At the crossroads outside of the Old Skull Inn, other preparations were being made. At Jhaele Silvermane's farm and on the opposite side of the road slightly further east, at Sulcar Reedo's farm, movable walls made of straw were being constructed to take the brunt of the attack from the Zhentish archers when they reached the town. The warehouse of Weregrund the Trader had been emptied. A small force of men would emerge from the warehouse when the Zhentilar began to fight at the crossroads, hopefully taking the enemy by surprise.
Mourngrym hand-picked the lookouts who would lay signal fires on Harper's Hill and the Old Skull to herald the arrival of the enemy. Only men who had no families to mourn them, no wives to be made widows, were chosen for this task. Before he sent them to their posts, the dalelord checked to be sure they were properly outfitted and supplied should their wait be a long one.
The disbursement of supplies had started in the early hours of the day, but it was an endless task. Jhaele Silvermane and her workers had delivered rations of meat, sweetbreads, and fresh water to each group of men. They gathered tents and bedrolls, too, but these were distributed sporadically.
At the other side of the township, Cyric arrived at the Ashaba bridge and discovered the two-fold resentment of 'his' men almost immediately. First, not one of the men had volunteered his assignment; each had desired to see the glory of battle at the front lines instead of guarding the bridge on the chance that a second force of soldiers would be sent to take Shadowdale from the west. Second, and most importantly, they resented taking orders from an outsider. It was a well-matched union, as Cyric despised having to give orders to what he considered a group of ill-mannered, loudmouthed cretins.
But before Cyric could even consider getting his troops organized, he had a large number of refugees to deal with.
The refugees had gathered by the river. The boats that would take them down to Mistledale had not yet arrived and Cyric ordered a handful of soldiers to see to the well-being of the old people and children as he tried to organize the work details. In time, he walked among the families and was struck by the wellspring of strength he found in their eyes.
Imbeciles, Cyric thought. Didn't they understand that they would probably be leaving their homes forever? The thief found that he couldn't help but toy with the idea Marek had placed in his head: turning and joining the enemy if there was no other option but death. After all, what did he owe these people? If it were not for Midnight, he would have left long ago.
The majority of the refugees were children, or those too infirm either by age or by disability to fight. They all stood and stared as the soldiers dug trenches at either end of the bridge. They knew that these men would likely die to defend homes they no longer lived in, but they knew, too, that running away would have killed most of the soldiers quicker than any Zhentish arrow or sword could.
But as the refugees watched, the men working at the bridge slowed their digging. Most of the men complained loudly, criticizing the dark-haired man who moved among them, barking orders with an ever-shortening temper.
Then a dozen men suddenly threw down their shovels and rose from the half-formed ditch they had toiled in for hours. The leader of the men, a giant of a man named Forester, called out to Cyric, who was busy digging with the soldiers at the other end of the bridge.
'Enough!' Forester screamed, the sweat matting his long, stringy hair to his face. 'Our brothers stand ready to lay down their lives at the eastern border to protect the dale! I say we join them! How many are with me?'
The majority of the soldiers on Forester's side of the bridge threw down their shovels at once and rallied behind the wild-haired fighter. Some of the soldiers on Cyric's side of the bridge had yelled out their support for Forester's plan, and threw down their shovels, too.
Cyric gripped the handle of his shovel and gritted his teeth. 'Damn!' he hissed, and when he turned to rise from the ditch, he saw that all of the refugees were staring at him. His gaze locked on that of a young mother, who stood no more than twenty paces from Cyric, her eyes filled with concern not for her children, but for herself.
Thoughts of his own parents abandoning him as a baby came to Cyric as he averted his gaze and climbed out of the ditch. Forester and his men were already coming across the bridge, weapons drawn, when Cyric barred their way on the other side of the bridge. Although he would have been happy to let these men rush off to their deaths, he would not allow his authority to be questioned.
'Stand aside!' Forester called. 'Else you'll be entering the river without benefit of a ship beneath you!'
'Go back to work,' Cyric said coldly. 'We have orders from Lord Mourngrym to secure this bridge.'
Forester laughed. 'Secure it against what — the setting sun? The wind at our backs? The battle will be to the east. Move aside.'
Forester was closer now, and still Cyric did not move.
'You coward,' Cyric said.
Forester stopped suddenly. 'Brave words from a corpse,' he said as he raised his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, but still, Cyric did not move or draw a weapon.
Cyric's lips drew back. He pointed at the refugees. 'Look there.'
The refugees stood huddled on the bank of the Ashaba. Fear glittered in the eyes of every one of them.
'You wish glory? You wish to lay down your worthless lives? Alright. But will you seek it at the cost of their lives?'
Forester's blade wavered. The murmur of voices began to rise.
'Leave this place and who will protect them? Daggerdale is infested with Bane's Zhentilar! Allow this bridge to fall and you deliver them and Shadowdale into the hands of the enemy!'
Cyric turned his back on Forester. 'Stand with me and you stand with Shadowdale! How say you? How say all of you?'
Silence. Cyric waited for the blade of the giant to pierce his back.
'For Shadowdale,' a voice called.
'For Shadowdale!' more voices cried. Then a chorus of loud, angry voices picked up the call. Even the refugees joined in.
'For Shadowdale!' a voice called directly behind Cyric. He turned, and Forester raised his weapon high overhead as he chanted with the others.
'Aye,' Cyric said at last, and all fell silent. 'For Shadowdale. Now get back to work.'
The efforts of the soldiers redoubled, and in the far distance Cyric saw the first of the ships that would carry the refugees to safety.
'For Shadowdale,' a woman said to the thief as she headed for a boat, her eyes positively aflame with Cyric's words, tears streaming down her face. Cyric nodded, although he felt nothing but contempt for these weak-willed sheep who sought to hide behind their belief in their gods or their country to justify their actions rather than confront life head on. He turned from her as he took his place in the ditch, his patience for dreamers and cowards at an end.
He had convinced the others that staying behind was the correct choice.
Now all he had to do was convince himself.
As Cyric got the refugees loaded onto boats and on their way down the Ashaba, and drove his men on as they dug their trench at the bridge, Adon was cloistered in Elminster's tower. After the cleric and the sage had returned from the Temple of Tymora early in the morning, Elminster set Adon to work in the cluttered antechamber that Lhaeo normally occupied.
'You are to find all references to the following names,' Elminster said. 'Then study and learn the spells set forth by each of them in their lifetime. They are all contained in these volumes. Make lists that we might access them again.'
'But my spells fail me,' Adon said. 'I don't know — '
'Nor do I, but as the Realms depend on us all, I think now's the time to find out, do you not agree?' Then the sage was gone, and the cleric poured over the tomes until Midnight arrived and they left for the temple.
By the time Adon, Midnight, and Elminster reached the Temple of Lathander, a purple haze was drifting across the evening sky, and it was already time for eveningfeast. The sage, the cleric, and the magic-user passed through a nearly empty town, though they could hear Cyric's men digging to the west and the soldiers building fortifications to the east.
As they approached the building, Adon and Midnight could see that Lathander's temple had been constructed
