"Ye will be rewarded," Elminster said coldly.
A cold hand clutched Cyric's heart as the silence in the small room grew to epic proportions. Midnight looked up at him. There was something in her eyes. Cyric thought of Tilverton, of how close they had become on their journey.
"I will fight," he said. Midnight looked away. "I have nothing better to do anyway."
Elminster glared at Cyric, then turned away. "All of ye have faced the gods and survived. Ye have seen their weaknesses first hand, as well as their strengths. That will be important in this battle. Those who fight must know that the enemy can be conquered, that even the gods may die."
Adon flinched.
Elminster spoke softly now. "Ye see, there are forces greater than man or god, just as there are worlds within, and worlds without…"
It was just after highsun that Hawksguard, Kelemvor, and Cyric left Elminster. Adon wanted to go with them, but even Kelemvor agreed that the cleric was in no condition for combat. Cyric had been amused by Adon's desire to spill blood, but he kept his amusement to himself. He knew that the cleric could not be trusted in a battle such as the one they faced; Adon seemed to care less and less for his own survival, and he would be the last man any soldier would want guarding his back.
Halfway to the Twisted Tower, Cyric started to question his own reasons for aiding the defense of the town. There was nothing for him here, except perhaps a quick death. If that were all he desired, there were easier ways to find it. A stroll down the streets of Zhentil Keep in the middle of the night was sure to reward him with such a fate. Or perhaps he wished to test his mettle against the god who attempted to slay him once already.
We four faced a god and survived — even without Mystra's assistance, Cyric thought. Imagine if we were successful in slaying a god! Our names would be sung in ballads that minstrels would recite for hundreds of years.
Elminster's words haunted Cyric even as they approached the Twisted Towers and sat waiting for Lord Mourngrym to make his appearance. Without the presence of the gods in the Planes, magical and physical laws were breaking down. All of the Realms might fall. What then might rise from the ashes? Cyric thought. And who would be the gods of that dark future?
Mourngrym appeared, and Hawksguard recited Elminster's words. Kelemvor and Cyric pledged their assistance, and by nightfall they had been given their parts to play in the battle. Kelemvor would be stationed with Hawksguard and the majority of Mourngrym's forces at the eastern border, where Bane's troops were expected to attack. Cyric was called to help defend the bridge at the Ashaba and to assist the refugees leaving via the river to seek sanctuary in Mistledale. Archers were already taking up positions in the forest between Voonlar and Shadowdale and traps were being laid for Bane's troops.
And though Mourngrym believed he had organized his forces in the most efficient way to counter the larger Zhentish army, the dalelord was concerned about Elminster's place in the battle to come.
"I suppose Elminster still believes the true battle will take place at the Temple of Lathander," Mourngrym said ruefully. "We need his help at the borders! By Tymora we've got to talk some sense into that man!"
"We would be the first to ever do so, I'm afraid," Hawksguard said, smiling broadly.
Mourngrym laughed. "Perhaps you're right. Elminster has always stood in defense of the Dales. But to catch just a glimmer of the man's reasoning before he chose to reveal it would be a prize I would cherish for the rest of my life!"
Both Kelemvor and Hawksguard broke into braying laughter at the dalelord's comments. Cyric just shook his head. At least Kelemvor wasn't being morose anymore. In fact, the fighter's camaraderie with Hawksguard almost made him pleasant to be around.
But Cyric wasn't much in the mood for the fighters' jokes, so he left the throne room quietly. The halls of the Twisted Tower rang with activity as the thief made his way back to his room to prepare for eveningfeast.
After he changed his clothes, the thief turned to leave his room. As he walked toward the door, his boot slid across a slick patch of wood on the floor. He regained his balance, then looked down. Had one of the clumsy cows they called 'serving girls' in the tower made a mess she was too dainty to clean up? Cyric wondered. There, in the center of the room, was a stain that looked like blood.
Cyric's fingers trembled as he reached down and touched the red stain. He smeared his finger in the liquid, then touched his finger to his tongue, just to see what the liquid was.
Something exploded in his skull, and Cyric felt his body fall backward into the far wall, then land on the bed. He was dimly aware of the damage he had caused to the wall and to himself, but his perceptions swam in a fantastic haze of sights and sounds. The thief was finding it hard to tell his delusions from reality.
He was only certain that someone else was entering the room, closing the door, and locking it.
And before he passed out, Cyric realized that the man was laughing.
The next thing the thief was aware of was an odd taste in his mouth, like bitter almonds. His throat was dry, and sweat poured into his eyes. The sound of his own breathing came to him: raspy and without steady rhythm. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. Sight and sound returned suddenly, and he found himself lying upon his bed. A gray-haired man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Cyric.
"Don't try to move yet," the man said. "You've had quite a shock."
Cyric attempted to speak, but his throat was raw and he began to cough, which only caused a greater pain.
"Settle back," the man said. Cyric felt as if something were pressing him back against the bed. "We have much to discuss. You won't be able to raise your voice above a whisper, but don't worry. My senses are quite acute."
"Marek," Cyric croaked. The voice was unmistakable. "It can't be! You were arrested in Arabel."
Marek turned to face Cyric. He shrugged. "I escaped. Have you ever heard of a dungeon that could hold me?"
"What are you doing here?" Cyric said, ignoring the man's boasts.
"Well…," Marek said, and rose from the bed. "I was on my way back to Zhentil Keep. I grew tired on the road. My documentation — the same documentation that gave me access to Arabel — was taken from a soldier outside Hillsfar. A professional mercenary, actually. He won't be missed.
"I claimed that I was on my way back to rejoin the conflict between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep, which I assumed the people of Shadowdale would see as a worthwhile enterprise. My cover, I was certain, was assured. I didn't know that Shadowdale was preparing for a war of their own with Zhentil Keep, and the guards demanded I join their damned army!"
"What happened to your cache of magical items that you bragged about in Arabel? Couldn't you have used them to escape the guard?" Cyric said.
"I was forced to leave almost all of them behind in Arabel," Marek said. "Are you expecting me to attack you? Don't be foolish. I'm here to talk."
"How did you get into the Tower?"
"I walked in through the front door. Remember, I'm a member of the guard now."
"But how did you know I was here?"
"I didn't. This is all chance, as all of life really is. As the guards tried to convince me that joining their army, even if it wasn't my own idea, would be beneficial for me, they described a small adventuring troop that came to the dale and was welcomed into the Twisted Tower itself for their aid to the town. Amazingly enough, part of the party sounded very much like the band you left Arabel with. It really wasn't hard to find you after that.
"By the way, I apologize for the effects of the potion that laid you out. Actually, there was one magical item I had managed to retain — this locket," Marek said, and produced a solid gold locket that had been opened. A drop of red liquid that resembled blood fell from it and hit the floor. The liquid hissed as it touched the boards.