Трой Деннинг - Waterdeep

Within seconds, the 3rd Watch Regiment perished. The denizens from both the Streets of Silver and Silks started down Keltarn Street toward the Company of the Chimera, the last group of defenders on Swords Street.

“That’s it,” Kelemvor said. “We’d better run before they break through.”

“But Elminster—,” Adon objected, waving his mace like an accusing finger.

“Did not succeed,” Midnight interrupted. “And I doubt I’ve the strength for even one more spell.”

Kelemvor reached down to help the raven-haired mage stand, and Adon cast a last glance over the battle. “Wait—they just might hold,” he said.

All three companions turned just as the denizens reached Swords Street. The Company of the Manticore was charging down Keltarn Street behind the denizens. At the same time, the 5th Watch Regiment, which had been held in reserve, was rushing to reinforce Swords Street.

Kelemvor did not think even these developments would stop the denizens. “We can’t take that chance,” he said.

Cyric decided to make his move while the three companions were still trapped on Blackstaff’s tower. He drew his short sword and slipped onto the roof as quietly as he could, moving toward Kelemvor’s back.

Midnight saw Cyric first. “Kel!” she screamed.

“What?” the warrior asked, bewildered.

Cyric rushed forward, taking advantage of the fighter’s confusion. He wanted to finish the warrior quickly. The others he would take his time with. But as long as Kelemvor remained alive, he was dangerous.

“It’s Cyric!” Midnight yelled.

Kelemvor spun to face his attacker. Cyric’s blade flashed past the warrior’s chest, missing its target by a hair’s breadth. The fighter yelled in astonishment. Realizing he still had the advantage, the thief stepped forward and slipped an ankle behind the stocky warrior’s knee. Kelemvor tried to retreat and Cyric tripped him.

As the warrior fell, Adon slipped to Cyric’s right, the saddlebags over his shoulder and his mace in his hand. Midnight stepped to Cyric’s left.

The thief raised his sword to finish Kelemvor.

“Stop!” Adon screamed, stepping within striking range of Cyric’s head.

To the thief’s right, Midnight also stepped forward. She did not feel very threatening. Her arms quivered with fear for her lover’s life, and the mage was so exhausted it might prove impossible to lift her hands for an incantation.

“Don’t be foolish,” Cyric snarled. “Drop your weapons or I’ll slit Kel’s throat.”

“You’ll do it anyway,” Adon replied. “At least you’ll die, too.”

The cleric raised the mace over his head, but Midnight shook her head. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” Cyric replied. “The Tablets of Fate.”

“So you can become a god,” Midnight mocked. “Ao will never make a god of a thief and a murderer.”

Cyric burst out laughing. “Why not?” he asked. “This is the same overlord who created Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul!”

Midnight frowned. It had never occurred to her that Ao might be an evil god or one who did not care about good or evil. However, that didn’t matter at the moment. She stepped back, summoning a magic missile incantation.

“He dies!” Cyric screamed, recognizing the look of concentration in Midnight’s eyes. “The tablets, now!”

Midnight looked at Adon. “Let him have them,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides.

“No!” Kelemvor exclaimed. “He’ll kill me anyway.”

The fighter started to rise, and Midnight knew Cyric would strike. Midnight’s only hope of saving her lover lay with her magic. She quickly performed an incantation, pointing her fingers at the thief.

Twenty golden bolts flashed from her fingers—then missed their target and arced away into Waterdeep. An instant later, the ground rumbled. Twenty different buildings shot into the heavens, leaving long plumes of golden flame in their wakes.

Midnight’s knees buckled and her head began to swim. She stumbled backward two steps, but did not allow herself to fall. Her magic had failed her.

The misfired incantation astonished the men, but only for an instant. “Bad luck,” Cyric sneered. He turned his attention back to Kelemvor, who was rising to his knees.

Adon stepped forward, swinging his mace. Cyric’s anger changed to fear. Kelemvor had forced him into a mistake. The thief swung his right leg up and thrust his heel into Adon’s ribs, using the bloodstained hole in the cleric’s shirt as a target. His foot connected with a satisfying thump.

The cleric bellowed in agony and dropped his mace and the tablets, then doubled over and collapsed. His lungs burned with each breath, and he felt as though another arrow had pierced his ribs.

Kelemvor lunged, hoping to topple Cyric before the thief regained his balance from kicking Adon. But Cyric anticipated the attack and sidestepped the lunge easily. As the fighter flew past, the thief stepped around behind him.

Cyric could not help smiling. From his position, and with both Adon and Midnight all but helpless, he could easily wound the warrior, yet spare his life. Instead, the thief thrust his sword into Kelemvor’s back, putting all his weight behind it, burying the blade as deep as possible.

As Cyric plunged his weapon into the fighter’s back, Midnight saw that the wound did not bleed, and that the sword was drinking her lover’s blood. A sick, guilty anger came over her. Screaming in rage and anguish, the mage pulled her dagger and found the strength to charge.

The fighter felt his life draining away. “Ariel,” he whispered through the pain. As his vision blurred, Kelemvor Lyonsbane wondered if, perhaps, he’d done enough good in the short time he was without his curse to be remembered as a hero. Then he died.

At the same time, Adon tried to stand. However, his body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. When he pressed against the roof, his arms simply quivered and jets of agony shot through his torso.

Cyric calmly pulled his sword out of Kelemvor’s back and turned to meet Midnight’s attack. He blocked the magic-user’s wild stab, knocking the dagger from her hand and sending it off the tower. Turning his parry into an attack, the thief dropped his blade beneath the mage’s arm and lunged.

But Midnight was quicker than Cyric expected. She sidestepped his attack, then raked her fingernails across his face. The mage had forgotten about the denizens, the tablets, and even her own life. At the moment, all she wanted was to make Cyric pay for killing Kelemvor.

The hawk-nosed man screamed, then knocked Midnight down with a powerful kick. She landed flat on her back six feet away. The thief’s face stung, and he could feel blood dripping down his cheek. “You hurt me!” he snarled, more astonished than angry.

“I’ll kill you,” she said, standing up. Her words were calm and even.

“I don’t think so.” Moving so quickly and so smoothly that Midnight did not see the blow coming, the thief rushed forward and drove his sword into her abdomen.

Midnight felt a sharp pain, as if Cyric had kicked her again, and her breath left her lungs. She looked down and saw the sword hilt protruding from a gash in her robe, the thief’s hand still wrapped around it. Her intestines began to burn, then the sword began sucking her life away. Too shocked to resist, the magic-user clutched at the hilt and tried to pull it out.

Cyric pushed, keeping the blade imbedded in the wound. “Just a few seconds longer,” he said, “and you’ll be with Kelemvor.”

Midnight began to feel detached from her body, as though she and it were separated by miles.

“I won’t die,” she hissed.

“Won’t you?” Cyric asked, twisting the blade.