walk or ride into the trap. Yet even if they tried to go through the forest, around the tangle of branches, the Zhentilar would find the flanking woods similarly set.
Connel gave the signal. A single flash from the other direction told him that it had been received. He climbed down from the tree and quickly woke three other archers who stealthily assumed their positions in the trees somewhat closer to the road. The sound of men hacking away and attempting to crawl under or push through the branches filled the night, covering any sounds the archers might have made as they readied themselves, moving to their blinds and readying the quivers of arrows that had been left at each position.
Someone sent these men like cattle to the slaughter, Connel thought. Then the leader of the four archers gave the order to fire on the Zhentilar.
Suddenly the shouts of annoyance and fury became the screams of the dying as a hail of arrows erupted from the trees, skewering Bane's troops. More archers arrived from the contingents behind the first group, taking up temporary positions in the trees beside the road.
A few of the Zhentilar pressed through the barriers, some using the corpses of their fellow soldiers as shields from the rain of arrows from above. They yelled curses as they rushed forward and did not see the huge wooden stakes that had been planted in the road, aimed chest high, until they impaled themselves.
Connel and the first group of Shadowdale archers began to fall back, climbing from their positions to the safe route through the woods that would put them behind the next line of defense, a series of pits in the road that had been carefully camouflaged. The pits were three feet deep, with a single stake rising up from their center.
The second group of archers was climbing down behind the first, preparing to follow them back toward town, when Connel Greylore thanked the gods that none of the Shadowdale archers had yet been killed by the Zhentilar. He didn't hear the notching of arrows from behind on the road as the Zhentish archers loosed a volley of arrows over the wall of branches. Suddenly there were hundreds of arrows sailing through the air. Almost all of them struck trees or became imbedded in branches or fell harmlessly to the road.
Connel Greylore didn't even feel the arrow that pierced his back and split his heart, killing him instantly.
Bane's men fought for hours in the darkness as they hacked through the myriad defenses of the road. Each time they found a stretch that seemed to have been left defenseless, Bane insisted on his troops reforming their line. The foot soldiers would march out in front, and inevitably be the first to fall back and break the line as they discovered new traps hidden in the road. The soldiers died as they fell into the pits or were pressed into caltrops by the press of the troops behind them.
Bane was ecstatic. With each death his power grew, just as Myrkul had promised. The body of the Black Lord glowed with a red aura, a visible result of the soul energies he absorbed. The intensity of the aura increased as more men — both Zhentilar and dalesmen — died, and the Black Lord had difficulty suppressing his delight.
Nevertheless, Bane feigned anger at the incompetence of his troops for not being able to overcome such simple defenses as he drove them on to their deaths.
'Not a speck of dust should be left in this temple that we don't know about,' Elminster said. He was quite serious, though he knew he was asking the impossible. 'Any items of a personal nature must be removed from this hall, as well. There's no telling what may prove useful to our enemy.'
After the horrors Adon had encountered in the desecrated Temple of Tymora, he was reluctant to participate in Elminster's plans for the Temple of Lathander. Ultimately, though, the cleric was forced to think of the temple in the most base terms. It was brick and mortar, stone and steel, glass and dripping wax. A different configuration of these elements and he might have been standing in a stable or an inn.
If it had been Sune's temple, Adon wondered, could he have been so cold and calculating? He touched the scar that lined his face.
He didn't know.
And so he busied himself with the tasks that had been laid out for him. The windows facing the invisible stairway on every floor of the temple were opened, their shutters removed. The windows that faced in all other directions were nailed shut. However, as he moved around the temple, Adon couldn't keep himself from noticing the small items that had been left behind in every room he visited. This was a place of fierce devotion and belief, and yet it was also a place where men and woman laughed and cried over the joys and sorrows life had brought to them.
One of the beds was unmade. Adon stopped his work and set about the task of making it before he realized what he was doing. He drew back from the bed, as if the power of the priest who had lay there that morning would reach up and destroy him.
As Adon stepped back from the bed, he noticed a black leather journal hidden beneath a pillow. The journal lay face down and open. Adon turned it over and read the final entry. It read:
Today I died to save Shadowdale. Tomorrow I shall be reborn in the kingdom of Lathander.
The journal fell from his hands and Adon ran from the small room, the window he was supposed to nail shut still open, its curtains blowing gently in the gathering winds that caressed the temple as if they were alive.
The cleric returned to the main chamber, and Midnight was surprised by the pale, worn look on the cleric's face as he approached. She knew that he had been struggling to maintain his resolve, even in the face of his grief and confusion, but there was little she could do to help him.
Or herself, for that matter.
But as the magic-user thought about the battle that was to come, she could not help but think of Kelemvor. And although Midnight regretted the harshness of her final exchange with the fighter, she knew that Kelemvor had found her out. No matter what she might say, she loved him. Perhaps, she thought, he loves me, too.
Midnight had long ago discovered that Kelemvor had a vulnerable side; his posturing was meant to draw attention away from the dark secret of his curse. He was more intelligent and caring than he would ever be willing to admit. And that gave Midnight hope.
Perhaps, she thought.
The sound of Adon yelling grabbed Midnight's attention, and she let the possibilities of her relationship with Kelemvor slip away. The cleric was standing next to the old sage, repeating the same phrase over and over, but Elminster was ignoring him.
'It's done!' the cleric screamed.
The sage of Shadowdale turned a page in the book he was studying.
'It's done!' Adon yelled again. Elminster finally looked up, nodded, mumbled, and went back to the crumbling tome he poured over, gingerly turning the pages so they would not become dust and cheat him of some secret bit of knowledge that might turn the tide in the battle with Bane.
Adon walked off to sulk in a corner.
Midnight watched the old man, and absently fingered the pendant. The great hall of the temple had been cleared, the pews moved off to the sides of the room. The dark-haired magic-user had given up her efforts to fathom the sage's reasoning. All would be made clear, he had promised. There was little she could do but place her trust in the wizened sage.
'Do you wish to use the pendant now, good Elminster?' Midnight said as she walked to the sage's side.
Elminster's face was suddenly plagued with a half-dozen new wrinkles. His beard seemed to draw up slightly. 'That trinket? What use have I for that? Ye may keep it. Perhaps it will fetch a pretty penny at the fair in Tantras.'
Midnight bit her lip. 'Then what would you have me do here?' she asked.
Elminster shrugged. 'Fortify this place, perhaps.'
Midnight shook her head. 'But how? You didn't — '
Elminster leaned over and whispered in her ear. 'Do ye not remember the rite of Chiah, Warden of Darkness?'
'Of Elki, of Apenimon, draw from thy power — '
Elminster grinned. 'The dream dance of Lukyan Lutherum?'
Midnight felt her lips tremble. She recited the incantation perfectly, yet Elminster stopped her before she could finish.
'Read for me now, from the sacred scrolls of Knotum, Seif, Seker…'
The words erupted from Midnight and suddenly a blinding flash of light filled the room. Then, a beautiful, intricate pattern of blue-white light raced across the walls, floor, and ceiling. It burst through the partially opened
