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WATERDEEP.

by Troy Denning.

For their kindness and support, this book is dedicated to: Anna, Frank, Patricia, Gregory, Laura, Marie, Millie, Bill, Christine, Martin, Michele, Tom, Lee, Joan, AUison, Larry, Jim, Mary, and Alice.

PROLOGUE.

The patrol had been from Marsember, charged with protecting the coastal farms around the tear-shaped grove called Hermit's Wood. The sergeant, Ogden the Hardrider, was one of Cormyr's best, well known for keeping his sector free of brigands.

Twelve riders had served underOgden. They were typical soldiers: half-dozen youthful good-for-nothings, two drunks, two good men, and two murderers.Ogdengave the dangerous assignments to the murderers. Predictably, the pair was insubordinate and had made a pact to addOgdento their short list of victims - though neither one had ever gathered the courage to attack the sergeant.

Now, they would never have the chance.Ogden's patrol lay a hundred yards north of Hermit's Wood, dead to the last horse. The Purple Dragon, the crest of King Azoun IV, still glimmered on their shields, and their armor still gleamed whenever the moonlight slipped past the stormclouds and played over their corpses.

Not that spit and polish mattered now. The jackals and crows had come yesterday, leaving a gruesome mess in their wake. Ira's ears were gone. Phineas's toes had been gnawed off.Ogdenhad lost an eye to the crows. The rest of the patrol had fared worse. Parts of their bodies were scattered all over the field.

Even without the scavengers, the patrol would have been a grisly sight. They had been riding through the field when the ground started belching poisonous black gas. There had been no reason for the deadly emission. The field wasn't located close to any volcanoes, near any fens or bogs, or even within a hundred miles of a cavern where fumes might collect. The black vapor was simply one more example of the chaos plaguing the Realms.

That had been two hot days ago, and the patrol had been lying in the heat since. Their limbs were bloated and swollen, sometimes twisted into odd shapes where the riders had broken them. The sides of the bodies closest to the ground were black and puffy with settled blood, while the sides closest to the heavens were doughy gray. The only sign of life that remained inOgden's patrol was the unsettling red tint that burned in their eyes.

Because their spirits had not yet departed, the soldiers were completely aware of their condition. Being dead was not at all what they had expected. They had been prepared to take positions with the glorious hosts of Tempus, God of War, or to find eternal sorrow beneath the cold lash of the Maiden of Pain, the goddess Loviatar. They hadn't expected their consciousness to linger in their corpses while their flesh slowly decomposed.

So, whenOgdenreceived the command to rise and form a line, he and his soldiers were relieved to find that they could obey. The men and the horses stood, stiffly and without grace, but they stood. The soldiers took the reins of their dead mounts and arranged themselves into a perfect row, just as they would have done had they been alive.

The command to rise had come from the city ofWaterdeep, where ninety apostles of wickedness and corruption kneeled in a dimly lit temple. The room was just large enough to hold them all, and looked more like the inside of a moldy crypt than a temple. Its stone walls were black with mildew and slime. The room was lit only by two oily torches set into sconces behind the huge stone altar.

The apostles wore brown ceremonial robes of filthy, coarse material. They stared at the floor, so fearful of disturbing the figure at the bloody altar that they scarcely dared to breathe.

The man at the altar was tall, emaciated, and leprous. His deformed face was lined by deep wrinkles and covered with lumpy lesions. Where minor injuries had destroyed the diseased skin, patches of stinking gray flesh hung off his face and hands. He had made no attempt to hide his condition. In fact, he cherished his maladies and left his affliction exposed for all to see.

This unusual attitude toward disease wasn't surprising, though, for the figure at the altar was Myrkul, God of Decay and Lord of the Dead. He was deep in concentration, telepathically spanning the continent to give his orders toOgden's patrol. The effort was taxing on Myrkul's strength, and he had been forced to take the spirits of five faithful worshipers to give him the power he needed. Like the other deities of the Realms, Myrkul was no longer omnipotent, for he had been exiled from the Planes and forced to take a human host - an avatar - in the Realms.

The reason was that someone had stolen the Tablets of Fate, the two stones upon which Lord Ao, overlord of the gods, recorded the privileges and responsibilities of each deity. Unknown to the other gods and Ao, Myrkul and the late God of Strife, were the ones who had stolen the two tablets. They had each taken one and concealed it without revealing its hiding place to each other. The two gods had hoped to use the confusion surrounding the tablets' disappearance to increase their power.

But the pair had not foreseen the extent of their overlord's anger. Upon discovering the theft, Ao had banished the gods to the Realms and stripped them of most of their power. He had forbidden his subjects to return to the Planes without the tablets in hand. The only deity spared this fate was Helm, God of Guardians, whom Ao charged with guarding the Celestial Stairways leading back to the Planes.

