slowly. "Fine, Jorah." The guard spurred his horse and headed back toward the Standing Stone. "But I'd keep Kelemvor in front of you
at all times." Yarbro, Cabal, and Mikkel raced back down the road, whooping and yelling. Kelemvor heard a few squeals and cries in
Orcish as the fighters rounded the bend, then nothing but the sound of something running through the woods. This is the end,
Kelemvor thought as he sat under a tree and watched Jorah pull the arrow from Bursus's leg, then dress the wound and even tend to
Bursus's wounded horse. There's no way I'll ever be able to stop these men from killing Midnight, Cyric, and Adon.
The fighter kicked a stone into a rut in the rough dirt road. It would all be so simple if it weren't for my damned curse! I could do
what was right. I could give up this hunt. But that wasn't possible, and Kelemvor knew it. The moment he sided with Midnight, Adon,
and Cyric, he broke his pledge to Lord Mourngrym and would lose the reward the dalelord had promised him as incentive to finish the
quest. He would have endangered his life on the hunt for no reward - an act that would surely cause the curse to go into effect. Then
Kelemvor would transform into a panther until he killed someone.
Jorah turned to Kelemvor and scowled. Kelemvor saw the hatred in the archer's eyes. For a moment, he felt afraid. It's far more
likely they'll kill me, too, Kelemvor suddenly realized. I'm no better or worse to these men than Midnight.
Before Kelemvor could think about that too long, he heard the rumble of hooves on the road. The fighter jumped to his feet and
moved behind his horse. If the orcs had taken the dalesmen's mounts, they'd likely try to shoot a volley of arrows at him as they rode
past.
But it wasn't the orcs coming down the road - it was Yarbro and the two other archers. They had one other riderless horse in
tow. All three men were sweating profusely, and Cabal had a nasty slash across his upper arm, but they were alive. Jorah helped
them to dismount, and Yarbro immediately went to check on Bursus.
As soon as Jorah and Cabal had placed Bursus onto a horse, Yarbro walked over to face Kelemvor, his sword drawn. "The orcs
ran, you coward. Just like you did!" The young guard held his sword up to Kelemvor's face. "I ought to kill you right now, but we'll need
you as a shield in case we're attacked again. You ride in front, alone, from now on."
Kelemvor pushed the guard's sword away. "And were you right about the clerics?" Yarbro snarled, and his sword flashed out
toward Kelemvor's chest. The fighter slapped the sword aside with his own blade, however, and Yarbro was knocked backward a few
feet by the blow. Jorah, Cabal, and Mikkel drew their swords.
"See?" Yarbro hissed as he sheathed his weapon and held up his hands. "You're alive only because I say so." The other
dalesmen sheathed their swords as well. Kelemvor turned away and readied his horse for another long ride.
The ride to Blackfeather Bridge was long and silent for Kelemvor. The dalesmen stopped in Essembra only long enough for
supplies and to have a local healer look at Bursus's leg. The wound was not too serious, and after a few poultices, Bursus was ready
to ride on to the bridge with the other hunters. All along the road, Kelemvor rode far out in front of the others, hoping that something
would attack them from behind.
The green-eyed fighter knew that if the dalesmen were ambushed, he wouldn't lift a sword to save them. Then was nothing but
Mourngrym's gold and his promise holding him to the quest now, and even that was proving to be little incentive.
Kelemvor had expected that the shock of losing their companions to such a horrible fate would cause the dalesmen to withdraw
into themselves, to tone down their viciousness. At the very least, he thought they would stop dwelling on ways to torture Midnight,
Adon, and Cyric. But Yarbro and the other hunters - even Bursus, when he was well again - spent much of their days plotting horrible
fates for Kelemvor's friends.
Occasionally Yarbro would catch up to Kelemvor and toll him the latest cruel imaginings, just to taunt him. The fighter always
remained silent, but it never stopped the young guard from telling him over and over again how the dalesmen were going to kill the
magic-user and her allies. Eventually the hunters arrived at Blackfeather Bridge, where they secured their mounts in the forest on the
north bank of the Ashaba, then took up positions on the bridge. As the dalesmen set up a rough camp, Kelemvor stood at the
northern end of the bridge and cleared his throat loudly. "Yarbro is now your leader," the fighter began, "and rightly so. However, I
have something to say to you all." A low rumble of mutters ran through the camp. Yarbro eyed Kelemvor suspiciously, then nodded to
his men, letting them know that they had his permission to listen to the fighter.
