“There are ways,” Bhaal conceded.
“How?” Midnight asked. She sat down facing Bhaal, now, using her own saddle for a stool.
The God of Assassins twisted Deverell’s emaciated face into a sour grin. “They can die,” he said.
Midnight frowned. That was hardly the answer she wanted. “You can try to force me to cooperate by threatening Kelemvor and Adon, but you won’t be able to trust me unless you answer these questions. Why haven’t you sent a mortal after the second Tablet of Fate?”
Bhaal studied her for a long time, malice in his eyes. Finally, he dropped his gaze and said, “We have tried. Lord Myrkul has sent dozens of his most loyal priests to Dragonspear Castle and—”
“Dragonspear Castle?” Midnight interrupted. From what she had heard, Dragonspear Castle was little more than an abandoned ruin on the road to Waterdeep.
“Dragonspear Castle,” Bhaal confirmed, nodding. “Beneath it, there is a—” He paused, as if searching for the proper word. “—there is a bridge between this world and the Realm of the Dead.”
“Then why don’t you have the other tablet already?” Midnight asked. By mentioning Dragonspear Castle, Bhaal had already told her what she wanted to know: where to find the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. It was better not to dwell on the subject, or he would quickly discover his mistake.
Bhaal shrugged and looked away. “The mortals go in, but they don’t come out. The Realm of the Dead is a dangerous place for the living.”
“In what ways?” Midnight asked and she shifted her weight uncomfortably in the saddle. “Surely, Lord Myrkul’s priests—”
“We’ve talked enough about the Realm of the Dead,” Bhaal snapped, suddenly rising and snarling in anger. “You will help us, Midnight … or your friends will suffer for your stupidity and your obstinacy.”
Midnight stared at Bhaal, feigning surprise and indignation, but said nothing. From the foul god’s sudden anger, she knew that she had asked one question too many.
Bhaal pointed at the ground next to her saddle. “Sleep while you can,” he grumbled. “We leave as soon as the horses are rested.” With that, he turned away—then allowed himself a satisfied grin. So far, everything with the mage had gone as Lord Myrkul had predicted.
Kelemvor kept a wary eye turned toward the forest on the south side of the road. A hundred inky shadows hung in rust-colored boughs, ferociously chittering at a dark thing skulking in the underbrush. As the warrior watched, a lone squirrel dropped out of a tree and bounced out to the middle of the dusty road. It had tufted ears, a bushy tail, and eyes darker than its fur. Where the morning sun’s yellow rays touched it, the creature’s dark fur absorbed the light. The rodent looked more like a tiny demon than a squirrel.
Kelemvor continued to ride toward the little animal. It stood its ground, studying the warrior and his horse with ravenous eyes.
“Strange creatures,” Adon commented.
“They certainly don’t seem natural,” Kelemvor agreed.
Inside the wood, a stick snapped with a loud pop. The mass of squirrels gathered in the trees shrieked in anger and dropped to the ground. Within seconds, a man rose, cursing and screaming as the rodents swarmed him. Kelemvor and Adon could not see the man well enough to tell whether he was a huntsman or someone else with a less honorable reason to lurk in the wood.
“Too mean,” Kelemvor added, referring to the squirrels.
The fighter hoped Adon would not insist upon chasing the beleaguered man down. The cleric was making a habit of interrogating strangers, and it was beginning to annoy Kelemvor. Twenty-four hours ago, they had discovered Midnight’s pony near the ford at Hill’s Edge. They had also found close to forty dead halflings, and signs of the torture that had occurred behind the inn. Though unsure of how to interpret these signs, Kelemvor and Adon had decided to assume Cyric had captured Midnight.
They had been in the saddle ever since, looking for their enemy at every campfire they passed. Kelemvor had grown tired of this methodical search. He knew that Cyric was increasing his lead while Adon wasted their time harassing honest merchants.
But the cleric was convinced that, at last, they had caught up to the thief. “After that man!” he ordered.
Kelemvor made no move to obey. “I’ll waste no more time. Cyric’s ahead of us, and we won’t catch him by chasing woodcutters.”
“Woodcutters!” Adon exclaimed. “Why would a woodcutter be so far from town?”
“A hunter then,” Kelemvor responded.
“So you’re certain that isn’t Cyric’s sentry?”
“No,” Kelemvor said. “But—”
“Then we’ve got to go after him.”
“No,” Kelemvor insisted. “We can’t look behind every rock for Cyric. We’ll lose him for good if we keep this up!”
Adon saw the wisdom of Kelemvor’s argument, but believed the fleeing man was more than a hunter. “All right. But hunters don’t lurk at roadsides. Trust me.”
Kelemvor sighed. Lately, he’d found it increasingly difficult to disagree with Adon for long. Warily eyeing the black squirrels, the warrior spurred his mount into a gallop. The sturdy caravan horse easily broke through the thicket at the forest’s edge. A dozen rodents leaped from the trees, attacking Kelemvor and his mount with tiny claws and teeth. The horse ignored them and continued forward while Kelemvor swore and ripped the creatures off his body. By the time they were free of squirrels, the warrior and his horse were deep within a multihued world of shadows and autumn light.
Adon followed close behind, cursing and ripping black rodents off his body.
The man they were chasing was nowhere in sight.
“What now?” Kelemvor asked.
Adon flung the last squirrel into the forest, then said, “We argued too long. He’s gone.”
To their left, Kelemvor heard the muffled patter of hoofbeats. He turned his horse to pursue, motioning Adon to follow. The sooner they caught the fellow, the sooner the cleric would let them get back to chasing Midnight.
As he rode, Kelemvor kept an eye turned toward the forest floor. Several minutes later, he stopped. He hadn’t seen a single hoofprint, scuffed rock, or freshly broken stick upon which he could base a trail.
“Where is he?” Adon asked.
Kelemvor hushed his friend, then listened carefully. The hoofbeats were gone. But deep in the forest, he heard something else—the nicker of a tired horse.
He turned his mount toward the sound and rode slowly ahead. “Follow me … quietly.”
A minute later, the warrior heard the soft murmur of a voice. Kelemvor dismounted and gave his reins to Adon, then crawled through the thick underbrush with his sword drawn. He had to go slowly, for the ground was littered with dried twigs and leaves that made it nearly impossible to move silently.
Eventually, he came to the edge of a small clearing, where a rider in Zhentish armor held the reins of a winded horse. Beside the rider stood a large, black-bearded man. Behind the horse, hidden from view, stood a third man. A hundred feet to the trio’s right, seven Zhentilar were sleeping on the ground, their armor stacked neatly beside them.
Adon was right, Kelemvor realized. The man at the roadside had been a sentry.
“You’re sure they couldn’t follow you?” asked the bearded man.
“I’m certain,” replied the sentry.
The unseen man spoke. “We can’t take chances, Dalzhel. Stupid as he is, Kelemvor has a certain cunning.”
The voice was Cyric’s.
Kelemvor’s heart pounded with anger and excitement. “Stupid!” he muttered under his breath. “We’ll see who’s stupid when my sword creases your neck!” The only thing that kept the warrior from attacking immediately was that he did not see Midnight. He would not risk her life to vent his wrath.