Myrkul was now a mere shadow of what he had been before the banishment. But, relying upon the spirits of sacrificial victims for energy, he could still use his magic. At the moment, he was using that magic to inspect the patrol of dead Cormyrians, and he liked what he saw. The soldiers and their horses, which were beginning to decompose nicely, were clearly corpses. But they were not exactly inanimate. Myrkul had been lucky, for he had discovered the patrol before their spirits strayed from their bodies. These zombies would be more intelligent and more graceful than most, since they had died a relatively short time ago. If the soldiers were to accomplish what Myrkul wanted, they would need those extra advantages.

Myrkul hadOgdenpoint toward Hermit's Wood then gave the patrol its orders telepathically. There are two men and a woman camped in that grove. In the saddlebags they carry, there is a stone tablet. Kill the men then bring me the woman and the tablet.

The tablet was, of course, a Tablet of Fate. It was the one Bane had hidden in Tantras, which was in turn discovered easily by another god and a few humans. The Black Lord had desperately tried to regain the artifact by mobilizing his army. This grand scheme was his downfall. Bane's marauding hosts had alerted his enemies, who gathered their forces and defeated the God of Strife - permanently.

Myrkul was determined to pursue a safer course. Where Bane had used an army to retrieve the tablet, Myrkul would send a patrol to recover it. Nor would Myrkul make the mistake of believing that once the tablet was in his grasp, keeping it would be an easy matter. At this very moment, the trio bearing Bane's tablet was being pursued by a ruthless betrayer. This traitor would stop at nothing to steal the tablet from them or even from Myrkul's zombies. But the Lord of the Dead knew of the cutthroat's plans, and he had already sent an agent to discourage the traitor.

As Myrkul pondered all these things and more, a golden, shimmering disk of force appeared in a part of Waterdeep far removed from Myrkul's moldy temple. The immaculate tower stood nearly fifty feet tall, and was built entirely of granite blocks. Even near the top, it had no visible entrances or windows, and resembled nothing quite so much as a pillar of polished stone.

An ancient man stepped out of the golden disc, then turned and dispersed the portal with a wave of his hand. Despite his age, the man appeared robust and fit. A heavy maroon traveling cloak hung off his bony shoulders, not quite disguising the leanness of his form. His face was sharp-featured and thin, with alert, dancing eyes and a long straight nose. He had a head of thick white hair, and a beard as heavy as a lion's mane.

"Whom may I say is calling?" The imperious voice came from the tower's base, though no speaker was visible.

The old man regarded the tower with distaste, then said, "If Khelben no longer knows his teacher, then perhaps I've come to the wrong place."

"Elminster! Welcome!" A black-haired man stuck his head and shoulders right through the tower's second story wall. He had a neatly trimmed black beard, steady brown eyes, and handsome features. "Come in! You remember where the entrance is?"

"Of course," Elminster responded, walking to the base of the tower and stepping through the wall as if it was a door. He stopped in a neatly arranged sitting room cluttered with dragon horns, iron crowns, and other trophies from the wizard's adventures. Elminster withdrew his meerschaum pipe from his cloak, lit it from a burning candle then sat down in the room's most comfortable chair.

A moment later, Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun rushed down the stairs, hurriedly pulling a purple cloak over the plain robe of white silk he usually wore while alone in his tower. The dark-haired mage wrinkled his nose at the overly sweet odor from the pipe then took a seat in the chair usually reserved for guests. "Welcome back to Waterdeep, my friend. What brings you-"

"I need thy help, Blackstaff," Elminster said, pointing his pipe stem at the younger wizard.

Blackstaff grimaced. "My magic's not been-"

"Don't ye think I know that?" the old sage interrupted. "It's the same all over. Not a month ago, my favorite pipe blew up in my face when I used a pyrotechnics spell on it, and the last time I tried a rope trick I had to cut myself loose."

Blackstaff nodded sympathetically. "I contacted Piergeiron the Paladinson telepathically and ended up broadcasting our thoughts to the entire city ofWaterdeep."

Elminster stuck his pipe back in his mouth and puffed on it several times. "And that's not the worst of it. Chaos is running rampant through the land. The birds of Shadowdale have started digging burrows, and the River Arkhen is full of boiling blood."

"It's the same here in Waterdeep," the younger wizard said. "The fishermen won't leave the harbor. Schools of mackerel have been sinking their boats."

The old sage absent-mindedly blew a green smoke ring then said, "Ye know the reason for all of this trouble?"

Blackstaff looked uncomfortable. "I know it started when Ao cast the gods out of the Planes for stealing the Tablets of Fate. I've had trouble learning more than that."

