Waterdeep (17 page)

Dalzhel watched the halfling carefully, ready to charge.

“What are you doing?” Midnight asked.

“I’ll hold him hostage while you three climb down the rope,” Sneakabout replied. “You’ll be long gone before his men ride back around the cliff.”

“What about you?” Adon asked.

The halfling shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

In reality, Sneakabout already had a plan in mind. He intended to kill Cyric then recover his stolen properly. With luck, he could slide down the rope a short distance, then climb onto the cliff before the rope was cut. The plan was risky, but it was the only way to both save his friends and get the sword back.

Cyric frowned at the halfling’s resourcefulness. “I know when I’m defeated,” the thief lied, hoping to stall and looking at Midnight. “If you let me go, I’ll take my men and never bother you again.”

“He’s lying!” Sneakabout yelped, finishing his knot.

“No doubt,” Adon said, “but at least we’ll live through the night.”

“I still want to kill him,” Kelemvor said, pressing the tip of his sword against Cyric’s throat. “Can’t you stop his men with a spell, Midnight?”

“No!” the raven-haired mage exclaimed. “I won’t even try.”

Kelemvor sighed in frustration. Still holding his sword to the thief’s throat, he said, “Then you live, Cyric… for now. Stand up.”

Cyric carefully stood, acutely aware that Kelemvor could kill him with a mere twitch.

“Your command, milord?” Dalzhel asked.

“Tell him to go down the trail to the bottom of the cliff,” Kelemvor ordered, never taking his eyes off the thief.

Cyric hesitated before obeying. “How do I know you’ll release me?”

“My promise is better than yours,” Kelemvor spat. “You know that. After they’re gone, you can climb down the rope. Now tell them.”

Cyric hesitated for a long moment. He had no doubt the warrior would do as promised. But, after coming so close to capturing Midnight and the tablet, the thief could not bear to let them escape.

Kelemvor pushed gently against his sword and the tip drew blood. “I don’t know how much longer I can resist the temptation,” the fighter warned. “Send them away!”

Cyric had no choice and he knew it. Kelemvor could kill him in an instant. “Do as he says, Dalzhel,” the thief ordered.

Dalzhel nodded and sheathed his sword. But before leaving, he addressed Kelemvor. “If you do not release him unharmed, we will be back.”

The burly lieutenant turned and led the others away.

A few minutes later, Adon walked to the edge of the forest and peered into the darkness. “I think they’re gone.”

“Good,” Sneakabout said. “Kill him now.”

Kelemvor shook his head. “I won’t betray my word,” he rumbled. Then, never taking his sword from Cyric’s throat, the warrior steered his prisoner to the rope. “If I ever see-“

“You won’t have the chance,” Cyric yelled.

Without sheathing his short sword, the thief ran the rope around his thigh and over his shoulder. Then he began picking his way down the face of the cliff, using his free hand to feed the rope through the makeshift rappelling harness. Cyric’s sword arm remained free to hold his weapon.

“Don’t make me regret saving you,” Midnight called.

The thief simply grunted and continued down the cliff.

As he watched Cyric go, a groan of disappointment escaped Sneakabout’s lips. Overwhelming despair overcame him, and the halfling knew that he could not let his sword go. Drawing his dagger, Sneakabout grabbed the rope and wrapped his legs around it, then disappeared down the cliff after Cyric.

The halfling’s action surprised everyone and it was a moment before they reacted. By the time they peered over the cliff’s edge, Sneakabout was no more than a dark form moving down the rope.

When Cyric felt the rope jerk, his first thought was that Kelemvor had cut it. But when the thief didn’t fall, he knew that something else was happening. Cyric looked up and saw the halfling sliding down the rope.

“I want my sword!” Sneakabout screamed.

“Come and get it,” Cyric called. He stopped descending and braced himself.

A moment later, the halfling reached him and lunged. Cyric easily blocked the attack and sent the halfling’s dagger flying into the night. The lack of a weapon did not deter Sneakabout. He slid farther down, landing atop Cyric’s shoulders. Holding the rope with one hand, the halfling clawed at Cyric’s sword arm with the other.

Cyric wrenched his arm free then laid the edge of his blade against the halfling’s neck. “You’re mad!” he hissed.

