But Bhaal, dark god of chaos and evil, the most base of
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aspects, had claimed a place in this void before the other gods could act. Now Bhaal tore the fabric wider.
Other deities sought to stem the disaster, led by Chauntea, benign goddess of health and nature, but the force of Bhaal's black evil drove them away. Other gods, led by Tern-pus, stormy god of war and favorite of the northmen of the Moonshaes, strove to contain the hurt, so that it would not spread to the rest of the Realms or the planes beyond. They built and strained, creating barriers of strong magic to cast in the murderous god's path. But even they were daunted by the force of Bhaal's evil and the power of his base in the Darkwell. By moving the center of his essence into the well, Bhaal could project more of his energy into this struggle than the gods who fought him from other planes.
If the fabric was to be saved, the gods knew the acts that saved it would not be godlike in origin. Bhaal had insulated himself from them, and they could not stop him.
It remained for someone of the isles themselves, a hero of mortal nature, to stem the tide.
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It is given to some mortals, to those of great faith and loyalty, to know some of the secrets of the gods. To those of such faith, and even greater loyalty, a deity might reveal secrets of awesome portent and supernatural might. And to mortals of the greatest obeisance, and the greatest skill, the greatest of mortal knowledge is imparted.
Hobarth, devotee of Bhaal, was one such: a cleric who had given all his life to the service of his dark god and who had attained the greatest levels of knowledge and skill. Among the knowledge that had been revealed to him was an understanding of the nature of the planar fabric, and an ability to use that fabric to suit his own ends. Now Hobarth did just that.
He abhorred the sea and despised the thought of crossing it upon mortal conveyances such as boats, so he employed his knowledge to step through the very fabric of worlds, into other, darker realms. Here he walked among beasts of unfathomable evil. These monstrous beings paid him no mind, for they recognized him as one who was cut from the same timber.
A thing these nether planes lacked made them very desirable to the cleric: They lacked oceans and seas. Hobarth gladly picked his way among seething mountains of lava and great islands of oblivion, all the while rejoicing in the absence of water.
Finally he stepped again through the fabric of the planes, into the world we call the Forgotten Realms. He had arrived at his destination in good time, and dry, for he found himself
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standing in the valley upon Oman's Isle below the Iron Keep. He looked toward the vastness of Iron Bay and knew that Ysalla and her legions had not yet arrived. Yet the fortress stirred with activity, as refugees crowded within and ranks of soldiers marched out. Ships of every variety crowded the bay, all filled with northmen seeking the sanctuary of the keep.
Little did they know how much they needed that sanctuary, or how illusory it would prove. For of them all, only the cleric knew that the sahuagin swarmed in a deadly mass toward the fortress, and that the dead of the sea came rapidly in their wake.
Black water soaked their leggings, and each step became a struggle against the clutching mud. Now Tristan led the way, hacking the tendrils of ropelike vines out of their path, trying to pick a route connecting the few dry patches of ground.
Inevitably their path through the Fens of the Fallen took them across more water than land. Making the situation even more uncomfortable was the fact that the air temperature had been dropping steadily, and the inescapable water was icy cold.
"They're still there," whispered Tavish, looking toward the sky from her position behind the king.
The news came as no surprise to Tristan. The shrill, panicked cries of the horses still echoed in his mind. He pictured, all too vividly, Avalon's white flanks streaked with the stallion's own red blood. He shuddered at the thought of monstrous teeth slashing through the stallion's breast to tear out that proud heart. But then the flock of bird-creatures had returned to their original quarry, and now they circled above the party as they marched through the dismal wetland.
Angrily Tristan hacked at another of the dead branches that entwined them. In the fens, as in the rest of the vale, the trees had died, shedding their leaves and leaving a putrid stench of rot. A heavy scum coated the brackish
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water, and each footstep brought noxious gases bubbling from the muck on the bottom.
At least the predatory creatures in the air did not dive. The interlocking branches overhead apparently prevented them from flying to the attack.
