Blackthorne's body tensed. The taloned grip upon the emissary's shoulder tightened as Bane registered the change in Blackthorne's stance.
"You have a problem with this order, emissary?" the God of Strife growled.
"Waterdeep is halfway across the Realms, Lord Bane. By the time I return, your campaign against the Dales will be a part of history."
The Black Lord's smile vanished. "Aye, if you travel as a normal man would travel," Bane said. "But with the spell I've given you, you will be in Waterdeep within a few days."
Blackthorne lowered his eyes, and the Black Lord removed his hand from his shoulder. "What if the goddess does not wish to accompany me on the journey back to Zhentil Keep?"
Bane turned his back on the emissary and folding his arms. "I will trust you to convince her otherwise. That is all."
"But — "
"That is all!" Bane screamed as he whirled on his emissary, his dark eyes flashing.
Blackthorne took a step back.
The eyes of the Black Lord blazed as the seething anger Bane felt intensified. "You disappoint me," Bane said, although his tone suggested disgust rather than anger. "Do as I say and win back my favor."
Bowing before his lord, Blackthorne murmured the first prayer he had ever learned — a prayer to Bane. Then the mage stood up and raised his arms as he began to chant the emissary spell. He visualized his destination, remembering a visit he had paid to Waterdeep in his youth. A moment later, Blackthorne's body began to shimmer and change as he tried to assume his raven form. But something was wrong. His flesh was being pulled in every direction as it turned charcoal-black. The emissary's clothing shredded and fell to the floor.
Blackthorne screamed and held out one partially transformed arm to his god. "Help me," was all the mage had time to say before he imploded in a shower of black sparks. Where Blackthorne had stood only a moment before, a small black gem dropped to the floor next to his breastplate and shattered.
Bane watched in complete shock. "The spell," he said absently as he stumbled back into the shadows near the entrance to his private chamber.
The guards who rushed into the room didn't see their god as he stood in the shadows. They looked down at the lettered remains of Tempus Blackthorne and shook their heads.
"I suppose that had to happen sooner or later," one of the guards said.
"Aye," the other guard said. "Any idiot knows that magic is unstable."
Bane rushed forward and killed both guards before they even knew he was there. Then Bane turned and stripped off his bloodied armor. A moment later, he was sitting upon his throne, staring at Blackthorne's ruined breastplate on the floor.
I will not grieve, the god decided coolly. Blackthorne was merely a human. A pawn. His loss is regrettable, but he can be replaced.
Then Bane thought of his endless talks with Blackthorne. He remembered the strange emotions that coursed through him when he had realized that Blackthorne had saved him, and aided in his recovery.
The Black Lord looked at his hands and noticed he was trembling. Then the God of Strife screamed a cry of grief, loud and long. All over Bane's Dark Temple, people covered their ears and shivered at the sound of the Black Lord's pain.
When his scream ended, the God of Strife looked down through tear-clouded eyes and saw a figure standing before his throne.
"Blackthorne?" Bane said, his voice harsh and rasping.
"No, Lord Bane."
Bane wiped his eyes and looked down at the red-haired man who stood before him. "Fzoul," he said. "All is well."
"Milord, there are dead men surrounding you in the temple — "
Bane raised his taloned hand.
The red-haired man hung his head. "Yes, milord." Then Fzoul picked up his god's scattered armor and helped Bane to his feet.
"All is in readiness," Fzoul said as the Black Lord finally put on his bloody armor again. "When shall we begin to prepare for the battle?"
A fire crackled in the eyes of the Black Lord and Fzoul stepped back from the angry god. Then Bane's lips curled back in a frightful grimace. There was fire behind the God of Strife's pointed teeth, too, as his eyes narrowed and he said, "Now."
XIII
The time for eveningfeast had passed, but the travelers walked on, determined to reach Shadowdale before the night was through. The spell that had spirited them from certain death in Spiderhaunt Woods had deposited the adventurers almost two days' journey ahead on their route.
Midnight, Kelemvor, and Thurbrand walked together, as did Cyric and the other surviving members of the Company of Dawn, Isaac and Vogt. Adon walked alone, thinking of everything he had lost.
"They died bravely," Kelemvor said to Thurbrand at one point.
"That is little comfort," Thurbrand said, memories of the last quest he had shared with Kelemvor edging into his thoughts. It had been many years ago, but the results had been much the same: Thurbrand and Kelemvor had lived. Everyone else had died.
Cyric had a confused, haggard look as he walked through the dale. It was as if he'd been forced to confront some great truth, and the knowledge had left him weak and trembling. When he spoke, it was in a soft, almost quavering voice.
Adon, on the other hand, didn't speak at all. There was nothing for him to do as he walked, nothing to fill his head but his own unwelcome thoughts. And as he walked on through the night, the cleric's relentless fears drove him down into a white-faced, trembling shadow of the man he'd once been.
But not all of the adventurers were grim-faced and mournful as they walked toward Shadowdale. Midnight and Kelemvor behaved as if the worst was behind them.
They laughed and exchanged taunts as they had earlier in their journey. Every time they smiled or laughed, though, one of their companions would frown at them, as if they were interrupting a funeral with their mirth.
Eventually, however, most of the heroes relaxed as they trekked through the countryside south of Shadowdale. The green, flowing hills and rich, soft earth of the dale's outlying districts were wondrous to behold. Even the air was sweet, and the harsh winds that had plagued the heroes ever since they entered the Stonelands became light breezes that caressed the travelers, enticing them to walk ever faster in their pursuit of sanctuary.
It was very late when they reached the bridge that spanned the Ashaba and led into Shadowdale. The tiny, sparkling lights they had seen in the distance now revealed themselves to be glowing fires set at the far end of the bridge. Guards armed with crossbows and wearing bright silver armor walked back and forth on the bridge and warmed their hands by the fires from time to time.
Kelemvor and Midnight walked beside Thurbrand as the party approached the bridge. As they got close to the river, however, something moved in the bushes. The heroes turned and reached for their weapons, but stood still when they saw six carefully aimed crossbows sticking from the bushes on both sides of the bridge. The steel-tipped arrows gleamed in the moonlight.
Thurbrand frowned. "I believe this is where we hold and state our business." He turned to the men who crawled out of the bushes. "Isn't that so?"
"A fair beginning," one of them said.
"I am Thurbrand of Arabel, leader of the Company of Dawn. We have come to gain audience with Mourngrym on matters most pressing."
The guards shifted nervously and whispered to each other. "What matters?" a guard said after a moment.
Midnight's face got red, and she moved closer to the guard. "On matters pertaining to the safety of the Realms!" she cried. "Is that not urgent enough?"
"All well and good to say, but are you able to prove it?" The guard moved toward Thurbrand and held out his hand.