Sneakabout resisted a powerful urge to grab the weapon. At the moment, the halfling was completely at Cyric’s mercy and knew it. “Give me my sword.” he begged.

As the thief began to comprehend the reason for Sneakabout’s mad attack, a cruel smile creased his lips. “As long as I have this, you’ll never stop hounding me, will you?”

The halfling started to lie, but realized there was no point in it. Even if Cyric was foolish enough to believe him, Sneakabout would only have to hunt the thief down again. “You shouldn’t have taken it,” the halfling said, making a feeble grab for his sword.

“Oh, yes, I should have,” Cyric answered. He pulled the blade across Sneakabout’s throat.

On top of the cliff, the three companions did not hear Sneakabout’s gurgle. They simply saw a small form plummet soundlessly into the darkness at the bottom of the cliff.

For several moments, Midnight, Adon, and Kelemvor remained in motionless shock, unable to believe the halfling was gone. Then, as Cyric resumed his descent, Midnight tried to call Sneakabout’s name. A strangled gasp was all that escaped her lips.

Not so for Kelemvor. “Cyric!” he roared.

The thief looked up and saw the fighter raising his sword to cut the rope. Fortunately, he had been prepared for something like this. As Kelemvor brought his blade down, Cyric grabbed hold of the cliff’s face.

Adon saw the rope fall, but Cyric’s silhouette simply disappeared against the cliff’s face. “We’d better leave immediately,” the scarred cleric murmured. “Cyric’s still alive… and I don’t think he intends to keep his word.”

The afternoon had come and gone and still the task remained uncompleted. Outside High Horn’s inner gatehouse, a dozen Cormyrian soldiers were struggling with pulleys and ropes to raise Bhaal and his amber prison off the ground. Earlier that day, the masons had mortared support posts into the wall, high over the gate. The soldiers were attempting to hoist Bhaal onto those support posts and fasten him there as a trophy.

In the fading light of dusk, Lord Commander Kae Deverell paced back and forth outside the gatehouse, a parchment scroll crushed in his fist. The crest of the Purple Dragon, King Azoun’s royal seal, still clung to the scroll’s edge where the lord commander had broken the wax. Deverell slapped the parchment against his leg, as if venting his frustration would speed the work.

The message from Suzail had come at noon: Lord High Marshal Duke Bhereu riding to High Horn to investigate drunkenness and sagging morale. Especially in this time of crisis, such behavior must be avoided. Take his recommendations as my wishes. Hope this message finds the weather fair. His Majesty, King Azoun IV.

“Drunkenness and sagging morale!” Deverell hissed to himself. “We’ll see about that.”

The lord commander had a plan to convince Duke Bhereu the king was misinformed. That was why his soldiers were hanging the Lord of Murder over the gatehouse. When Bhereu entered High Horn, the high marshal would have to look Bhaal right in the eye. The duke would have no choice except to inquire about the trophy. When Deverell explained what it was, Bhereu would be forced to report that matters were well in hand at High Horn. After all, drunks and cowards did not capture gods.

The breeze came up, bringing with it a chill rain. Deverell looked into the wind and saw a bank of swarthy clouds coming toward the fortress. The watch would have a cold night.

The lord commander turned to Pell Beresford, captain of the night watch. “I’m expected at dinner. See that the amber is raised and secured.”

Pulling his hood over his head. Pell looked toward the storm. “If I may, sir, it might be wiser to leave the thing down until morning. The wind could give it a battering.”

Deverell also looked toward the storm, but he shook his head. “I want it in place when the sun rises. You’ll just have to be sure it’s well secured.”

The lord commander left without further comment. He did not notice his subordinate’s eyes burning with resentment, nor Bhaal’s hand, the only part of the avatar that protruded from the amber, closing into a fist.

“As you wish, sir,” the watch captain hissed.

Pell had to admit his anxiety was not for the amber alone. As far as he was concerned, the blob was no prize to be displayed. The creature inside, along with Deverell’s drunkenness, had cost the lives of many good men.

If the incident had been isolated, Beresford would not have found it so disturbing. But, often as not, the captain stayed on duty long past dawn because the lord commander had kept the day officers carousing into the morning hours. Pell had yet to see Deverell lucid, or even sober, at morning repast. Having his post offered to a halfling - of all things - had been the last straw.

