Sensing his friend’s thoughts, Adon suggested a more compelling reason to stay out of the action, “Now’s our best chance to free Midnight … while Cyric keeps Bhaal busy.”
Kelemvor sighed and nodded. “Then let’s go find her.”
Adon started crawling around the melee.
Only two hundred feet away, Midnight had finally pulled a hand free of her bindings. A few moments earlier, she had heard a scream in the brush and knew that Bhaal was attacking someone. Though Midnight had no idea who the victim was, the magic-user wanted to help him. She freed herself from the leather thongs and her gag, gingerly laid the saddlebags over her raw shoulder, then peered over the edge of the foundation.
As Kelemvor and Adon circled around the battle, the warrior could not help pausing to watch. Dalzhel finally caught Bhaal and swung with his mightiest stroke. His blade whistled straight for the avatar’s neck.
The Lord of Murder ducked the attack with casual ease. He turned and met Dalzhel with his stump, plunging the sharp bone deep into the soldier’s shoulder. Dalzhel screamed and dropped his sword, but did not fall or retreat. Instead, the Zhentilar stepped forward to wrestle the god, tearing at the avatar’s eyes with his left hand.
Cyric used this respite to good effect, standing and moving toward Bhaal. Once again, the avatar had turned his back to the thief. Cyric lifted his sword and charged, hoping to take advantage of the distraction Dalzhel provided by wrestling with the fallen god.
Adon grabbed Kelemvor’s shoulder, tearing his attention away from the battle. “Who’s that?”
The cleric pointed at a dark silhouette creeping toward the battle on its hands and knees. Through the heavy brush and in the dim light, Kelemvor could not see the shadow well enough to see who it was, or even if it was a man or a woman.
“I can’t tell,” Kelemvor said softly. “But whoever it is, he’s interested in this fight.” He glanced back to the battle.
Cyric was at Bhaal’s back. The thief attacked with a vicious slash he hoped would cleave the avatar down to the breast bone. But Bhaal heard him coming and, easily breaking free of Dalzhel’s hold, pivoted out of the way. The God of Assassins caught Cyric’s arm, then used the thief’s own momentum to throw him ten feet into the brush.
As Cyric sailed past, Dalzhel snatched his sword off the ground, then plunged the blade into the avatar’s rib cage. Bhaal snarled and kicked the Zhentish soldier in the stomach. Dalzhel fell backward and landed with a crash.
The Lord of Murder casually plucked Dalzhel’s sword from between his ribs and tossed it aside. Then he leaped onto his opponent’s prone form, thrusting the splintered stump of his wrist into Dalzhel’s throat. Dalzhel screamed once, then fell quiet.
Cyric scrambled to his feet, shaking his head. He had heard Dalzhel’s scream and knew that Bhaal had killed his lieutenant. Though the thief did not feel anything resembling grief, there was a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Dalzhel had been a valuable aid, and Cyric would miss his service.
Upon hearing the terrible scream, Midnight knew Bhaal had killed again. Then, through the brush, she saw the avatar rise and turn toward another victim. The magic-user could not see who Bhaal was attacking, for the evening’s silvery light was too dim to reveal his face at this distance. But whoever it was, Midnight did not want to abandon him to the fallen god.
The magic-user summoned the incantation for a lightning bolt. Since imprisoning Bhaal at High Horn, she had not used her magic successfully. There was no reason to believe it would work now, but that did not matter. She could not help Bhaal’s victims any other way, and if she did nothing, the Lord of Murder would kill them anyway. As soon as the proper gestures and words came to mind, the magic-user stood and pointed at the avatar.
Adon and Kelemvor both saw the silhouette rise, then they heard a feminine voice reciting an incantation.
“Magic!” The men hissed the words in the same instant. They pressed their bodies flat to the ground. Neither knew what to expect, but both were sure it would be hazardous.
Midnight finished her incantation and a lightning bolt shot from her finger. Then, it abruptly gathered into a brilliant ball of sputtering light. The bright sphere rose over the thicket, hanging behind Kelemvor and Adon like a tiny star. The shining globe illuminated the ground within a hundred yards as clearly as if it were the midday sun.
In the bright light, Kelemvor and Adon immediately recognized the dark-haired spellcaster. “Midnight!” they cried, rising simultaneously.
Bhaal and Cyric also noticed the tiny sun’s appearance, but could not see what had caused it. The globe hung between them and Midnight. All they could see was a circle of brilliant light.
Cyric swore, then focused all of his attention on the avatar. He did not know what had caused the light. What he did know was that, without Dalzhel’s aid, he was no longer a match for the Lord of Murder. The thief wasted no time cursing Kelemvor and Adon for abandoning him. He knew he’d been a fool for expecting them to come to his aid.
After squinting at the miniature sun for a moment, the Lord of Murder nonchalantly turned back to the thief and advanced. Cyric slashed. Bhaal easily dodged, slapping the thief’s sword hand aside. Cyric kicked, hoping to keep his attacker away. The avatar blocked the foot, then stepped in close and clipped his opponent’s jaw with a fist as hard as stone.
Cyric’s ears rang and his head swam. He tried to swing his sword, but Bhaal hit him once more. The thief felt his body going limp. The Lord of Murder struck his jaw again, then his stomach, then continued pummeling Cyric until he dropped his weapon and flopped to the ground in a half-conscious heap.
While Bhaal battered Cyric, Adon and Kelemvor rushed toward Midnight. The magic-user’s miscast lightning bolt hung at their backs, its overpowering glow casting their faces into deep shadows. It did not matter. Midnight recognized their voices and rushed to meet them.
“How did you find me?” the raven-haired mage cried, hugging Kelemvor. She spun him around so the miniature sun was at her back and she could see his face. “Never mind. It’s just good to see both of you. I’m so glad you’re still—”
The magic-user broke off in midsentence. She was going to say “alive,” which returned her thoughts to whoever was currently fighting the God of Assassins. She still had not seen his face.
“Who’s fighting Bhaal?” she asked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. She still could not take her eyes off Kelemvor’s face.
Kelemvor and Adon looked toward the fight, squinting against the glare of the miniature sun. “Cyric,” Kelemvor answered. “We’re working together—”
Midnight raised an eyebrow. “Together?”
“It’s a long story,” Adon said. “We don’t have time to explain—”
The miniature sun flared brilliant white, sending daggers of pain through the eyes of both Kelemvor and Adon. Then a thunderclap sounded and a shock wave knocked them to the ground.
After the blinding flash, the thicket grew relatively dim. Only the silvery incandescence of the geometric clouds lit the brush. Bhaal dropped Cyric, battered and bloody, and looked to where the globe of light had been.
Fifty feet away, Midnight was picking herself up off the ground, but her two companions still lay holding their hands over their eyes.
“You escaped,” Bhaal called to the mage. “I’ll have to punish you for that.”
Without responding, Midnight looked from Bhaal to Cyric’s bruised and bloodied body, then back to the avatar’s face. Without taking her eyes off the vile god, she retrieved the saddlebags from where they had fallen, then laid them over her shoulder. To her friends, she hissed, “Get up!”