Both Kelemvor and Midnight burst into fits of laughter. Adon flushed angrily, and turned toward the road.
“There’s nothing funny about the breakdown of Order,” he snapped.
Midnight and Kelemvor only laughed harder.
Adon turned away, but after five minutes of watching the column pass, he chuckled. “Sheep revolt,” he muttered. “Where did you come up with that?”
“Why else would you need an army of wolves?” Kelemvor asked, grinning.
Finally, the last rank of wolves passed, leaving the trail black and muddy. Kelemvor stepped back onto the road and sank past the ankles in cold muck.
He cursed, then said, “We need horses.”
“True, but what can we do?” Adon asked, stepping into the road. “We’ll never find horses out here, and if we stray off the road, we’re likely to get very lost.”
In five days of marching, they had met only one small band of six hardy warriors. Although the small company had been kind enough to confirm that Dragonspear Castle lay ahead, they had refused to part with even a single horse.
“At this rate, the Realms will be dead a year before we make Dragonspear Castle,” Kelemvor complained, his humor now completely drained.
“Don’t be so sure,” Adon responded. “We should be close. It might be over the top of that rise.” The cleric was determined not to let the fighter’s sudden bad mood infect him.
Kelemvor snorted and kicked at the mud, sending a black spray toward the roadside. “Close? We’re not within a hundred miles of the castle.”
Adon stifled an acid reply. Despite Midnight’s return, the cleric still found himself serving as company leader. It was not a position he enjoyed, but Kelemvor had shown more interest in keeping Midnight company than in assuming command. As for the mage, she seemed content to let someone else guide them, though it should be her, by all rights, who was the group’s leader. Adon didn’t understand why the magic-user shirked the responsibility, though he suspected the reason might concern Kelemvor. Perhaps she feared the fighter could not love a taskmaster. Whatever the cause, Adon was left to play the captain. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role, but he was determined to do his best.
“I’m sure Dragonspear Castle is close by,” Adon said, hoping to buoy Kelemvor’s spirits. “All we’ve got to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“You put one foot in front of the other,” Kelemvor snapped. He turned to Midnight. “You got us away from Boareskyr with a wave of your hand. Why don’t you try again?”
Midnight shook her head. “I’ve thought of that. But it’s risky to teleport—especially with magic so fouled up. I only did it because we would have died anyway. We’re lucky we didn’t appear in the middle of the Great Desert.”
“How do we know we didn’t?” Kelemvor muttered.
Midnight stepped onto the edge of the muddy road and started up the rise. “I’m sure,” she said.
Midnight was relieved that the teleport incantation had worked, and not only because it had saved their lives. It was the first time that her magic had worked correctly since High Horn. In Yellow Snake Pass, her wall of fire had resulted in harmless stalks of smoke, and at the ford she had animated the ropes by accident. Even at Boareskyr Bridge, her first incantation had failed pathetically, producing a ball of light in place of a lightning bolt.
The mage had feared that she misunderstood the change in her relationship to magic. When she summoned an incantation, only words and gestures appeared in her mind-never any indication of the proper material component or what to do with it. At first, this had disturbed Midnight and she had feared that she was misinterpreting something. But each time she tried to cast a spell, there was never a need for material components. The magic-user had finally decided that, because she tapped the magic weave directly, no intermediary agent—like a spell component—was required to transmit the mystical energy.
The horizon suddenly seemed distant and Midnight realized that she had reached the crest of the gentle rise. She paused to look around. Even though it was barely noticeable, the rise was the highest ground nearby and afforded a view of the terrain ahead.
Twenty yards behind the magic-user, Adon was still trying to encourage Kelemvor. “For all we know, we’re only ten miles away from Dragonspear Castle.”
“Actually,” Midnight interrupted, studying a sprawling ruin to the right of the road, “I’d say we’re closer than that.”
Adon and Kelemvor looked up, then rushed to her side. Nestled against the base of the High Moor, atop three small hillocks, stood the deteriorating walls and toppled spires of an abandoned citadel. From this distance, it was difficult to say how large the castle was, but it might have rivaled the fortress at High Horn.
“What have we here?” Kelemvor asked. He was looking down the road, but neither Midnight nor Adon noticed.
“Dragonspear Castle, what else?” Adon replied. He had no way of confirming his guess, but he suspected there were no other ruins of such size on the way to Waterdeep.
“Not the castle,” Kelemvor snapped. He pointed down the road, where, over a mile away, ten caravan drivers had just left the trail. They were slowly fleeing toward the ruined castle, pursued by a dozen sluggish attackers.
“Someone’s attacking a caravan!” Midnight exclaimed.
“The battle’s not moving very fast,” Adon said, watching the two groups. “Maybe the attackers are undead.”
“You’re probably right,” Kelemvor said, turning to look at the cleric. “And the drivers are moving slowly because they’re probably tired after a long chase.” The warrior’s eyes betrayed his desire to intercede.
Adon silently cursed his companion. While the trio could easily destroy one or two undead, there were a dozen attacking the caravan. Even with Midnight’s magic, they could not defeat so many creatures. He wished Kelemvor would consider the value of their own lives, as most men would. But the fighter was no longer a common man—if he ever had been. A common man would not be looking for the entrance to the Realm of the Dead, nor would he have undertaken a mission that made such a journey necessary.
“We can’t get involved,” Adon said thoughtfully, pretending to think aloud. “If we get killed, the Realms will perish.”
Adon suspected that Midnight would not involve herself with the caravan if he said not to. But Kelemvor would resent an order to abandon the drivers. Therefore, the cleric wanted the fighter to make the decision for himself. Besides, Adon had no wish to let the burden of abandoning the caravan rest upon his shoulders alone.
Midnight studied the scene for a full minute, weighing Adon’s words against her desire to help. If they abandoned the drivers, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life. But the mage also knew that helping could endanger the tablet.
“We can’t interfere,” she said, turning away. “There’s too much at risk.”
Adon breathed a sigh of relief.
“I don’t know about you two,” Kelemvor grumbled, eyeing his companions with disapproval, “but I can’t abandon innocents to their deaths. I’ve done that too often—”
“Think with your head, not your heart, Kel.” Midnight’s words were surprisingly gentle. She laid a hand upon his arm. “With the gods themselves against us, we cannot—”
“But they’ll die!” Kelemvor objected, pulling his arm free. “And if you allow that, you’re no better than Cyric.”
Nothing could anger the mage more than being compared to Cyric. “Do what you want,” she snapped. “But do it without me!”
Midnight’s outburst upset Kelemvor, but he didn’t let that prevent him from starting toward the battle. Before Kelemvor had taken a dozen steps, Adon called, “Wait!”
The cleric could not allow the company to separate again. No matter what danger lay ahead, they stood a better chance of survival if they faced it together. “We can’t let the undead into the castle, or we’ll be cut off from the Realm of the Dead.”