Трой Деннинг: Waterdeep

As the magic-user remembered the unpleasant journey, the moon appeared again and pale light bathed the forest. 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 Shadowdale.”

“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 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 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 instinctively thrust Adon aside, knocking the cleric onto his back. A moment later, the fighter realized that it had been Adon’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 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 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 occupied 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 warrior also doubted that Midnight had fired it, for he had never seen her use a bow and arrow.