“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.
3
Black Oaks
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 the 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.