Elminster sucked on his pipe thoughtfully then said, "Fortunately, I haven't. Shortly after the Arrival, I was sought out by a company of four adventurers - a female mage named Midnight , a cleric called Adon of Sune, a fighter named Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and a thief who went by the name of Cyric. They claimed they had rescued the goddess Mystra from Bane's grasp. Afterward, Mystra had tried to return to the Planes, but had perished when Helm refused to let her pass. With her dying breath, they claimed, Mystra had sent them to warn me that Bane would attack Shadowdale, and to seek my help in finding the Tablets of Fate.

"At first I didn't believe them," Elminster continued, pausing to puff on his pipe twice more. "But the woman presented a pendant that the goddess had given her. And, as they had promised, Bane attacked Shadowdale. The four comported themselves very well in the dale's defense."

The sage purposely left out any mention of the hardship the heroes had suffered as a result of his own disappearance during the Battle of Shadowdale. The townsfolk had accused Midnight and Adon of murdering him. Fortunately, that matter had been cleared up.

"In any case," Elminster noted, "I soon learned that one of the tablets was in Tantras. After briefly being separated as a result of the Battle of Shadowdale, I once again met Midnight , Kelemvor, and Adon in Tantras."

"What of the thief - Cyric, did you say?" Blackstaff asked. He was a keen listener and had not missed the fact that Elminster had left Cyric's name out of his last statement.

"The thief left the party on their journey to Tantras. I'm not sure what happened, but it seems he may have betrayed his fellows. In any case, he's not important to what came next. Bane followed Midnight and her friends to Tantras then tried to recover the tablet himself. The god Thorm, who had taken up residence in the city, met Bane in combat. The resulting battle threatened to destroy Tantras, but Midnight rang the Bell of Aylan Attricus-"

"She what?" Blackstaff interrupted, rising to his feet. "Nobody can ring the bell - not even me!"

" Midnight did," Elminster confirmed. "And she activated the anti-magic shield surrounding the city. The avatars of both gods were destroyed." The old sage sat quietly puffing on his pipe.

After a moment, Blackstaff asked, "And then what?"

Elminster blew a series of smoke rings. "And that is where we begin," he said at last. " Midnight and her friends are bringing the tablet to Waterdeep."

The younger wizard considered this for a long time, looking for some reason for making such a long and hazardous journey. Finally, he could find none and asked, "Why?"

Elminster smiled. "For two reasons," he explained. "First, there is a Celestial Stairway nearby. Second, because the other tablet is here and we need both of them to return the gods to the Planes."

"A tablet is in Waterdeep?" Blackstaff asked. "Where?"

"That's why I need you," the sage said. "All I could learn was that I might find a tablet by going to Waterdeep."

The younger mage rolled his eyes. "Waterdeep's a big city."

Elminster put his pipe away. "Then let's get started. I'd like to find the tablet by the time Midnight arrives."

I.

VISITORS.

Midnight 's eyes, as dark and deep as the night, followed the shadow as it moved behind the upturned roots of a toppled willow tree. A strong wind whispered through the dark forest, rustling bushes and shaking tree limbs, filling the wood with dancing silhouettes of ambiguous form and size. Overhead, the clouds of a passing storm raced by the moon, dragging heavy shadows through the tangled grove like silent warriors.

Midnight and two companions were camped at the south end of a tear-shaped wood. Her friends were sleeping in a small lean-to shelter erected between two trees. One of the men, Kelemvor, was snoring with deep soft rumbles that sounded like a growling wolf.

While her companions rested, Midnight sat twenty yards away, keeping watch. Not yet thirty and gifted with a lean body, she was a woman of sultry charms. Eyebrows as thin and black as painted lines hung over her eyes and a long braid of jet-black hair trailed down her back. Her only flaw, if it could be called that, lay in the premature worry lines furrowed over her brow and etched around her mouth.

Those worry lines had grown deeper over the last few days. Adon, Midnight , and Kelemvor had been aboard a small galley bound for the port city ofIlipur, where they intended to find a caravan bound for Waterdeep. As the vessel entered the final leg of its journey, through a sheltered sea called the Dragonmere, an unnatural storm rose out of the calm waters and almost tore the ship to pieces. The storm had lasted for three nerve-wracking days, and the galley had only been saved by the valiant efforts of its crew.

The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhentish trireme that had been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and put the three companions ashore.

A rustle sounded from the lean-to and Midnight turned to see Adon creeping toward her. In his right hand, the cleric carried a mace he had bought from a sailor. With his left, he held a set of saddlebags. One bag contained a flat stone about a foot wide and a foot and a half high - the Tablet of Fate their company had recovered in Tantras.

Even now, in the middle of the night, Adon's sandy hair was meticulously brushed. His build was slight, though muscular enough and well proportioned, and his green eyes sparkled with a light of their own. Adon's other features were symmetrical if somewhat plain, save for the red scar that traced a dark path from the left eye to his jaw line.

