calmly “But remember our agreement.”

Of course.

A hundred eyes turned from Bane and this time Mystra could not hold back her screams.

When it was over, the grotesque creature giggled and fed his own glowing eyes into its gaping maws, ready to sleep now that it had feasted. Mystra was surprised to find herself alive. The pain, even in her nebulous form, had been horrifying.

Bane screamed curses at the creature until it opened a few eyes and let loose a burst of bluish white fire that enshrouded the villain. After a moment, Bane literally pulsed with stolen power.

“Enough!” Bane cried, and the blue-white fires ceased.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Mystra said as she struggled sluggishly with her bonds. “You stole the Tablets of Fate. I suspected you from the beginning.”

“I took them,” Bane said, and the creature he had brought to this plane slumped in place, swallowed the last of its eyes and fell into a deep, silent slumber. “Along with Lord Myrkul.”

“Ao will make you pay for this,” she said, and Bane felt a trace of the magic that had been siphoned from her curl within him, waiting to be unleashed.

“Ao will have no power over me,” the Black Lord said, his laughter filling the chamber.

Since that night, Bane had let the hakeashar take Mystra’s power, which seemed to replenish itself like the blood cells of a human, more than a dozen times. Each time, Bane received a fraction of that energy, according to the terms of his bargain with the creature.

Each time he was given more power, Bane prowled the corridors of New Acheron, the former Castle Kilgrave, longing for his true temple, and wishing for someone to share his triumphs with. Blackthorne was away almost constantly, either supervising matters in Zhentil Keep or searching for some sign of the magic Mystra had loosed before her capture. The handful of humans Blackthorne had conscripted to look after Bane’s human needs were pitiful examples of the species, and Bane had no interest in any of them.

Today, Lord Bane stood in the massive dungeon beneath Castle Kilgrave, staring at the still water of the scrying pool he had constructed, speaking to Lord Myrkul. Much of the room — much of the castle, in fact — had been modified to suit Bane’s needs, and Castle Kilgrave had undergone many changes since the god took it over as a base. The Black Lord had attempted to magically sculpt certain chambers and hallways into replicas of his Temple of Suffering in Acheron, although his efforts had met with failure much of the time. The instability of magic made it impossible, even for a god, to throw every spell accurately, and when using magic, Bane felt like an artist attempting to paint without benefit of hands. The shape of the castle was almost amusing to Bane except for its existence as a monument to his loss, and in that regard it gave no pleasure to the displaced god.