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  After several moments of silence, Fane asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “About what?” Cyric asked absently.

  “The murderer,” Fane replied. He used his toe to turn the body over, strangely fascinated by its grotesque wounds. “We’ve got to find him.”

  “That might be foolish,” Dalzhel said, grimacing at the way Fane played with the body. “If we send men to look for the murderer, we’re exposing them to attack.”

  Cyric and his lieutenant were thinking along the same lines. During his life, Cyric had known many evil men. Not one was capable of what he had seen tonight. “Have the men gather in groups of six,” the thief ordered. “One group in the great hall—” A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions.

  “The stable,” Dalzhel observed.

  The men mumbled, but stood still and waited for their orders.

  Again, the pony whinnied, this time sending chills down Cyric’s spine. “We’d better have a look,” he said, cringing at the thought of what they would find.

  The men on the stairs reluctantly started toward the stable, Cyric and Dalzhel close behind.

  By the time the hawk-nosed man reached the ground floor, the pony was quiet. As Cyric stepped into the courtyard, a ghostly wail whistled through the castle. Outside the stable, ten men stood with their swords drawn, peering inside and clearly reluctant to enter. Cyric slopped his way across the ward and pushed them aside. Grabbing a torch, he entered the stable, his sword arm aching with the desire to lash out at something.

  The pony lay dead in its stall, a withered and puckered hole over its heart. The lips of its muzzle were twisted back in horror, and one eye stared directly at Cyric.

  Dalzhel approached and stood next to his commander. For a moment, he observed in silence, wondering whether or not Cyric was mourning the beast’s death. Then he noticed something on the beam over the stall. “Look!”

  A circle of drops had been drawn in blood. Cyric had little trouble recognizing the Circle of Tears. It was the symbol of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, God of Assassins.

  Kelemvor reined his horse to a stop and lifted his waterskin to his lips. He thought he smelled smoke, but that was no wonder. Despite the absence of the sun, which had simply failed to appear that morning, the day was blistering. A flickering, swirling orange fog clung to the ground, bathing everything it touched in dry heat.

  The fog had leached all moisture from the soil, turning the road into a ribbon of powdery dust that choked man and beast alike. The horses moved slowly and resentfully, stopping every few steps to sniff for the cool odor of a river or pond. Kelemvor knew they would find no water. The company had already crossed several brooks, and the only thing in the streambeds had been billows of orange mist.

  After washing the dust from his mouth, Kelemvor turned his rugged face to the left. Through the fog, the forest that ran along the road’s left flank was barely visible. He sniffed the air and definitely smelled smoke. It carried a greasy odor resembling burned meat. Visions of battles involving razed towns and villages came unbidden to his mind.

  “I smell smoke,” Kelemvor said, twisting around to face his companions.

  The second rider, Adon, stopped and sniffed the air. “So do I,” he said. He kept his head slightly turned to hide the scar beneath his left eye. “I would guess there’s a fire, wouldn’t you?”

  “We should have a look,” Kelemvor said.

  “What for?” Adon demanded, waving his hand at the fog. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the air itself were burning.”

  Kelemvor sniffed again. It was difficult to be sure, but he still thought he smelled scorched meat. “Can’t you smell it?” he asked. “Burned flesh?”

  The third rider stopped behind Kelemvor and Adon, her black cape now gray with road-silt, her hair braided into a pony tail. “I smell it, too,” Midnight said, inhaling. “Like charred mutton?”

  Sighing, Adon turned to face Midnight. “It’s probably a campfire,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Absent-mindedly, the cleric rested a hand on the reason for his concern, the saddlebags containing the Tablet of Fate. Nothing was more important than getting it to Waterdeep as quickly as possible. Adon did not want to waste a single moment with detours, especially after the troubles of the last few days.

  Kelemvor knew the source of Adon’s concern. After escaping the zombie riders, they had gone to Wheloon to rest. However, the trio had scarcely arrived when Lord Sarp Redbeard accused Kelemvor of murdering a local merchant. When the town watch attempted to seize the fighter, the trio had been forced to escape on stolen horses.