When the dalesmen had all turned to glare at him, Kelemvor continued. "This is the last time I'm going to remind any of you of
the explicit orders of Lord Mourngrym." Yarbro frowned deeply. "Our orders are to capture Midnight, Cyric and Adon, and return them
to Shadowdale, where they will pay for their crimes. They are to be taken alive unless there is no other option."
The cold stares of the hunters seemed to bore through the fighter. His words were stated calmly and without passion.
Kelemvor knew they would have no effect, but he could not stop trying. When he was done speaking, the fighter slowly walked
back to his horse and unpacked his gear.
After almost an hour had passed and the dalesmen were beginning to get restless, Mikkel asked, "What if they've already
passed this way?" The archer kicked a pebble off the bridge and watched it plummet into the Ashaba.
"Impossible," Yarbro snapped, trying more to convince himself than his men. It was entirely possible that the hunters had
arrived late. Their quarry might be miles away by now, perhaps in Scardale already.
Sitting on the north end of the bridge, Kelemvor felt his heart jump at the archer's question. By all the gods, Kelemvor thought,
let it be so! Let the decision be taken out of my hands!
* * * * *
The God of Strife summoned his sorceress, Tarana Lyr. Moments later, a beautiful young woman wearing the ebon robes of
Bane's dark order entered the massive throne room of the god's temple in Zhentil Keep. Her long, blond hair was regally styled and
held in place by a silver headpiece. A red sash pulled the robe tight about her slim waist, and a slit up the side of the robe allowed a
glimpse of her long, shapely legs. Her eyes were a deep, unearthly blue.
"Milord," Tarana purred, her voice rich and melodic."I am at your command."
"I have summoned you to open a scrying portal to Scardale," Bane said. "I wish to contact our garrison."
"Of course," Tarana murmured and immediately started the spell. The instability of magic did not trouble the sorceress. She
relished the thrill of tampering with forces that might one day destroy her. Taking risks had been an integral part of her upbringing,
and the magical chaos since the time of Arrival had allowed her many talents - and her madness - to be put to full use.
The Black Lord stepped back cautiously from the enchantress as she released her spell. A fiery frame was carved in midair, and
through the portal, Bane saw three men in soldiers' garb sealed around a wooden table. It was obvious from the dice and coins
strewn over the table's surface that they had been gambling. At the moment, the men were arguing over a bet.
"Gentlemen!" Bane growled. His voice brought the soldiers to instant attention. News of Bane's acquisition of Fzoul's body as an
avatar had spread to Scardale quickly, and these soldiers knew Fzoul's voice well from past dealings with the high priest.
"Lord Bane," a stocky, red-bearded soldier named Knopf said as he quickly shoved his chair back and rose from the table. The
other soldiers, Cadeo and Frost, hurried to do likewise.
I see that you have been 'busy,' " Bane snapped, gesturing toward the table.
As the Black Lord glared at the dice and money, the face of the red-bearded soldier paled. "The occupation of the dale has
been very quiet of late," Knopf said, trying to placate his master.
Actually, the occupation of Scardale had been very quiet for several years. It hadn't been long ago that Lashan Aumersair, a
young, aggressive lord of the dale, overran Harrowdale, Featherdale, and Battledale with his armies. But Lashan's empire hadn't
lasted for long. The Dales, Cormyr, Sembia, Hillsfar, and even Zhentil Keep all banded together to halt Scardale's expansion. Now
each of the kingdoms that had supplied troops to defeat the young lord had a garrison in the city. Like the other garrisons, Zhentil
Keep's contingent of soldiers was limited to twelve men-at-arms. The balance of power among the garrisons in Scardale shifted from
one day to the next, but little of consequence ever happened to change the status quo in the occupied city.
"In other words, there has been no progress!" Bane exploded. "I expect you to be doing more in Scardale than playing dice and
keeping the peace!"
"Actually, we engaged the Cormyrian soldiers in a small skirmish only last week," Cadeo mumbled, trying to smile feebly.
