But Kelemvor and Adon had been looking toward the ball of light when it had burst. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing but white.
“I’m blind!” Kelemvor cried.
To his left, Adon groaned. “I—I can’t see anything either!”
“Then be quiet!” Midnight said. “Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
The magic-user did not need to worry. Bhaal was thinking about other things. It had never occurred to him that, upon slipping her bonds, Midnight would not flee immediately. Now he had to recapture her or the woman would know that he had let her escape. If that happened, she might figure out what he and Myrkul really wanted from her. The fallen god walked toward Midnight.
“Stay where you are,” Midnight warned.
Bhaal snickered. “Why? You don’t have the power to kill me—yet.”
Before Kelemvor’s eyes, the white faded to gray. Perhaps his blindness was temporary.
“We’ve got to do something,” Adon whispered. His vision had returned enough so that he could vaguely see a shape advancing toward Midnight.
“What?” Kelemvor responded.
“Attack. Perhaps Midnight—”
“We can’t. I’m still blind!”
Adon fell silent, knowing Kelemvor was right. Unable to see clearly, they would only get in the way.
As the Lord of Murder walked toward the mage, Cyric began to stir. The thief was surprised he was still alive, for Bhaal’s blows had felt like hammer strikes. He ached from head to toe, and the simple act of breathing sent waves of agony through his torso. Still, Cyric knew that if he did not act, he would lose his chance to capture Midnight and the Tablet of Fate.
He retrieved his sword. “You’ve tasted Bhaal’s blood,” he whispered. “If you want more, help me.”
Yes, more, the sword responded. I’ll help you. The words came to mind in a sultry female voice.
The sword’s hilt warmed in his hand and Cyric felt vigor and strength flow back into his body. He rose to his knees, then stood and stumbled after the Lord of Murder.
Bhaal stopped moving forward. “Surrender, Midnight.” As an afterthought, he added, “And give me the tablet.”
“No,” Midnight replied, stepping away.
“You have no choice,” Bhaal said, gesturing at Kelemvor’s prone form.
Midnight summoned the incantation for another lightning bolt, then pointed at Bhaal. “I have plenty of choices. Most of them involve killing you.”
The Lord of Murder studied the woman, uncomfortably, knowing she might be able to carry out her threat. “Destroying my avatar will kill your friends—and possibly you, too,” the god said. “You know that.”
Midnight frowned, remembering the immense power that Torm and Bane’s destruction had unleashed outside Tantras. And Mystra’s death had leveled a castle in Cormyr. This time, at least, Bhaal was telling the truth. She could not kill him without destroying her friends.
Then she saw Cyric creeping up behind Bhaal, his sword poised to strike. The thief’s body looked battered beyond recognition. Midnight found it incredible that Cyric could still move, much less move as silently as he did.
“You have no choice,” the Lord of Murder repeated.
Before Bhaal could notice she was looking elsewhere, Midnight returned her attention to the god’s face.
“I’ll destroy you anyway,” she said. “What do I have to lose?”
Cyric was only two steps away from Bhaal. Midnight let the lightning bolt drop from her mind, then called the incantation for a teleportation spell. The mage knew that her plan was born of desperation, for she could not remember the last time her magic had worked properly. But if it worked at all, the results would be better than surrendering to Bhaal—or dying in the explosion if Cyric’s attack was successful.
Bhaal twisted Deverell’s torn lips into a smile. “If you do as I ask, your friends will live.”
Cyric’s boot scraped a rock. The avatar’s face betrayed alarm and he whirled. The thief brought his red blade down and plunged it deep into Bhaal’s breast.
“You fool!” the Lord of Murder screamed.
The blade’s color deepened to vibrant burgundy, and the fallen god howled in rage. His roar was as loud as thunder and as eerie as the wail of a ghost.
“At least I killed a god before I died,” Cyric said triumphantly through clenched teeth. At the same time, the raven-haired mage uttered the words to her incantation.
Bhaal’s scream ended and his body exploded. Then the earth dropped away beneath Midnight and her allies.
A flickering ocher flame. A candle stuck in a bottle in the center of a wooden table, its wood, gray and cracked and as dry as tinder. A flimsy, unpadded chair in a dark, wet room hidden in the sewers of Waterdeep.
This was what his glory had come to.
Ao would pay, Myrkul swore. The Lord of the Dead did not enjoy modesty in accommodation, he did not enjoy hiding from mortals, and he most certainly did not enjoy being confined to the Realms. For all these indignities, Ao—and Helm—would pay.
But he had to be careful. The Lord of the Dead had seen what came of carelessness. Tantras had been a disaster, and it had only been through his foresight that Myrkul had not suffered the same fate as Bane. He was in the realm of mortals now. In a certain sense he was mortal, for now he could perish—as Bane and Mystra and Torm had perished.
Imagine, the Ruler of the Dead dying. The thought would have made Myrkul laugh, had it not been so unnerving.
No, it would not do to go meeting rivals head-to-head. He had to remain hidden, where enemies could not find him, where they had no reason to suspect his presence. He had to work through agents, to plot out intricate plans and alternate contingencies, as he had concerning Midnight and the Tablets of Fate.
It would have been a simple matter to kill the dark-haired magic-user and take the tablet she held. The Lord of the Dead had agents and priests all over the land, and no one could survive the unrelenting series of attacks he could bring to bear. But then his followers would have had to deliver the tablet to him in Waterdeep, and none were as capable a deliveryperson as Midnight.
Of course, Myrkul had no intention of letting the woman keep the tablet. He would not feel secure until both Tablets of Fate were in his hands. Indirectly, that was why he had not ordered the magic-user’s death. He needed her to go to Bone Castle and recover the second tablet, too.
The Lord of the Dead had plans within plans, and they all depended on the woman. Bhaal had simply wanted to capture Midnight’s entire company, then use her friends as hostages to force her to recover the second tablet. But so far, Midnight had displayed an alarming fortitude, and Myrkul believed she would easily thwart such crude methods of persuasion. It was wiser to trick her into doing his will, to make her think that retrieving the second tablet was her idea. To accomplish this, Bhaal had captured her, then let her “trick” him into revealing the second tablet’s hiding place.
Even this plan had a weakness, and the Lord of the Dead was not blind to it. Once the woman had both tablets, she could easily return them to Helm. To prevent that, Myrkul had instructed Bhaal to let her escape near Dragonspear Castle once she knew about the castle’s hidden entrance to the Realm of the Dead.
At Dragonspear, Myrkul had prepared a trap to recover the first tablet. This trap would also force Midnight to go to the Realm of the Dead to recover the tablet in Bone Castle. Of course, no strategy could foresee every eventuality. That was why Myrkul made a habit of contacting Bhaal to confirm that everything was proceeding according to plan.
The Lord of the Dead concentrated on the candlelight. The flame wavered and flared. Myrkul waited, expecting it to coalesce itself into the ugly, bloated head of Bhaal’s avatar.