“Rest assured,” Cyric replied. He accepted the mug with one hand and drew his sword with the other. “I will.”
The thief reached across the food and struck quickly. He plunged the blade into the fat man’s chest while the innkeeper’s lips were still twisted in a feeble smile.
Farl made one feeble grab for his crossbow. Then, his brow raised in puzzlement and he collapsed behind the counter. So the blade would stay imbedded in the man’s breast, Cyric released his sword’s hilt.
The thief grabbed a piece of goose and took a large bite out of it. Then he leaned over the counter and looked at his sword. Speaking around a mouthful of cold meat, he said, “Enjoy your meal.”
14
The White Plain
As she stepped through the disc, Midnight felt herself disappear from Kanaglym, then reappear on the white plain. Her mind felt as if it had not moved at all, as if it were an anchor and her body had pivoted around it.
As soon as Midnight inhaled, caustic vapors burned her throat and nose. When she tried to focus her eyes, she saw nothing but white and might as well have been looking into the sun. The ground quivered beneath her feet like something alive and restless, and a million droning voices set the air buzzing with a murmur that made her skin tingle.
Gradually, Midnight’s vision returned. The worldwalk’s shimmering disc hung in the air next to her. It did not seem wise to leave a portal between the planes open, so the mage concentrated on closing it and the gateway disappeared.
A moment later, she began to make sense of the weird information her senses were gathering. She stood on an endless, chalky plain, in the midst of more people than she could count. Unlike the soul spectres of Kanaglym, these creatures possessed material, tangible bodies. Had she not known otherwise, the magic-user would have thought the people on the plain were alive.
To the mage’s right was a huge crowd of several thousand. Everyone in the throng faced one direction, their attention fixed on the sky as though watching something Midnight could not see. As she studied the mass of spirits, a murmur rose from its far side, racing toward her like a wave on a stormy ocean. Finally, it broke over her with such volume that she grimaced.
“Tyr!” the crowd called.
Thousands of worshipers had simultaneously called the name of their lord. Midnight could easily imagine the cry crossing the interplanar void and reaching Tyr’s ears back in the Realms.
“O Tyr, God of Justice, Balancer of the Scales, answer this, the call of your faithful,” the worshipers cried, their prayer clear and understandable despite the number of mouths speaking the words. “When will you deliver us, we who dedicated our lives to your glory, to spreading truth and justice into every corner of our planet, Toril? Hear the appeal of your worshipers, Tyr. Look! Here is Mishkul the Mighty, who brought King Lagost to justice; and here is Ornik the Wise, who judged between the cities of Yhaunn and Tulbegh; and here is Qurat of Proskur, who …”
The prayer droned on, proclaiming the loyalty of Tyr’s worshipers and listing the accomplishments of each one. Judging from the size of the mob, the litany would continue for days. The mage moved away from the crowd, searching for a hint as to Bone Castle’s location.
Often, she encountered huddled groups of people ranging from five or six to ten thousand. In one instance, Midnight encountered a dozen women flailing themselves and screaming devotion to Loviatar, Lady of Pain. Another time, she met a thousand worshipers of Ilmater standing shoulder to shoulder in resolute silence. Occasionally, she saw groups singing praises to gods so ancient their names had been forgotten in the Realms.
Several hours of wandering later, Midnight realized that she would never find her way around the Realm of the Dead without directions. Stopping a rotund man, she asked, “Can you tell me how to find Bone Castle?”
His eyes opened wide in fear. “No—no, I can’t!” he snapped. “Why would I know where it is—and why would you want to?” He abruptly turned and fled into the crowd.
Midnight stopped three more people and asked them the same question. The reactions of all three were strikingly similar: each claimed ignorance of the castle’s location, and each told her in no uncertain terms that she was a fool for asking. The mage decided to stop inquiring about the castle. For some reason, her question disturbed the dead.
To Midnight’s left, someone screamed in terror. The magic-user spun toward the sound. Thirty feet away, a mound of flesh was attacking a woman. The crowd had cleared away from the struggle, so Midnight had a clear view of the conflict.
The woman appeared to have been about forty years of age, with hair as black as Midnight’s, save that it was streaked with gray. More interesting to the magic-user was the woman’s pendant: a blue-white star within a circle.
Mystra’s symbol.
The woman’s attacker was a hideous thing. Its head resembled that of a man, with a normal nose, mouth, and ears. But it also had dull fangs that drooled yellow bile and eyes that glowed as red as hot embers. The head sat atop a grotesque body thicker around than a hogshead cask, and long, gangling arms hung from its shoulders. Spongy masses of leathery hide bulged where muscles should have been, and old wounds oozed a foul green pus in a dozen places. The creature’s legs were so pudgy they barely held its body off the ground. Still, the mound of flesh tottered after the woman with remarkable speed and grace.
“Come here, hag!” it growled. The beast’s voice was so low and guttural that Midnight barely understood the words. In one hand the fat blob carried a rusty scimitar, and in the other a pair of manacles that it waved after the woman.
Because she knew so little about the Realm of the Dead, the mage hesitated to involve herself, but that indecision didn’t last for long. She could not allow an attack on one of Mystra’s followers. “Leave her alone!” Midnight yelled.
Upon hearing the mage’s words, the woman fled toward her. The thing stopped in its tracks, then frowned and shook its head as if it were unable to believe what it had heard. Finally, it grumbled, “She belongs to Lord Myrkul.”
As if the explanation were adequate, the beast ran after the woman and smashed the manacles into her head. Mystra’s follower fell in a limp heap.
“Stop!” Midnight ordered, advancing toward the fight. “Touch her and you die!”
The thing paused to stare at the raven-haired woman. Finally, it roared, “Die? Touch her and I die?” It broke into a cackle that sent waves rolling through its fat body. Then it kneeled and placed a shackle on the woman’s wrist.
A powerful imprisonment incantation appeared in Midnight’s mind. The magic-user hesitated for an instant, then felt the magical weave around her. It was strong and stable, not wavering and unpredictable as it had been in the Realms. Midnight smiled and repeated the spell.
The thing placed a shackle on the woman’s other wrist.
After completing the incantation, Midnight started toward the mound of flesh, saying, “I warned you.”
The woman’s attacker looked up and snarled, then stood to meet Midnight. “You’ll rot in—”
The magic-user reached out to the foul creature and touched it, triggering the imprisonment magic. The mound of flesh stopped speaking in midsentence, then froze in place. An instant later, a dark sphere engulfed the fat monstrosity and carried it into the white ground. It would remain there in suspended animation until someone freed it.
Midnight started to tremble, then sat down and closed her eyes. While confronting the ugly mound of flesh, the magic-user had been angry and determined. Now that the fight was over, however, she felt surprisingly queasy and frightened. Although the magical weave had felt stable when she called upon it, Midnight could not help but shiver at what might have happened had her magic misfired.