Tristan stopped to catch his breath, worn by the exertion of slogging through the mud and water. His boots, long since soaked through, numbed his feet more with each step. The spindly branches offered little protection from a biting north wind, and as the king paused, the air knifed through his garments and brought an involuntary shiver.
Canthus, beside him, stepped in front of his master and then stopped, his ears raised and his nose carefully sniffing the air. He, of all of them, seemed best able to cope with the cold and damp.
Tristan looked to the rear and saw lavish leaning weakly against a tree. The bard unsuccessfully attempted a smile, and the king noticed her mud-spattered leggings and cape. Her lute, slung over her shoulder, had somehow managed to stay clean. She, too, shivered as a sudden gust of wind iced across them.
Pawldo slogged slowly up to lavish, grasping branches and tree trunks to pull himself along. The water, knee-deep on the humans, sloshed to the halfling's waist. Pawldo looked at the king, and Tristan saw that his lips were blue and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
Yak lumbered slowly behind Pawldo, apparently having more difficulty ducking under the low-hanging branches than he did with the mud and water. Robyn came last in line.
"I'm worried about Pawldo," murmured Tristan, speaking to lavish.
"I'm f-fine!" The halfling had overheard.
"You're starting to sound just like Yazilliclick!" The king spoke sternly before turning back to Tavish. "Do you think Yak could carry him for a while, at least until his legs are dry?"
"Yak!" Tavish turned to the firbolg. "Yak carry Pawldo?"
"Yak carry Pawll-do!" The giant grinned and plucked the
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halfling from the water, cradling him like a babe in one of his brawny arms.
"Hey! Let me go!" Pawldo twisted fruitlessly, then finally noticed the comfort and security of his perch. He settled back against the firbolg's shoulder. "Well, if you insist.. .but only for a little while."
"Say, where are Yazilliclick and Newt?" the bard wondered aloud.
Tristan looked around but saw no sign of the faeries. "Probably exploring somewhere. I'm sure they'll catch up."
Robyn wearily came up to her companions. Her face was pale, and she drew each breath with a ragged gasp. "I... can't take much more ... of this. We'll have to rest soon."
"We will," promised the king, "though we'll have to keep a sharp watch on those deathbirds overhead."
"I think we'll be safe in the woods," declared Pawldo.
"I hope you're right. We'll stop as soon as we reach dry ground again," the king declared, shivering again. "We can't stop here in the water. We'd get too cold."
Robyn nodded dumbly, and he waited for a minute or two while they all caught their breath. Grimly Tristan took his place at the front, following Canthus across an open stretch of shallow water. Here, at least, he didn't have to hack the ubiquitous vines out of the way. Since the path was narrow and winding, the deathbirds were not tempted to attack.
The wind became more savage, raging from the north, full into their faces. The companions trudged silently forward, Tristan trying to keep their heading as close to true north as possible. The thick clouds prevented him from plotting their course by the sun, but many of the larger trees had streaks of dried moss upon their permanently sunless north sides, and he used these as a guide.
Canthus stopped with a sudden growl, up to his belly in water. His hackles bristled, and he turned his proud head to the left.
Tristan saw a bubbling eruption of water and mud through the trees, and he felt the ground quiver beneath his feet. Instinctively he backed away from the disturbance, watching as clouds of greenish gas drifted upward from the
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ground. Waves rolled outward from the site, and then water began to pour into the newly formed hole with a thunderous roar.
"It's another one of those fissures, like the one that almost finished me!" He stood, awestruck, watching the land's torment from a safe distance. Then, as the gas began to spread away from the pit, he led his companions away as fast as they could march.
"The whole vale is being destroyed," said Tavish, horrified. "That tar pit, these fissures梕verything points to destruction far beyond anything the isles have ever known!"
She was right, Tristan sensed. Robyn had known this for many days, but the reality of the menace had taken longer to crystallize in his own mind. Now there could be no doubt: The very survival of the vale, perhaps of all Gwynneth and the Moonshaes, was at stake!
