This is not the end, thought Noph, not by a long shot. He had begun the evening a disaffected young noble. Judging by others of his breed, he had been clearly destined to become a jaded and decadent middle-aged noble. But something had happened along the way. Somehow he'd caught a glimpse of what he was going to be and had boldly worked to change it all.
He had decided to be a hero.
Why, then, was he imprisoned in a dungeon cell, awaiting trial and execution as an assassin?
He had heard that such was often the lot of heroes-to be misunderstood and branded villains. Only now did it occur to him just how galling was such a fate. He had been disowned by his father, had risked his skin to save Lord Piergeiron and Lady Eidola, and at the end of it all, had been labelled a monster.
'Some hero I turned out to be,' he told himself dismally.
A scream sounded above, then shouts, and curses, and the rumble of soldiers' feet. A man's voice came echoing down into the dungeon. 'Guards, everyone! Above! Above!'
The young soldier who had been sitting outside Noph's cell was suddenly gone, his chair no longer leaning against the wall but rattling dully where he had been.
There was a new catastrophe in the sanctuary above.
Noph's own voice echoed in his head: Some hero you'll turn out to be if you give up now. They need you up there.
From all of Waterdeep, the Open Lord had selected Noph to trust-Noph and three others. Just because Noph was accused of betraying that trust did not mean he was guilty of doing so.
Not yet, at least.
He stood up. In the dim light sifting into his cell, he began to study the walls and door for some means of escape. He'd get out of this cell, aid Piergeiron in the new conflict, and find the woman with the burr in her voice- no, not just her, but her whole clan of assassins.
A hero could do no less.
As the shadows fell about him, Piergeiron wearily drew his sword. He glimpsed Eidola's white face, eyes wide, one hand clutching the gem at her throat.
Next moment, the warriors solidified, flame to flesh, and dropped to the floor. With their descent, a magical darkness also fell.
'Stay behind me,' Piergeiron shouted to his bride. 'I don't want to kill you in this blackness.'
Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another, and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.
Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.
They're after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will not survive this.
The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared, converging on the couple.
A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron's waist. Someone blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword overhead, m this black crush of panicked guests, he could accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide. The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the mad press. He reeled.
'Eidola!' he shouted. 'Are you still there?'
He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but felt her pressed, back to back against him.
A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then another fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the people had cleared away.
'It's just us now. Eidola. They want one or both of us.' His blade sliced the air before them. 'I wonder where Khelben has gotten off to.'
Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill, the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, 'Who are you, and what business have you here?'
'You know our business, I'm sure. Lord Piergeiron,' came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. 'As to who we are, you must find that out yourselves.'
'You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural night, but we cannot,' Piergeiron said, angered by the pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge, 'Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way.' 'Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in this darkness?' 'If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight and slay you, yes,' growled Piergeiron.
'The way is clear, Open Lord,' came the reply. 'My warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honourable duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your bride'
'I accept,' said Piergeiron.
He closed his eyes-they were no good to him in this darkness anyway-and let his pure soul sense the presence of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. A smallish image came to his mind's eye-the faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood the warrior's comrades, holding back the crowd.
In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, 'Do you see them? Do you sense them-with your soul? Close your eyes. You can feel where they are-'
She was still behind him, but only silence answered his question.
'You can do it, Eidola,' the Open Lord insisted. 'Summon the good in you'
'Are you ready to die, Paladinson?' interrupted the nasty voice.
Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride. Then he turned toward the shimmering form. 'Your evil betrays you, shadow man.'
Raising his sword overhead, Piergeiron advanced on the figure. Halcyon swept downward in a deadly arc, and the shadow warrior jumped back. 'Not so blind, after all, eh Thickskull?' taunted the voice.
'There is blindness, and there is blindness,' replied Piergeiron, swinging the blade again. It rushed in and rang off of a metal breastplate. At last, something to fight against. He followed with a third stroke, and this time the image seemed to wince.
'First blood to me,' Piergeiron noted calmly.
'Last blood to me,' responded the voice.
Piergeiron was surprised by a stinging blow to his side. He drew back, considering. This man was evil, but his sword was not; of course it did not appear in his mind's eye. That mistake would not be made twice.
Piergeiron darted in, quick for a man his size. He hurled a heavy blow down on his opponent. Sword rang on sword, then grated away to one side. Piergeiron followed the weight of his blade, turning its tip to drive inward. The shadow warrior was too fast, though, batting Halcyon away and sending out his own blow.
The Open Lord ducked back, then lunged, landing a second attack.
'I thought I would regret having to kill you,' the warrior hissed in pain, 'But I will not regret it at all.'
The cell door proved rotten around its barred window. A repeated series of kicks to the bars at last tore them free of the spongy wood. The iron dropped to the ground and rattled loudly.
Now, Noph needed merely to wriggle through… After a lot of shimmying, a few select curses, and one moment of panic when he was stuck halfway in and halfway out, Noph won free of the door and rolled out onto his shoulders. He let out a blast of air as he landed.
'Better my shoulders than my head,' he muttered.
The reborn hero stood and brushed himself off. He took a deep breath. 'Time for some true valor.'
With that thought, Noph strode to the dim, winding stairs and climbed upward, toward the screaming above.
