The majority of the soldiers on Forester's side of the bridge threw down their shovels at once and rallied behind the wild-haired fighter. Some of the soldiers on Cyric's side of the bridge had yelled out their support for Forester's plan, and threw down their shovels, too.
Cyric gripped the handle of his shovel and gritted his teeth. "Damn!" he hissed, and when he turned to rise from the ditch, he saw that all of the refugees were staring at him. His gaze locked on that of a young mother, who stood no more than twenty paces from Cyric, her eyes filled with concern not for her children, but for herself.
Thoughts of his own parents abandoning him as a baby came to Cyric as he averted his gaze and climbed out of the ditch. Forester and his men were already coming across the bridge, weapons drawn, when Cyric barred their way on the other side of the bridge. Although he would have been happy to let these men rush off to their deaths, he would not allow his authority to be questioned.
"Stand aside!" Forester called. "Else you'll be entering the river without benefit of a ship beneath you!"
"Go back to work," Cyric said coldly. "We have orders from Lord Mourngrym to secure this bridge."
Forester laughed. "Secure it against what — the setting sun? The wind at our backs? The battle will be to the east. Move aside."
Forester was closer now, and still Cyric did not move.
"You coward," Cyric said.
Forester stopped suddenly. "Brave words from a corpse," he said as he raised his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, but still, Cyric did not move or draw a weapon.
Cyric's lips drew back. He pointed at the refugees. "Look there."
The refugees stood huddled on the bank of the Ashaba. Fear glittered in the eyes of every one of them.
"You wish glory? You wish to lay down your worthless lives? Alright. But will you seek it at the cost of their lives?"
Forester's blade wavered. The murmur of voices began to rise.
"Leave this place and who will protect them? Daggerdale is infested with Bane's Zhentilar! Allow this bridge to fall and you deliver them and Shadowdale into the hands of the enemy!"
Cyric turned his back on Forester. "Stand with me and you stand with Shadowdale! How say you? How say all of you?"
Silence. Cyric waited for the blade of the giant to pierce his back.
"For Shadowdale," a voice called.
"For Shadowdale!" more voices cried. Then a chorus of loud, angry voices picked up the call. Even the refugees joined in.
"For Shadowdale!" a voice called directly behind Cyric. He turned, and Forester raised his weapon high overhead as he chanted with the others.
"Aye," Cyric said at last, and all fell silent. "For Shadowdale. Now get back to work."
The efforts of the soldiers redoubled, and in the far distance Cyric saw the first of the ships that would carry the refugees to safety.
"For Shadowdale," a woman said to the thief as she headed for a boat, her eyes positively aflame with Cyric's words, tears streaming down her face. Cyric nodded, although he felt nothing but contempt for these weak-willed sheep who sought to hide behind their belief in their gods or their country to justify their actions rather than confront life head on. He turned from her as he took his place in the ditch, his patience for dreamers and cowards at an end.
He had convinced the others that staying behind was the correct choice.
Now all he had to do was convince himself.
As Cyric got the refugees loaded onto boats and on their way down the Ashaba, and drove his men on as they dug their trench at the bridge, Adon was cloistered in Elminster's tower. After the cleric and the sage had returned from the Temple of Tymora early in the morning, Elminster set Adon to work in the cluttered antechamber that Lhaeo normally occupied.
"You are to find all references to the following names," Elminster said. "Then study and learn the spells set forth by each of them in their lifetime. They are all contained in these volumes. Make lists that we might access them again."
"But my spells fail me," Adon said. "I don't know — "
"Nor do I, but as the Realms depend on us all, I think now's the time to find out, do you not agree?" Then the sage was gone, and the cleric poured over the tomes until Midnight arrived and they left for the temple.
By the time Adon, Midnight, and Elminster reached the Temple of Lathander, a purple haze was drifting across the evening sky, and it was already time for eveningfeast. The sage, the cleric, and the magic-user passed through a nearly empty town, though they could hear Cyric's men digging to the west and the soldiers building fortifications to the east.
As they approached the building, Adon and Midnight could see that Lathander's temple had been constructed in the form of a Phoenix, with huge stone wings rising up on either side of its gate. The wings curved and became turrets. In the center of the building there were huge double doors that had been left unattended, and Elminster rapped at them impatiently. A window opened three stories up, and a handsome, square-jawed man with wavy hair looked out.
"Elminster!" the cleric said in awe.
"I might still be by the time ye get thyself down here and open this door!"
The window snapped shut, and Elminster wandered away from the heavy doors. Midnight continued to harangue him about the temple, and the role she and Adon were to play in the battle.
"Simply remember what I taught ye and do as I've said!" Elminster said wearily.
"You're treating us like children!" Midnight snapped. "After all we've been through, a simple explanation should not be out the question."
Elminster sighed. "Ye wouldn't mind if an old man rests his sorry frame while ye pound at him, would ye?"
Elminster sat down. It wasn't until Midnight was halfway through her argument about the Tablets of Fate that she noticed he was sitting in midair and the air about him crackled with mystical energies.
Midnight stopped.
"A Celestial Stairway," she said.
"Aye, like the one your lady Mystra used in her bid to regain the Planes."
Midnight backed away in horror. "Then Bane…"
"He doesn't want the dale," Elminster said. "He wants the Planes."
"But Helm will stop him, possibly slay him — "
"And Shadowdale will be reduced to a smoking pit, a black mark on the maps of travelers for all time."
Adon ran his hands over his face. "Just like Castle Kilgrave. But what can we do?"
Elminster tapped at the air beside him. "Destroy the Celestial Stairway, of course!" He reached out to Midnight. "Help me up!"
Midnight assisted the sage to his feet. "How can we destroy that which the gods created?"
"Perhaps ye will tell me," Elminster said. The door to the temple opened and the blond-haired man appeared. He was dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim.
"Elminster!" the man said. "I had not realized the time. You are expected, of course."
Rhaymon gestured for the old sage to come inside. "Would you like me to give your assistants a tour before I go?"
"That will not be necessary," Elminster said.
Rhaymon was halfway to the door when Adon stopped the priest.
"I don't understand," Adon said. "Where are you going?"
"To join my fellow priests and the faithful who worshiped here," Rhaymon said. "To the last man they will be joining forces with the army of Shadowdale, preparing to lay down their lives in defense of the Dales."
Adon took the man's hand. "Make them pay for what they did to the worshipers of Tymora."
Rhaymon nodded and was gone.
"Let's get inside," Midnight said as she gently touched Adon's arm and guided him from the doorway, then closed and locked the doors to the temple behind her.