Javia nodded. “Something like that. We are the wealth by which the gods measure their—”
“By which they measure their status,” Adon interrupted. “Tell me, what contest are they playing at now? Is it worth the destruction of the world?”
Javia looked up at the sparkling sky, then, oblivious—or indifferent—to Adon’s anger, she said, “I fear this is no game. The gods are fighting for control of the Realms and the Planes.”
“Then I wish they’d take their battle someplace else,” Kelemvor said hotly, waving his hand at the sky. “We want no part of it.”
“That is not our choice,” Javia said sternly, wagging her finger at Kelemvor as though he were a child.
“How can you be so dedicated to them?” Adon demanded, shaking his head in amazement. “We don’t matter to them!”
Though he disagreed with Javia, the scarred cleric was glad that she had wandered into camp. Despite the intensity of the argument, he felt more at peace with himself than he had in ages. Javia’s succinct opposition helped him see that he had been right to abandon Sune. Serving a goddess who did not care about her worshipers was not only foolish, it was wrong. Mankind had too many problems to waste its energy in the unproductive worship of vain deities.
The debate continued for twenty minutes without any resolution. Javia was too vehemently faithful and Adon too determinedly heretical for them to reconcile their differences.
When the conversation deteriorated into a pointless and repetitive argument, Kelemvor excused himself and went to his bedroll. “If the two clerics are going to stay up all night arguing,” he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes, “they can keep the watch.”
9
Bad Company
The trail bent south and ran along the base of some rolling hills. The sun kindled a golden hue in the tufts of drab grass that speckled the dusty soil. Here and there, a few reddish cliffs dotted the barren hillsides, the crisp morning light igniting blazing tones in the sandy rock.
Without warning or reason, one cliff burst into fire, burned for a few minutes, then collapsed. Flaming boulders bounced down the hill, touching off small fires wherever they touched the greenery.
Ignoring the mysterious eruption, Bhaal—who now used Kae Deverell’s haggard body as an avatar—guided his and Midnight’s mounts into the hills. Though the cliff’s spontaneous combustion frightened the magic-user, she did not have the energy or strength to object to the change in route. Midnight felt more asleep than awake, and was almost delirious with pain. Where Bhaal had closed his hand over her mouth, her lips and chin still burned. The mage’s stomach was worse. Her entrails still churned from the Lord of Murder’s polluted touch.
As the horses picked their way up the hillside, Midnight flopped helplessly to and fro. Too exhausted and disheartened to hold herself in the saddle, she remained mounted only because it was impossible for her to fall off. Bhaal had bound her hands to the saddle’s horn and her feet to the stirrups.
Had she not suffered through the last thirty hours, Midnight would never have believed a human being could endure so much. After snatching the magic-user from the confrontation with Cyric, Bhaal had bound and gagged her, making magical incantations impossible. Then the god had lashed Midnight to a waiting horse, mounted his own, and, leading her mount, ridden away at a trot.
The pace had not slackened since. The Lord of Murder had ridden through an entire day and night without slowing for rest or explanation. If the horses did not collapse first, Midnight feared her bones would crumble from constant jarring. Confirming its own exhaustion, the magic-user’s horse struck its hoof against a rock and stumbled. The mage lurched left to keep her balance. The saddlebag with the tablet, still slung over her shoulder, shifted. A streak of pain ran up her spine.
Midnight groaned. When he had abducted her, Bhaal had left the saddlebag slung over her shoulder and simply secured it into place with a leather thong. The saddlebag had already rubbed the skin on the mage’s shoulder raw. A warm, wet stain spread from the abrasion and ran down her back in ticklish streams.
Bhaal paused. He turned to face her. “What do you want?”
Unable to speak through the gag, Midnight shook her head to indicate the groan meant nothing.
The foul god frowned, then resumed riding.
Midnight exhaled in relief. Despite the pain in her shoulder, she did not want Bhaal to take the saddlebag away. The magic-user still clung to the hope of escape, and she wanted the Tablet of Fate with her when the opportunity came.
Unfortunately, Midnight did not know what to do if she did escape. Unless she disabled Bhaal, which seemed unlikely, he would simply track her down again. The magic-user wondered what Kelemvor would do. As a warrior, he had certainly faced capture and knew methods of escape. Even Adon might have a solution. He had studied the gods and would know if Bhaal had any weaknesses.
Midnight could not help longing for the presence of her two friends. She had never been more frightened, nor more lonely, in her life. Despite the need for their company and counsel, however, she did not regret abandoning her allies. Had they been at the ford, Bhaal would have murdered them both. If Kelemvor had died, the magic-user might have lost the strength to continue her struggle. Midnight could not allow that to happen.
The magic-user chastised herself for trying to rescue the halflings. She had placed the tablet in peril, and doubted that she had saved even one life. But Midnight quickly realized that abandoning the survivors of the war party would have changed nothing. Bhaal would have tracked her down anyway. In the end, it was making the task easy for him that upset her.
The Lord of Murder suddenly stopped the horses. They had reached the top of a hill, and Midnight could see dozens of miles in all directions. Fifteen miles back, an expanse of orange and red stretched toward the south. It was the forest that had hugged their left flank through the night.
Bhaal dismounted, then removed his horse’s bridle and tethered the beast.
“The horses need rest,” he grumbled, untying Midnight. Whenever the avatar touched the mage’s skin, her skin grew red and irritated. “Dismount.”
Midnight gladly obeyed. The instant her feet touched the ground, Bhaal grabbed her wrist. Scorching pain shot through her arm up to her shoulder. She screamed in agony.
“Don’t try to escape,” Bhaal snarled. “I’m strong. You’re still weak.” Confident that he had made his point, the fallen god released her.
The fresh agony jolted the magic-user into full alertness. She pulled the gag off her mouth and considered summoning her magic. Midnight quickly rejected the idea, however. The Lord of Murder would not have untied her—or allowed her to remove her gag—unless he was prepared to counter any attack.
Instead, the mage cleared her throat and asked, “What do you want?”
Bhaal stared at Midnight, but did not respond. The face of the avatar—Lord Deverell’s face—was pale and sickly yellow. The eyes were sunken, the skin stretched over the bones like leather over a drumhead.
“Hold your hands together like this,” Bhaal said, pressing his palms together.
Midnight briefly considered being uncooperative, but decided to obey. At the moment, she was too exhausted to argue, and there was more to gain by letting Bhaal believe she had lost hope.
As Midnight pressed her palms together, she asked again, “What do you want?”
Bhaal produced a leather thong. “You,” he answered.
This answer did not surprise Midnight. When the Lord of Murder had first abducted her, she had assumed he wanted the tablet. After he had not killed her, however, the mage had begun to suspect he wanted something else. “Me? Why?”