  If Adon wasn’t worried about the Wheloon Watch, then he was concerned about the Zhentilar. After Wheloon, the three companions had ridden to Hilp and turned south toward Suzail. From there, they intended to take passage across the Dragonmere to Ilipur, where they could join a caravan bound for Waterdeep.

  They had made it only as far as the Starwater Bridge when six Zhentilar had ambushed them. Kelemvor had wanted to stay and fight, but Adon had wisely insisted upon fleeing. Though the green-eyed warrior had been strong enough to fight, Adon and Midnight had been too weary to face two-to-one odds.

  Kelemvor doubted that the Zhentilar or the Wheloon Watch was pursuing them. The watch consisted of merchants and tradesmen. They had surely turned back after a day’s ride. It was even more certain that the Zhentilar were not following. Inside Cormyr, they might survive hiding by day and skulking about at night. But if the Zhentish soldiers dared to move openly, it would be only a day or two before a Cormyrian patrol tracked them down and finished them.

  “Don’t worry, Adon,” Kelemvor said. “We have time to do a little exploring. I’m sure of that much.”

  “What are you unsure about?” Midnight asked. She had long ago learned what Kelemvor left unstated could be more important than what he said.

  Knowing it would be futile to hide his concern, Kelemvor said, “I don’t understand why we met Zhentilar in Cormyrian territory. It makes no sense.”

  Midnight relaxed. “It makes plenty of sense. They serve Cyric. He’s trying to keep us from using the southern route.”

  Kelemvor and Adon exchanged knowing glances. “If I believed Cyric wished us to go north,” Kelemvor snapped, “that would be reason enough to go south.”

  “At any cost,” Adon added, nodding.

  “Why do you say that?” Midnight asked sharply.

  “Because Cyric wants me dead,” Kelemvor replied.

  It was an old subject. For nearly a week, Midnight had been laboring to convince her friends that Cyric had not betrayed them by joining the Zhentilar.

  “Whose arrows saved us five nights ago?” Midnight demanded, referring to the mysterious archer who had aided them against the zombie riders. She looked away and stared into the forest, confident they could not provide a satisfactory answer.

  “I don’t know,” Kelemvor responded, determined not to let Midnight have the last word. “But they weren’t Cyric’s. He wouldn’t have missed me and hit the riders instead.”

  Midnight started to protest, but thought better of it and dropped the subject. Kelemvor would not change his opinion easily. “Let’s get on with it,” she said sternly.

  “Yes,” Adon agreed, urging his horse onward. “Every hour forward is an hour closer to Waterdeep.”

  Kelemvor grabbed Adon’s reins. “Into the forest,” he said.

  “But …” Frustrated by Kelemvor’s refusal to accept his leadership in even this simple thing, Adon jerked his reins out of Kelemvor’s hand. “I won’t go,” he pouted. “It’s just someone roasting a sheep.”

  Annoyed by Adon’s obstinacy, Kelemvor set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. But he stopped himself from being as stubborn as Adon. Instead, he said, “If you’re right, this will only take a minute. But if you’re wrong, somebody might need our help.”

  Despite his reasonable tone, Kelemvor was determined not to leave without investigating the smoke. It carried t
he smell of death by fire, and to him that meant someone was in trouble.

  And now that he could, Kelemvor Lyonsbane was anxious to offer his help to anyone who truly needed it.

  For five generations, the men in Kelemvor’s family had been forced to sell their fighting skills because of their ancestor’s greed. Kyle Lyonsbane, a ruthless mercenary, had once deserted a powerful sorceress in the midst of battle so he could loot an enemy camp. In retaliation, she had cursed him so that he changed into a panther whenever he indulged his greed or lust. In Kyle’s descendants, the curse had reversed and manifested itself whenever they attempted to perform selfless acts.

  The curse had been more of a prison than any man could imagine. Forced into a career as a mercenary, Kelemvor had appeared to be as ruthless as his ancestor had been. Consequently, his life had been one of isolation and loneliness.

  As strange as it seemed, Lord Bane, the God of Strife, had changed all that. Through a complicated series of events, Kelemvor had tricked Bane into removing his family curse. He was now free to help others, and he was determined to never again turn away from someone in need.

