Трой Деннинг - Waterdeep

Elminster urgently pointed toward the south.

Midnight and the others turned. The battle had drawn closer. The city was burning as far north as Piergeiron’s Palace. Between Blackstaff’s tower and the palace, a hundred separate battles raged in the sky. The combats were graceful, looping things that seemed to move in slow motion. The dark specks circled each other, trying to climb higher than their opponents one moment, then swooped down to attack in the next. Midnight could tell Waterdeep’s guardsmen from Myrkul’s denizens only by the size of the griffons.

Every now and then, a speck plummeted out of the sky and disappeared into the maelstrom in the streets below. On the ground, the battle had progressed much farther north. Midnight could clearly see companies of black-armored guardsmen and green-armored watchmen lined up to make a stand along Selduth Street, which ran east and west. In front of their lines, approaching along the north-south running avenues, were thousands of the grotesque denizens common to the Fugue Plain in Hades. As the denizen horde moved northward, it drove before it the battered and bloodied remnants of dozens of guard companies that had already thrown themselves against the swarm.

Every now and then, some mage within the defending ranks would loose a fireball or hail storm at the advancing denizens. As often as not, the spell misfired, coating the streets with snow or showering the magic-user’s own ranks with sparks and flame. Even when a spell did work, it seldom affected the denizens. Magic missiles bounced off their chests harmlessly, and lightning bolts simply dissipated into the advancing throng with no effect.

Realizing Waterdeep had little hope of repelling the denizens unless something changed, Midnight motioned for Elminster to stand away so she could speak. Then she performed the incantation to dispel the magic on the old sage. Immediately, a wave of fatigue shot through her body and her vision darkened. Midnight collapsed, trembling, into Kelemvor’s arms, then slipped into unconsciousness.

Kelemvor clutched her close to his body. “Wake up,” he whispered. “Please, wake up.”

Adon knelt and touched his fingers to Midnight’s throat. “Her heartbeat is still strong,” he noted softly.

Kelemvor slipped Midnight into Adon’s arms, then stood and went over to Elminster. “What did you make her do?” he demanded.

“Calm thyself,” Elminster said, relieved to see that Myrkul’s spell no longer plagued him. “Midnight will recover. She did nothing more than exhaust herself.”

The wizard went to the edge of the tower and looked down at the battle. The denizens had driven the remnants of twenty shattered companies into the line along Selduth Street. Waterdeep’s defenders had opened holes in their ranks to allow the routed troops to pass.

“And she did so in a good cause,” Elminster said, pointing at the denizens. “They’re coming for the tablets.”

“Why?” Kelemvor asked. “Myrkul’s gone!”

“Apparently they don’t know that,” Elminster replied, “or they don’t care. In either case, I must stop them.”

“How can one man stop a host of those things?” Kelemvor demanded.

“Ye were a soldier. What’s the best way to demoralize an army?”

Kelemvor shrugged. “Starve it or cut it off from its home. But who—”

“Precisely!” Elminster said. “Cut it off from home.”

He addressed both Kelemvor and Adon. “When Myrkul’s horde begins to retreat, take the tablets to the Celestial Stairway. But don’t move before that or the denizens will come after ye. Do ye understand?”

Adon nodded. “But where is the Celestial Stairway?”

Elminster frowned as though the answer were obvious. “Up there” he said, pointing toward the summit of Mount Waterdeep.

“Two more questions before you go,” Kelemvor said.

“All right, but be quick about it.”

“First, what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Elminster replied. “Go to the Pool of Loss and close it off, I suppose. Since the denizens aren’t from our plane of existence, that should draw their attention away from the battle.”

“But you’ll need hours to get there,” Kelemvor objected. “Even if you can make it back to the Yawning Portal through the battle—”

A condescending smile creased Elminster’s lips. “My boy, have ye forgotten who I am? What’s thy second question?”

Kelemvor frowned, not entirely satisfied with Elminster’s first answer. Still, he knew the sage wouldn’t explain himself further. The fighter asked his second question. “Why didn’t you tell us Adon was alive?”

Elminster actually looked embarrassed. “Yes—well, Blackstaff and I discussed that matter. There’s no time to explain at the moment. Perhaps when I return.”

With that, the sage went to the stairwell, already plotting his strategy. First, he would cross into another plane, where there would be no need to worry about the unpredictability of magic. Then Elminster intended to travel to the other side of the Pool of Loss and reseal it from there. It might be tiring, but the ancient wizard did not think it would be beyond him.

As the sage stepped into the stairwell, Cyric slipped into a room on the tower’s top floor. The thief had been watching and listening to everything that occurred on the roof.

It’s good you didn’t steal the tablets immediately , his sword commented. Even I could not have defended you from an army of denizens .

Cyric did not reply. Instead, he waited for Elminster’s steps to descend well past his door. Then the thief returned to his position at the top of the stairwell, waiting for an opportunity to attack.

A few minutes after the wizard left, Midnight regained consciousness. She immediately noticed Elminster’s absence, and feared she had dispelled the sage with Myrkul’s spell. “Elminster,” she asked weakly. “Where is he?”

“The Pool of Loss,” Kelemvor replied. “He went to seal it.”

“As soon as the denizens start retreating, we’re to take the tablets to the top of Mount Waterdeep,” Adon said.

Kelemvor turned to the cleric. “What makes you think the denizens will retreat?” the fighter asked doubtfully. “Elminster’s one man against an army.”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Midnight replied. “I need to rest anyway.”

They turned to watch the battle. In the air, the superior number of griffon riders appeared to be holding their own against the flying denizens. The battling specks had moved no closer. On the ground, the story was different. The denizens had just reached the line at Selduth Street and were ripping through it with the force of a tidal wave.

Waterdeep’s second rank of defenders charged Myrkul’s denizens while the foul creatures were busy destroying the first rank. Each soldier stayed long enough to slash two or three times, then quickly retreated to form a new line. At the same time, a third rank of pikesmen formed behind the second, prepared to utilize the same hit-and-run tactics.

The strategy took its toll on the denizen army, leaving two hundred of their bloated, leathery bodies in the street. But it took a heavier toll on Waterdeep’s defenders, who lost two men for every denizen. Still, it was the only strategy that worked, so the defenders repeated it over and over, retreating farther north and closer to Blackstaff’s tower.

Finally, the battle reached Keltarn Street, which ran west from the Street of Silver. It crossed the Street of Silks and ended, scarcely five hundred feet from Blackstaff’s tower, at Swords Street. The denizens were advancing up all three north-running avenues: the Street of Silver, the Street of Silks, and Swords Street.

In accordance with the normal strategy, the Company of the Manticore fell back along the Street of Silver, leaving the denizens a clear path down Keltarn Street. To the Manticore commander’s surprise, the denizens turned down Keltarn Street and fell on the flank of 3rd Watch Regiment, who were defending the Street of Silks.