The scar was a grim reminder of the personal crisis that the cleric had suffered over the past few weeks. On the night of the Arrival, when Ao had cast his gods from the Planes, all of the clerics in the Realms had lost their power. Unless they were within a mile of their deity, their prayers for spells simply went unanswered. At first, this had not shaken the optimistic Adon, and he had remained faithful to his deity, Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.

Then, near Tilverton, he had been scarred in an ambush. At first, Adon had feared the blemish was punishment for some unknown offense against his goddess. This feeling had grown steadily stronger. Finally, during the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster suffered an accident and Adon found himself powerless to help the ancient sage. The cleric then fell into a catatonic depression. When he finally recovered, several weeks later, his faith in Sune had been lost. Instead, the cleric had focused his fervor and dedication on his fellow man.

"Why are you awake?" Midnight asked, whispering loud enough to make herself heard over the wind. Crouching next to her, Adon answered in a whisper, "Who can sleep with that racket in his ear?" He nodded at Kelemvor's slumbering form then offered, "I'll take over if you're tired."

"Not yet," Midnight said. She turned back to the toppled willow tree. The shadow she had observed earlier was still crouched behind the tree's upturned roots.

"Is something wrong?" Adon asked, noting Midnight 's interest in the willow. He followed her gaze and noted the dark form skulking behind the tangle. "What's that?"

Midnight shrugged and replied, "A shadow I've been watching."

The moon poked its face through the clouds and cast a silvery light into the grove. On the top of the shadow, Midnight could see the silhouette of a head and shoulders.

"It looks like a man," Adon observed, still whispering.

"So it does."

The cleric looked toward the lean-to. "We should wake Kelemvor."

Adon's suggestion made sense. Neither the cleric nor Midnight were at full strength. Like the abilities of all mages, Midnight 's powers had become unstable since the fall of the gods. Adon's condition was no better. Even if he had still believed in his deity, Sune was certainly too distant for him to call upon her power.

But Midnight wanted to let Kelemvor snore a while longer. She was not convinced the shadow was dangerous, and if it was, the mage didn't want to alarm it with a sudden flurry of activity. Besides, even without their spells, she and Adon were capable fighters. "We can take care of ourselves if need be," she said. "But I don't think there's any danger."

A cloud covered the moon again, plunging the wood back into darkness. Adon squinted at the root mass, puzzled by Midnight 's assertion. "Why not?"

"If that's a man, he means us no harm. He'd have done something by now if he did," Midnight answered. "He wouldn't be sitting there watching us."

"If he didn't mean us harm, he would have come into camp by now," Adon countered.

"Not necessarily," Midnight said. "He might be afraid to."

"We hardly look like thieves," Adon said, waving his hand at himself and the magic-user. "Who'd have reason to fear us?"

Midnight did not answer immediately and avoided the cleric's gaze. As soon as Adon had asked his question, it had occurred to her that the shadow might belong to Cyric, the trio's missing comrade. It had been only a few weeks since the thief had disappeared on the River Ashaba, but already it seemed that he'd been gone for years. She missed his grim wit, his aloof bearing, even his dark temper.

After Midnight did not respond to his question for several moments, Adon turned toward the lean-to. The magic-user grasped his shoulder to keep him from leaving. "It might be Cyric," she whispered.

Spinning around to face Midnight , Adon hissed, "Cyric! It couldn't be!"

"Why not?" Midnight asked, glancing back at the shadow. "The trireme that worried our ship captain did seem to be following us."

"That's still no reason to think Cyric was aboard," Adon countered. "How could he have known we were leaving Tantras, much less which ship we were on?"

"Cyric has his ways," Midnight said grimly.

Adon frowned and squeezed his mace until his knuckles turned white. "Yes, he proved that in Tantras."

Both Midnight and Adon turned to look at Kelemvor. The fighter had seen Cyric last, in Tantras. A Zhentish assassin had attacked Kelemvor, but failed to kill him. When the battle was over, he spotted Cyric in the crowd, watching the attempted murder.

Removing Midnight 's hand from his shoulder, Adon declared, "I'm getting Kelemvor."

"But he'll kill Cyric," Midnight said, concern creeping into her voice.

"Good," Adon responded. The cleric again turned toward the lean-to.

"How can you say that?"

"He's joined the Zhentilar," Adon snapped over his shoulder. "Or have you forgotten?"

According to rumor, Cyric had been with one of the Zhentish armies that had come to attack Tantras. Given Cyric's presence at the attempt on Kelemvor's life, Adon believed the rumor.

"What did you expect?" Midnight inquired, still unconvinced of her friend's betrayal. "Cyric's a schemer. Faced with joining Bane's Zhentilar or dying, he'd join. That doesn't mean he's betrayed us."