  When Adon showed no sign of agreeing to Kelemvor’s request, it was Midnight who settled the matter. Sniffing the air again, she said, “I do smell burned flesh.” Despite the fact that she was still angry at the fighter for his condemnation of Cyric, Midnight agreed with Kelemvor. “Come on, Adon. Kel’s right.”

  Adon sighed, resigned to the detour. “Then let’s make this as fast as we can.”

  Kelemvor led the way into the forest. There, the fog did not seem as thick, nor the temperature as hot. As far back into its depths as they could see, the forest was ablaze with blood-colored sumac leaves. The three companions continued forward, pausing every few minutes to sniff the air and make sure that they were continuing in the right direction.

  Presently, they found a path leading farther into the wood. As they progressed, the odor of smoke and charred flesh became stronger. Eventually, they had to dismount and lead their horses, for the trail was narrow and ran beneath low-hanging branches. After five minutes of walking, the path started up a small hillock. Every now and then, gummy black smoke rolled down the trail, mixing with the orange fog. Presently, the sumacs thinned out, giving way to a ring of black oaks that towered eighty feet over the tops of the smaller trees nearby.

  In the center of the ring of oaks was a scorched and trampled circle fifty yards in diameter. A fire had cleared the entire area. Here and there, rubble lay heaped in knee-high mounds. Though the village had obviously burned some time ago, several wrecked houses still emitted thin columns of greasy smoke.

  Pointing at a pile of stones around a pit, Midnight was the first to speak, “That must have been a well.”

  “What happened?” Adon gasped.

  “Let’s see if we can find out,” Kelemvor said, tying his horse to a sumac tree. He went up the hillock to the first pile of rubble, then began tossing aside sooty stones.

  The small structure, no more than fifteen feet on a side, had been constructed with great care. A fine mortar and rock foundation extended four feet into the ground, and someone had used mud to chink the walls and keep out the wind.

  Eventually, Kelemvor came upon a tiny hand. Had it not been wrinkled and weathered, he would have assumed it belonged to a girl. He quickly pulled the rest of the body from beneath the stones. The hand belonged to a woman. Though no taller than a child and lighter than Kelemvor’s sword, she had been old. The oils and pigment had long ago drained from her skin, leaving it ashen and cracked. Her face had been a kind one, with eyes that were friendly and soft even in death.

  Kelemvor gently laid her on the ground beside her collapsed home.

  “Halflings!” Midnight exclaimed. “Why would anybody raze a halfling village?”

  Kelemvor simply shook his head. Halflings did not hoard gold or treasure. In fact, they usually had little of value to creatures other than halflings. The fighter went back to his horse and began taking the saddle off.

  “What are you doing?” Adon demanded, calculating they had at least two hours of light left.

  “Making camp,” Kelemvor replied. “This may take some time.”

  “No, absolutely not!” Adon objected. “We came up here, and now we’ve got to go! I’m very firm about that.”

  “A man—even a small man—deserves a burial,” Kelemvor said, pausing to glare at Adon. “There was a time when I would not have needed to remind you of that.”

  Adon could not hide the hurt Kelemvor had caused him. “I haven’t forgotten, Kel. But Waterdeep is weeks away, and each hour we delay brings the world closer to ruin.”

  Kelemvor dropped his saddle, then removed the bit from his horse’s mouth. “There may be survivors who need help.”

  “Survivors?” Adon screeched. “Are you mad? The place has been sacked to the last rat.” When Kelemvor did not respond, Adon turned to Midnight. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him we don’t have time. This may take days.”

  Midnight didn’t respond immediately. Though he was as stubborn as ever, this was not the Kelemvor she remembered. That man had been selfish and untouchable. This one was consumed by the misfortune of a people he didn’t even know. Perhaps his curse had been responsible for more of his callousness and vanity than she realized. Perhaps he had truly changed.

  Unfortunately, Midnight knew that Adon was right. Kelemvor had picked a poor time to exhibit his new personality. They had a long journey ahead of them and could not afford to waste a single day.

