Shadowdale

'I'll sleep on the floor,' Midnight said at last. 'I prefer it for my back. You remember to keep covered and warm.'

Cyric frowned. 'I'm too old to be mothered. You should worry about yourself, not about me — '

Midnight held out her hand, motioning for him to stop. 'We must make you well,' she said softly. 'You must be strong for your journey.'

Cyric seemed confused. 'What journey?'

'Your search for that better place,' the mage said. 'You don't have to accompany me any farther. The way between Tilverton and Shadowdale should be clear. I can make it there alone.'

Cyric shook his head and tried to sit up. Midnight gently pushed him back on the bed. 'There is no need,' he said. 'No need to go on alone.'

'But, Cyric, I can't ask you to come with me. You need to rest, to heal — '

Cyric had already made up his mind. 'There must be healing potions in this place. Medications, salves. Everything in town seems to be here for the taking. Find something to heal me, and I'll be by your side for as long as you need me.'

'I wouldn't have left until you were well,' she said.

'Your mission is urgent. You can't afford to wait.'

'I know that,' Midnight said. 'But I would have stayed just the same. After all, you're my friend.'

For the first time in a long time, Cyric smiled.

Kelemvor was alone on the streets. The storm was hanging directly overhead, and the drops of rain, now orange, fell on him as he searched for the smithy. Eventually, he found the blacksmith hard at work in the shelter of his shop, and he ducked inside as the rain started to fall harder.

The smith was a burly man with a build similar to Kelemvor's. He had curly black hair, and the flesh of his bare arms was bruised in places and seared black in others. The smith did not look up from his work as the fighter approached. The bright metal shoes he created for the nearby horse were almost ready, and he turned to test the pair he had set aside to cool.

'A moment of your time,' Kelemvor said.

The blacksmith ignored the fighter, training his gaze on the job before him. Kelemvor cleared his throat noisily, but that, too, was ignored. However, Kelemvor was cold and tired and in no mood to be insulted.

The fighter peeled off the armor where the brigands' arrows had struck him. He threw the steel plates at the smith, knocking the red-hot tools from his hands. The man bent low to retrieve the instrument before the hay at his feel could catch fire, and he examined the armor plating. Then he looked up to see the ravaged flesh of the fighter's arm, where fragments of the brigands' arrows had lodged themselves.

'I can mend this,' the smith said without emotion. 'But I can do nothing for your wounds.'

'Are there no healers in Tilverton?' Kelemvor asked. 'I saw a large temple over the roofs of the shops down the street.'

The man turned away. 'The Temple of Gond.'

'All right, I saw the Temple of Gond. There must be clerics who could — '

'Remove the rest of your armor so I can get to work,' the smith interrupted. 'Then you can go to the temple yourself. I only heal metals.'

Kelemvor gave the smith his armor and put on some clothes he had taken from the party's supplies. The smith worked silently, ignoring the fighter's questions no matter if he screamed them or couched them in all the politeness he could muster. When he was done hammering out the damaged armor, the blacksmith refused to take any payment.

'It's my duty to Gond,' the smith said as Kelemvor wandered back into the street.

Kelemvor found the Temple of Gond without difficulty, despite the rain. Occasionally he passed a commoner wandering the streets or lying on the walk outside a shop, but the people he met were indifferent to his presence, their eyes vacant, staring at something only they could see. He also found the greatest concentration of smith shops he had ever seen in one area, though they were generally deserted.

When Kelemvor finally reached the temple, he saw that it had an entrance constructed in the form of a great anvil. The building itself was made of stark, powerful shapes that rose up to dwarf the hovels and shops around it. There were fires burning within the temple, and an unending chorus of worship sounded from the doorway.

As he entered the Temple of Gond, the fighter was surprised by the vast expanse of the main chamber. If there were quarters for the high priests in the temple, they must surely have been underground, since every square foot of the ground floor had been devoted to the chamber.

In the chamber, worshipers crowded around a hooded high priest who stood atop a huge stone anvil. Giant stone hands were visible at either side of the altar; a gigantic hammer was poised in one of them. Fires had been lit in the four corners surrounding the hooded man.

The support pillars that rose up to the arched ceiling were carved in the form of swords, and the windows were framed with an interlocking series of hammers. It was hard to understand the exact words of the high priest, as the continuous shouting from the audience drowned out all but a few key phrases, but it was clear that the high priest was issuing an endless series of praises to his god and an equal number of condemnations to the commoners of Tilverton.

'The gods walk the Realms!' a man beside Kelemvor shouted. 'Why has Lord Gond forsaken us?'

But the man's words were swallowed up in the endless flow of chants and screams. Kelemvor judged that nearly the entire population of the small town was crowded into the temple, though occasionally, a few worshipers would wander out.

'Wait!' the priest would cry as people tried to leave. 'Lord Gond has not abandoned us. He has given me the gift of healing to keep the faithful well until he arrives!' Few seemed to be swayed by this, but some of the people were persuaded to stay.

Listening to the Tilvertonians, Kelemvor learned that they had devoted themselves exclusively to the worship of Gond, God of Blacksmiths and Artificers. When tales of the gods walking the Realms reached the city, the people began to prepare for the arrival of their deity. They stood at readiness, waiting for some sign, some communication.

They waited in vain. Gond had risen in Lantan and did not make any attempt to contact his devoted worshipers in Tilverton. When a small group from the town reached Lantan and requested an audience with the god, they were turned away. When they persisted, two of them were slain and the others forced to flee for their lives. When this story was related to the townsfolk, it broke their spirit. Now they spent almost every waking hour in the temple, attempting to contact their god, attempting to disprove what they already knew in their hearts.

Gond didn't care about Tilverton.

Kelemvor was about to leave the temple when he noticed the silver-haired man standing to the rear of the chamber. A short, dark-haired girl stood beside him, her attentions riveted on his beautiful, unearthly face. No one else seemed to notice the man, and he turned away from the girl without acknowledging her presence. She turned and ran behind him as he walked to the place where Kelemvor stood and looked into the eyes of the fighter, a slight grin playing over his face. The eyes of the silver-haired man were bluish gray, with tiny red flecks floating through them. His skin was pale, although fine silver hairs were growing on his face and arms.

'Brother,' the man said simply, then walked away.

Kelemvor turned and tried to catch the man or the girl, but when the fighter got to the street, the silver- haired man was nowhere to be seen.

After standing for a moment in the purple and green hail that was now falling on Tilverton, the fighter returned to the temple. As Kelemvor again stood at the rear of the main chamber, a young woman, a priestess, caught his eye. The fires of belief had not dimmed in her eyes: they burned bright enough to set the night sky aflame. She was very beautiful and wore a white gown tied at the waist by a leather belt. Intricate patterns had been woven into the fabric of her gown, and steel plates covered her shoulders. The odd mixture of delicate silks and hard steel somehow lent even more power to her appearance.

The fighter pushed his way through the crowd and was soon talking to the priestess, whose name was Phylanna.

'I need a place to stay,' Kelemvor said.

'You'll need more than that,' the priestess said, 'judging from your injuries. Are you a follower of