After a few moments, Kelemvor lifted his head and spoke. 'We can make a wooden frame from the wreckage of the thieves' wagon, wrap the canvas of our tent around it, and make a stretcher. The wheels are intact, and we can pull Cyric behind us as we ride.'
Midnight handed the bag of gold to Kelemvor. 'Take this now. I want to be certain that you honor your promise.'
Kelemvor took the gold and waded into the pile of wreckage that was strewn about the plain, where he found a small lantern that was still in one piece. Once the lantern was lit, Kelemvor looked at Midnight's face and noticed the tears running down her face.
In Zhentil Keep, a criminal had been dragged through the streets, hands and feet bound. His body bounced against the pavement of the torch-lit streets, and his screams echoed for all to hear. The mangled body had been deposited at Bane's feet and the Black Lord was surprised to find the human still clinging to life, though by a gossamer thread at best.
The man was Thurbal, captain of arms and warden of Shadowdale. He had somehow entered the city undetected, then tried to join the Black Network under an assumed name. Fzoul had caught on to the man instantly, and although he advised Bane to feed the man false information then allow him to return to Shadowdale, the god could not suffer the affront so casually.
Thurbal had been subjected to endless sessions of interrogation, and he claimed he knew nothing of Bane's plans. The Black Lord did not wish to take chances, and so he ordered his men to drag the spy through the streets and then bring him to the temple to be executed. Invitations had been sent by messenger to Bane's elite, and the execution had become a standing room only event.
As the time of execution arrived, Bane left his throne to stand over Thurbal, then attempted to torment the aging, half-dead warrior at his feet. The man's eyes were sharp and alert, and Bane suspected they would continue to look that way, even after the spy had passed into Lord Myrkul's domain.
The throne room was crowded with officials and their wives. They raised a toast to their dark lord and chanted his name as his taloned hands reached down toward Thurbal. Just before the tip of a single nail from Bane's gauntlet could reach the eye of the dying man, there was a flash of blue-white light and Thurbal vanished. Bane was stunned for a moment. Someone had teleported Thurbal away, presumably to a place of safety.
The chanting ceased.
Bane studied the eyes of his worshipers. He noticed surprise and confusion in their expressions. Until this moment, the loyalty of Bane's worshipers had been unswerving. He did not want them to know that his will could be thwarted this easily.
'And now only a memory remains,' Bane said as he rose and allowed his talons to unfurl with practiced grace. 'I have sent the interloper into Myrkul's Realm, where he will pay for his crimes with an eternity of suffering!'
Then the chanting started once more. The Black Lord was relieved that the lie had been accepted. Still, he was troubled for the rest of the evening by the victory that had been snatched from him.
Hours later, when Bane was alone in the chamber, he sat and brooded.
'Elminster,' Bane said aloud. 'No one but you would dare interfere with my plans.' Bane's goblet was crushed in his grip. 'You will take Thurbal's place soon enough, and your agonies will be legend throughout my kingdom! For this I will not only see you dead, but after I secure the Celestial Stairway, I will reduce your precious Shadowdale to a smoking pit. I swear it!'
The Black Lord felt the wine that had escaped the ruined goblet stain his leg. He stared at the goblet and cursed at it, but it did not regain its shape. He threw it across the room and called out for Blackthorne to bring him another.
'Milord,' Blackthorne said, lowering his head.
'The assassins?'
'They have departed, Lord Bane. We await word of their success.'
Bane nodded and became silent as he stared off into space. Blackthorne didn't move, as he had not yet been dismissed. Bane and his emissary stayed like this for close to thirty minutes before Blackthorne's leg cramped and he involuntarily shifted his weight. Bane looked up slowly.
'Blackthorne,' Bane said, as if he had forgotten about the other man's presence. 'Ronglath Knightsbridge.'
'Yes, milord?'
'I wish to have Knightsbridge lead one of the contingents from the Citadel of the Raven in the attack on Shadowdale. He has much to atone for, and he may be willing to do what others are not and without hesitation,' Bane said.
'There may be some resentment on the part of his troops, Lord Bane. He is seen as having failed the city — '
'But he hasn't failed me!' Bane said. 'Not yet, anyway. Go about your duty and do not question me again.'
Blackthorne lowered his eyes.
'Deliver my word on this matter personally,' Bane said. 'While you are there, survey the readiness of our troops and the hiring of mercenaries.'
'How should I travel, Lord Bane?'
'Use the emissary spell, you fool. That is why I taught it to you.'
Blackthorne waited.
'You may go,' Bane said.
Blackthorne frowned as he spread his arms wide and recited the emissary spell. The mage knew that, with the instability of magic in the Realms, it was only a matter of time before the spell failed. He might be struck in the form of a raven or changed into something far worse. It could even kill him. But as the magic-user finished the spell, he was transformed into a large raven that sailed at the wall then vanished. This time the spell worked as planned.
Alone in the chamber, Bane found that he had much to think about.
Ronglath Knightsbridge thrust his sword into the floor, then knelt down on one knee before it. He lowered his head and gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands. He had been given private quarters in the Citadel of the Raven, despite the recent overcrowding. When he ate his meals, no one else sat at his table. When he trained with his sword or mace, only his trainer arrived for the sessions. At most times, he was left completely alone.
Knightsbridge was just past forty winters, with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, azure eyes, a moustache, and deeply pitted, sunburned skin. His features were strong and distinctive. He was almost six feet tall, with a very impressive build.
All of his life he had served Zhentil Keep, but now he was in disgrace, and would have gladly taken his own life, but for the interference of Tempus Blackthorne.
Blackthorne, because of his well-meaning sentiments of friendship and loyalty, had damned Knightsbridge to a far greater punishment than death would have afforded him. Knightsbridge turned those thoughts away.
He had others to direct his hate against. There was the wizard Sememmon, for instance, who addressed Knightsbridge as 'the chosen' and laughed at the spy, taunting him before the others whenever possible. Knightsbridge knew that the wizard resented the tie he had to Bane through Blackthorne. If only the wizard knew how greatly Knightsbridge desired to sever the bond himself, he would have laughed at the irony.
Then there was the man who was truly responsible for all that Knightsbridge faced: Kelemvor Lyonsbane.
If it had not been for the interference of the fighter, Knightsbridge would not have been found out, and the torments he had undergone would never have occurred. If not for Kelemvor, his plan to disgrace the city of Arabel might have succeeded.
Knightsbridge clutched the hilt of the sword tightly, until his knuckles became white. Suddenly he threw his head back and released a scream of rage that echoed through the passageways of the fortress he had been assigned to serve in. The scream had been the first sound Knightsbridge had uttered since he came to the citadel.