  The mage dismounted and moved to Kelemvor’s side. “You’ve changed more than I would have believed possible,” she said, “and this gentle Kelemvor is one I like. But now is not the time. We need the old Kelemvor these days, the man whom a titan could not sway.”

  He looked at Midnight. “If I turn away from these halflings, what good has it done to remove my curse?”

  It was Adon who answered. “If you let the Realms perish, what will it matter that your curse has been lifted? Stop thinking of yourself and let’s be on our way!”

  Kelemvor simply turned toward the halfling village and, over his shoulder, said, “You do as you must and I’ll do the same.”

  Midnight sighed. There would be no reasoning with Kelemvor now. “I’ll make camp,” she said. “We need a rest anyway, and this place looks well hidden.” She tied her horse to a tree and began clearing brush away from an area at the hillock’s base.

  Frowning, Adon resigned himself to Kelemvor’s stubbornness and also tied his horse. Then he gave the saddlebags with the tablet to Midnight and moved to help Kelemvor.

  “I suppose you’ll finish sooner with an extra pair of hands,” the cleric said gruffly. The statement sounded more harsh and vindictive than he’d meant it to. Adon had no wish to see the halflings remain unburied, but he couldn’t help being angry at Kelemvor.

  The fighter eyed Adon coldly. “I suppose the halflings are beyond caring who lays them to rest,” he said.

  They worked for an hour and a half, uncovering two dozen bodies, many of them burned horribly. Adon’s mood turned from angry to downcast. Although three halfling males had perished defending the outskirts of the village, the victims were mostly women and children. They had been beaten, slashed, and trampled. When they had run into their homes for refuge, the structures had been put to the torch and pulled down on top of them.

  There were no survivors, at least in the village, and no indication of why the settlement had been destroyed.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll dig their graves,” Kelemvor said, noting that the daylight was fading and it was almost dusk. “We should be finished and on our way by noon.” He hoped the delay would be acceptable; he had no wish to antagonize Adon further.

  “I saw no sign of a burial ground,” Adon said. “It might be better to cremate them tonight.”

  Kelemvor frowned. He suspected Adon was trying to rush him, but he was no expert on halfling funerals. If anybody knew the form of the ceremony, it w
ould be Adon. “I’ll think it over while we rest,” the fighter replied.

  They returned to the edge of the hillock, where Midnight had created a small clearing and made beds from cut brush. As Kelemvor and Adon approached, Midnight said, “I’m starving! Where are the corn biscuits?”

  “In my saddlebags,” Kelemvor responded, pointing at his gear.

  Midnight grabbed his saddlebags and looked inside, then turned them upside down. A few crumbs fell out, but nothing else.

  Kelemvor frowned. “Are you sure those are mine?” he asked. “There should be a dagger, a heavy cloak and gloves, a bag of meal, and several dozen cakes of cornbread in there.”

  “I think they’re yours,” Midnight replied. She grabbed another set of saddlebags and turned them over. The tablet and Adon’s mirror spilled out, but nothing else.

  “We’ve been robbed!” Adon yelled. His cloak, food, and eating utensils were gone.

  Alarmed, Midnight grabbed her own saddlebags and began rummaging through them. “Here’s my dagger, my spellbook, my cloak …” She pulled each item out as she named it. “Nothing’s missing.”

  The three companions stared dumbly at their camp for a minute, hardly able to believe that someone had robbed them. Finally, Adon picked up the tablet and hugged it.

  “At least they didn’t take this,” he said, putting it back in his saddlebags. Though he would miss the rest of his gear, he was so relieved not to have lost the tablet that he felt happy.

  Kelemvor wasn’t so optimistic. “We’ll have a hungry night unless I catch us something to eat,” he said. “Perhaps you should start a cooking fire, Adon.” He removed the flint and steel from the pouch that hung at his neck and handed them to the cleric.

  Midnight nodded, then gathered her things and placed them near Adon. “I saw a butternut tree as we came in. Its fruits are nourishing, if bitter.” The mage stood up and brushed herself off. “Take care of what the thieves left us, Adon,” Midnight said, turning toward the forest.