Desperately he forced his way through the swamp, now hacking at the branches that seemed to reach out to drag him back, now forging along a brief, open stretch of marsh. Finally he noticed the water growing more shallow, and then he stumbled onto a low hillock of soggy ground. Barely the size of a small farmyard, the land jutted no more than a foot or so out of the water, but at least it was dry!
He collapsed on the bank, exhausted, as one by one the others joined him. After a moment's rest, he pulled his boots off, shocked at the pallid lifelessness of his legs. His toes had begun to turn blue, and all feeling had long since gone from his feet. Desperately he massaged the chilled flesh, trying to restore circulation before it was too late.
The others, too, worked desperately to prevent frostbite or worse as the chilling wind moaned through the trees. They all shivered uncontrollably, but it looked as though none of them would lose any toes梐t least for the time being.
"Newt and Yazilliclick still haven't returned," said Robyn suddenly. Tristan realized with a start that he had forgotten about their diminutive companions.
"Those two will bring all kinds of trouble back with 'em, I'm sure," grumbled Pawldo. "They probably found some
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horrible monster, woke it up, and made it mad, and now they're on their way back with it!"
"I'm worried," admitted the king. "It isn't like them to go off on their own for this long. Just the same, they've both spent all their lives in the vale until recently, and if any of us can find our way around in here, it's Newt and Yaz!"
He felt a sudden, stinging touch at the back of his neck and slapped the spot instinctively. Then he felt another on his hand, and one on his face梟ot so much stinging as cold. A quick look around confirmed his suspicions, even as Robyn made the observation.
"It's snowing." White, icy crystals of snow, driven by the wind, had begun to sift down through the gaunt branches. As they watched, the snow thickened and swirled, becoming a white shower of cold. The wind increased in force, and the snow quickly grew thicker, so that they could see no more than ten or twelve paces into the woods.
Slumping against the ground, the king felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, as if Nature herself conspired with the evil that opposed them, striving to bring their quest to an ignominious end.
"That's all we need!" groaned the halfling.
"I don't know . . ." mused the bard. "It might make the woods a little prettier. I was getting tired of looking at black and brown all the time. I'd like a little white!"
Robyn laughed suddenly. "We can build snowmen!" she exclaimed, and Tristan sat up in surprise. He looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
"Or build a sled!" This came from Pawldo. "I'll bet Yak could pull us all in comfort!"
Tristan couldn't help but laugh himself. "If you're all going to be so damned cheerful about this, maybe now is the time to get moving again!"
"Right you are," agreed the bard, heaving herself to her feet.
"Boy, this place sure has changed! I can't find anyone around here to tease anymore!" The shrill voice, with its familiar whine, came as a welcome surprise to them all. In another second, Newt became visible, hovering before Tris-
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tan with an indignant look on his now orange face.
"Where have you been?" demanded the king.
"Why, in the vale, of course! I should think that would be quite obvious even to?
"Don't do that again! It's important that we stick together?' Tristan didn't try to conceal his anger.
"We were all worried about you." Robyn took a softer tone, casting a harsh look at the king.
"Worried? About me?" The faerie dragon looked pleased. "And well you should be! I have been so bored! I used to find deer and squirrels to scare with my illusions, and even bears and boars. But none of them are left! You don't suppose I frightened them away, do you?"
"No, I should think not. But you and Yazilliclick should stick closer to us from now on." Robyn tried to sound stern. "We can't afford to get separated."
"Where is Yazilliclick?" asked lavish, suddenly concerned.
"Why, with you, of course! At least, that's what I thought. He didn't want to go exploring. He's really kind of a party pooper, sometimes. Hey, Yaz, where are you?"
But the only answer was the moaning of the wind, and all they could see was the cloak of blinding snow closing in more tightly around them. They shouted for the sprite several times, but there was no response.
"We can't risk calling too much attention to ourselves," cautioned the king. "I hope he catches up with us, but we'll have to press on without him."
"Do you think the deathbirds have gone to ground?" asked the bard, noticing that none of the soaring creatures were visible in the swirling snow.