"Any casualties?" Bane asked, encouraged.
"Cadeo broke one of their thumbs," Knopf muttered as he pointed to the young, flaxen-haired soldier. "I'm afraid there really
hasn't been much excitement here recently, Lord Bane."
"I see," Bane said slowly. "That sounds like something we can remedy. Where is Jhembryn Durrock?"
"Lord Durrock?" Knopf asked. He shifted his feet nervously for a moment, then ran his hand through his beard.
"If that is the pompous title he has assumed, then, aye, 'Lord' Durrock," the God of Strife growled, his voice hardening. "Find
him and bring him to this portal immediately! I will be waiting."
Bane folded the arms of his avatar as the three soldiers hurried from the small room. Looking away from the magical opening,
he cocked his head slightly and glanced at his sorceress. "I suppose every moment this portal remains open increases the risk to
you."
"It is not a problem," Tarana responded. Her eyes narrowed to mere slits, and a mad smile stretched across her face, marring
the illusion of delicate beauty. "I enjoy the danger."
Moments later, a huge, dark-skinned man appeared before the scrying portal. His flesh had been seared almost black, and
severe burns grossly disfigured most of his face. A thick beard and mustache succeeded in hiding only some of the damage. A blackvisored
helmet, which had been removed in respect for the Black Lord, acted as a mask to further conceal the worst of the assassin's
deformities. In fact, the other garrisons had demanded that Durrock wear the helmet at all times inside the city, since the assassin's
appearance had been known to give nightmares to Scardale's children.
"I live but to serve you, Lord Bane," Durrock said, his voice a hoarse whisper. The assassin bowed slightly, but he didn't allow
his eyes to wander from the scrying portal.
"Yes, Durrock. I know that you do," Bane said in a low voice. "And that knowledge pleases me - especially in light of what I am
about to tell you." The God of Strife smiled an evil grin.
"My spies have informed me that a mage, a raven-haired worshiper of Mystra who opposed me at the Battle of Shadowdale, is
heading toward Scardale. She is traveling down the Ashaba." The God of Strife paused for a moment and let the smile melt from his
features. "Capture her... alive. I am coming to Scardale to interrogate her personally."
A scowl crossed Durrock's ravaged face, and the assassin bowed again. "As you wish, Lord Bane," he said flatly. "How will I
find her?"
"That is not my concern!" the God of Strife screamed, curling his right hand into a fist. "If you cannot accept this mission, 'Lord'
Durrock, then tell me now so that I can find someone more suitable."
"That will not be necessary, Lord Bane," the assassin replied. "I will find her."
The Black Lord smiled again. "Good. You will find her on the Ashaba River itself. I understand that a contingent of dalesmen are
heading toward Blackfeather Bridge to intercept her flight. You may wish to begin there." Bane turned to Tarana and waved his hand.
"Oh, by the way," the God of Strife said as the scrying portal started to fade. "She has two others with her. Do with them as you
please..."
The portal vanished, and Durrock found himself staring at a circular, polished shield on the wall of the soldiers' quarters. He
scowled again and headed for the door.
As he left the hastily constructed barracks, Durrock allowed the full effects of the sun to play on his ruined face for only a
moment. Then he heard footsteps approaching and lowered the visor. Greeting a pale-skinned fighter from Hillsfar with a brief nod,
the assassin passed him by silently. As he walked, Durrock surveyed the port town that stretched before him.
The Scar, the steep ravine for which the town was named, lay to the north. Port Ashaba, the town's busy harbor, was to the
south, at the other end of town. In between the two landmarks, a host of buildings ran the gamut from functional houses where
hardworking residents of Scardale raised their families, to abandoned shacks and workhouses that had fallen into various stages of
disrepair since the war. There were also gigantic warehouses, where supplies for ships preparing to cross the Dragon Reach were
plentiful. One such warehouse was Durrock's present destination.
The guards who stood watch before the warehouse moved aside quickly when the assassin approached. "Lord Durrock," one
said humbly, opening the large wooden door for the forbidding, black-robed figure.
"I ride in an hour with my lieutenants. Inform the necessary parties," Durrock snapped to the guards before he dismissed them
