Midnight started to back around the tree, being careful not to turn away from Ogden. The zombie urged its horse forward, quickly catching up to her. The magic-user kept her dagger pointed at the corpse and did not turn to run. Her chance of defeating the thing in combat was narrow, she knew, but her chance of outrunning it was nonexistent.
Finally, the horseman closed the gap entirely and leaned over to grab her. Midnight slashed at its ribs, opening a deep gash. The corpse didn’t care. Five icy fingers gripped the mage’s wrist and nearly jerked her arm from its socket as the zombie lifted her off the ground and draped her over the horse’s back.
A hand, as cold as granite and just as hard, pressed her down onto the saddle. Midnight tried to dislodge herself and slash at her captor, but it kept her pinned firmly in place and completely helpless. The rider started to walk its horse forward.
By now, Kelemvor had circled around the perimeter of the fire, and he saw Midnight being draped over the zombie’s saddle. The fighter immediately ran at a full sprint to cut the horseman off.
Before the rancid horse had taken a dozen steps, Kelemvor caught it. The fighter leaped out of the shadows and hit the zombie in the midsection, knocking both it and Midnight out of the saddle. The horse bolted. Midnight landed on the zombie, and Kelemvor landed on her.
The fighter stood up immediately, sword in hand. Using his free hand, he jerked Midnight to her feet. The corpse kicked at Kelemvor’s legs, but the warrior hopped out of the way.
“Are you okay?” Kelemvor asked Midnight. At the same time, he used his free arm to push her clear of the battle.
“Fine. Where’s Adon and the tablet?” She stepped back from the fight, knowing Kelemvor needed room to maneuver more than he needed the little help she could provide with a dagger.
Before Kelemvor could respond, the zombie drew its sword and slashed at the fighter’s stomach. He had to retreat a step, and the corpse leaped to its feet. Kelemvor attacked with a backhand that the zombie blocked easily, then it countered with a series of vicious slashes.
Meanwhile, Adon, still carrying the tablet, had just circled around the other side of the fire. To the east, the cleric saw that most of the remaining zombies were being destroyed by the cloud of fire. A few of the undead were loping into the woods, but the cleric did not think he was in danger, as long as he moved away quietly. Then he heard the clanging of swords and decided to hazard moving faster.
Back with Kelemvor, Midnight hovered on the edge of the battle, dagger in hand. She was ready to strike if the zombie presented her an opening, but Ogden still moved with startling speed and grace. So far, she hadn’t even dared to approach within striking range of the undead creature.
Kelemvor slashed and the corpse parried, then thrust at the fighter’s head. He ducked inside the jab and smashed his hilt into the zombie’s jaw. The blow failed to stun the thing even slightly, so Kelemvor dropped to a knee and rolled away. He stumbled back to his feet just in time to block another of the corpse’s blows.
As she lingered on the edge of battle, it became increasingly clear to Midnight that Kelemvor was getting tired and would need help to destroy the zombie. The magic-user’s first thought was to try a magic missile, but after her earlier failure, she feared magic would do more harm than good. As risky as it was, she knew the best choice was stabbing the zombie in the back.
Then, as she started to circle around to the thing’s rear, Midnight saw Adon coming through the brush. The corpse seemed oblivious to him, so the magic-user decided to make sure the cleric remained unnoticed. She moved directly opposite Adon. Then, as Kelemvor slashed at the zombie’s head, Midnight hurled her dagger at its side.
The blade struck point first and sank several inches into Ogden’s torso. The zombie parried a thrust, then glanced at Midnight and snarled. The momentary distraction was all Kelemvor needed to land his first blow, opening a deep gash in the creature’s lower back. The corpse whirled on the fighter, slashing at him madly. Kelemvor barely managed to duck the wild swing, then the zombie raised its sword to strike again —and this time Kelemvor was so off balance, he would not be able to avoid the blow.
Adon stepped out of the brush and smashed his mace into the back of the zombie’s knees. The corpse dropped to the ground. Kelemvor stepped forward and separated the undead creature’s sword hand from its wrist. The cleric smashed his mace into the zombie’s nose, the fighter lifted his sword to strike again, and within moments Ogden the Hardrider no longer presented a threat.
For several seconds, Kelemvor stood panting over the foul-smelling body, too exhausted to thank Adon and Midnight for their help.
Regardless of whether he received thanks or not, Adon didn’t think it wise to allow the warrior to rest for long. “We’d better get out of here,” he said, pulling Midnight’s dagger out of the cadaver’s ribs and using it to point toward the woods. “There are still one or two zombies out there.”
“What about the archer who helped us?” Kelemvor panted. “He may be in trouble.”
“If they haven’t found him yet, they’re not going to,” Adon said, sharing a knowing glance with Midnight.
“I’m sure that this particular archer can take care of himself,” the magic-user added. If the archer was Cyric, as she and Adon suspected, the last thing he needed at the moment was to have Kelemvor roaming the woods, searching for him.
The warrior frowned. “Do you two know something I don’t?”
Midnight started walking to the north. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said.
2
The Warning
“The men will see no rest tonight,” Dalzhel said, slipping past the cockeyed door.
A burly man who stood nearly six and half feet tall, Dalzhel resembled a bear both in build and disposition. He had broad, hulking shoulders, a heavy black beard, and a long tail of braided hair that hung down his back. His brown eyes were calm and observant.
Cyric didn’t respond to Dalzhel’s comment. Instead, he watched warily as his lieutenant entered the room. The thief and his men were five miles north of Eveningstar, in the great hall of a ruined castle. The hall was fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. An imposing fireplace dominated one end of the dusty chamber, the roaring fire within providing the room’s only light. In the middle of the floor sat a thirty-foot banquet table, gray and cracked from age and neglect. Around the table and scattered in the hall’s corners were a dozen rickety chairs.
Cyric had placed the sturdiest chair before the fireplace and was sitting in it. With a hawkish nose, narrow chin, and dark, stormy eyes, his sharp features were equally suited to sly humor or sinister moods. A recently acquired short sword lay across the thief’s lap. The blade’s reddish luster left little doubt that it was an extraordinary weapon.
Removing his wet cloak, Dalzhel moved to the fire. Beneath the cloak the Zhentish soldier wore a shirt of black chain mail. Though the armor weighed at least thirty-five pounds, Dalzhel removed it only to sleep—and then only when safely hidden away.
“You could not have picked a darker lair,” Dalzhel noted, warming his hands over the hearth. “The men are calling this place the Haunted Halls.”
Though he did not say so aloud, Cyric understood the sentiment. Located in the bottom of a deep gorge and overlooking the turbulent currents of the Starwater River, the ruin was as forlorn a place as he knew. The castle had been built before Cormyr had become a kingdom, yet many of its brooding walls and black towers remained intact. It was a hundred yards long and fifty wide, with outer walls still rising to a height of thirty feet in places. The gatehouses showed no signs of the castle’s age, though their elaborate portcullises had long since fallen into disrepair.