So the captain had dispatched a rider to Suzail and lodged a formal complaint. He had not expected the king to send the lord high marshal to investigate, but Pell knew his grievance had not been the first against Deverell. Whatever the reason, though, Duke Bhereu was due tomorrow - and if that grotesque amber was not hanging above the inner gate as “proof” of Kae Deverell’s competence, Pell would be just as happy.

Nevertheless, Deverell had issued a direct order, and Beresford was too good an officer to disobey. As though it had been his own idea, Pell set about hanging the amber. Without Deverell’s presence to make the men nervous, the captain completed the task within the hour.

Beresford spent the rest of the night huddled deep within his cloak, methodically making the rounds, keeping the men alert and at their posts. The captain passed beneath Bhaal a dozen times, pausing each time to inspect the trophy’s moorings and make sure it remained secure in the heavy wind. Pell even posted two men beneath the amber blob, just in case the wind tore it loose.

In the dark, however, Beresford and his guards failed to notice that the Lord of Murder was using his free hand to fray the rope that held him in place. By the time the night wind blew itself out and false dawn’s gray light appeared behind the eastern peaks, only a strand held Bhaal’s prison in place.

Pell stood along the western wall, enjoying his favorite hour of the watch. The night air would grow no more biting, and the castle was as still and as quiet as a snow bank, only the crisp coughs and whispers of the men echoing from the cold stones. It was a peaceful time, a time when a man could turn his thoughts to breakfast and a warm bed.

But a loud crash told the watch captain that he would not enjoy that luxury this morning. Beresford turned to his page and said, “Rouse Lord Deverell and tell him his trophy has fallen.” Pell started toward Bhaal’s prison immediately. He needed no report to know what had happened.

What the captain found at the gate was far worse than he had expected. In the middle of the entrance, the amber lay broken and empty. The two sentries posted beneath it were dead, the cobblestones red and slick. Two more men kneeled in the blood, picking up pieces of the amber like children who had overturned their mother’s favorite vase.

“Where’s Bhaal?” Pell demanded, kicking at the amber fragments. The sentries stood. “Not here, sir,” said one.

“I see that,” the captain answered, waving his hand at Bhaal’s shattered prison.

“He was gone when we arrived,” explained the second sentry, still holding a handful of fragments.

Pell’s heart sank. He could not understand how the avatar had survived his imprisonment, but now was not the time to ponder the question. “Sound the alarm. Wake and arm every man-“

Beresford’s page came running out of the gate. “Bhaal, sir! He’s in Lord Deverell’s chamber!”

Without another word, Pell and the sentries ran for the keep, charging up the central staircase in less than a minute. When they reached the top floor, the captain shoved open the lord commander’s door and rushed into the apartment, his sword drawn.

A dozen guards stood in a circle, their halberds lowered and pointed at a motionless form. Beresford pushed into the circle. A gaunt, lifeless body lay on the floor. The tattoos on the corpse’s head left no doubt that this had been the man trapped in the amber. But the fire had left his eyes, and he no longer looked even remotely menacing. Pell had no doubt his soul had long since departed.

“Who killed him?” the captain demanded.

“Nobody,” answered the page. “That’s how I found him.”

Pell looked up. “Where’s Lord Deverell?”

The page’s eyes roamed the chamber as if searching it. Finally, he answered. “Gone, milord.”

Kelemvor took another step, stumbled, and sent a rock bounding down the mountainside. The warrior took a deep breath, jerked his pony along by its reins then stepped forward again. His skull throbbed with a terrible headache.

Hoping to keep his thoughts focused on something besides the pain in his head, Kelemvor thought back over the last few days. After Sneakabout’s death, he, Midnight, and Adon had continued up Yellow Snake Pass. Two days later, the companions had encountered a huge curtain of black nothingness. The curtain was not physical. Rather, it was simply a boundary beyond which they could not see.

Unfortunately, the barrier had stretched clear across the canyon, precluding any hope of slipping around it. The trio had debated the curtain’s nature for several minutes, finally concluding it was either the residue of a misfired spell or one of the chaotic phenomena plaguing the Realms. Whatever the curtain’s origin, no one had been anxious to step inside it. Adon had picked up a stick and pushed it into the blackness. When he withdrew it, the part that had been inside the curtain had vanished.