to occur at first light made Kelemvor sick at heart. The festive atmosphere that pervaded the killing grounds was horribly out of place.
The fires of Kelemvor's anger were fanned into a blaze of rage as workmen arrived at the courtyard and began to assemble a
complex stage for the executions. The spectators had evidently been taken into prime consideration in the design of the stage. It was
composed of two circular platforms that moved like opposing gears, constructed to display the victims for all who cared to see them.
Columns jutted from the center of the platforms, with crude, metal hooks where wrists and ankles would be bound. There was a
circular opening, not unlike the knot of a tree, midway down each column. Kelemvor realized with a shiver that the executioner's
spikes would be driven through the holes, and into the bodies of the condemned - his former allies. It would be a slow, horrible death.
Kelemvor wasn't sure what he planned to do when the time for the execution actually arrived. He felt that he had to atone
somehow for his failure to help Midnight at the trial. Still, the evidence given against Midnight and Adon at the trial had been so
conclusive that the fighter was not even convinced that his friends were really innocent. It certainly was possible that Midnight had
lost control of the powerful magic she wielded and accidentally caused Elminster's death. Kelemvor simply couldn't decide.
The first hint of dawn played across the horizon as a band of reddish gray light appeared in the distance. Kelemvor found
himself standing beside a pair of guardsmen who struggled to hold back their yawns.
Suddenly a series of alarm gongs sounded from the Twisted Tower, and the guards shook themselves to battle readiness in a
matter of seconds.
"The prisoners!" someone shouted from the tower. "They've escaped!"
"Kelemvor, come on!" one of the guards, an obese young man, shouted as he headed for the Twisted Tower. "We need every
man we can get!"
The dalesmen still think of me as one of them, Kelemvor realized as he followed the guards to the main entrance of the tower
and was admitted without a second glance, even though the irate villagers were held back. The door leading to the dungeon stood
open, and Kelemvor and the overweight guard raced to the landing. From there, they saw a congregation of dalesmen in the
cavernous chamber. Forcing his way through the crowd, Kelemvor stopped abruptly as he saw the solemn faces of Lord Mourngrym
and Thurbal.
The reason for their distress sat propped upon a small stool at the head of the corridor leading to the holding cells. Kelemvor
studied the wide-eyed expression of total bliss that graced the dead man's features, then looked down to see the hilt of the man's
short sword protruding from his neck. The blade had been driven through the man with such force that the tip had pierced the mortar
of the wall behind him, pinning the dead guard in place.
"Who killed him?" Kelemvor growled. His words broke the silence on the landing, and everyone turned to him.
"He killed himself," a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "When I came to
relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that
was big, about Forester's size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent."
The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story.
"He said this man came down the back stair-way and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym." The redheaded guard paused for a
second, then started rocking again. "When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own
throat, right where the mark was! That's just how it happened. I swear!"
The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than
the rest.
"I saw it!" a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. "I saw it all!"
Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.
"Cover him," Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon's-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close
behind.
"What did you see?" Mourngrym said.
"Not so fast!" the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. "What's in it for me?"
Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner's hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted
iron bars. Mourngrym's sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man's wrist.
"You get to keep your hand," Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner's other hand before he could gouge
Mourngrym's face. "Speak quickly, or I'll take you apart, starting with this hand!"
The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous
night.
"Cyric," Kelemvor said, hanging his head. "It must have been Cyric!"
There was a hoarse shout from the top of the stairs. "More bodies up here! Forester is dead!"
"Come with me," Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the
audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he
expected trouble at any second. The guard's pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to
the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym's coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the
bottom of the red curtain. Forester's body had been left in the space directly behind Mourngrym's throne.
"Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain," the bald guard mumbled softly.
The dalelord shook with anger. "Search the tower." Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. "I want to know who else is... missing."
Within the hour, Cyric's movements had been mapped out, and the missing boat was discovered. Mourngrym was suspicious of
the guardsman at the bridge. The bodies of Segert and Marcreg had been discovered near his post. The guard was led away to the
dungeon for interrogation.
"Does this look like the work of your friend?" Mourngrym said as he crouched over Segert's body. He exposed the wound on the
corpse's neck for emphasis.
"He was not a friend," Kelemvor said as he surveyed the corpse's wounds. "And, yes, it looks like Cyric's work."
There were shouts from the kitchen, and Kelemvor accompanied the dalelord back into the tower, to the kitchen. They found the
cook pointing at the stairs that led to the storage room. The body of the young guard-in-training had been placed on a hook and
dangled beside a number of butchered slabs of meat. Smears of chocolate and cherry still covered the lad's ashen face.
"Come with me," Mourngrym said, but Kelemvor remained standing at the door, staring at the young man's corpse. The dalelord
gently put his hand on the fighter's shoulder and turned him away from the body. "We need to talk," Mourngrym said softly as he led
Kelemvor to his private audience chamber.
The two men climbed a set of stairs. At the first landing, the dalelord unlocked a large oaken door and ushered Kelemvor into
the room. Mourngrym's audience chamber was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of dark wooden furniture scattered about the
room and brightly colored tapestries on the walls. A single, small opening admitted the weak morning sunlight from outside the tower.
The dalelord collapsed into a chair and started to wring his hands. "I need someone to find them, Kelemvor. Someone who is
loyal to the causes of the Dales - freedom, justice, honor - and someone who knows how to find the butchers who did this to my
men." Mourngrym stopped speaking, but he continued to wring his hands.
Kelemvor was too distraught to answer. Midnight, Cyric, and Adon had played him for a fool all along. That was the only thing
that could explain their leaving the dale without him. Perhaps they were murderers after all.
"Your service in the cause of the Dales was exemplary," Mourngrym said after a moment. "You are a good man, Kel. I believe
you have been deceived." The dalelord stopped wringing his hands and stood up.
"Aye," Kelemvor said as he ran his hands through his hair. The fighter sat down in a large, high-backed chair across from the
dalelord. "That may be so."
"You spent time with them," Mourngrym said as he moved to the fighter's side. "You know how they think. You may have some
idea where they've gone."
"I may," Kelemvor mumbled.
Mourngrym paused for a moment, then put his hand on Kelemvor's shoulder. "I want you to track down the criminals and return
them to Shadowdale. I will give you a dozen men, including a guide who knows the forest."
"The forest? But they left by boat," Kelemvor said, confusion showing on his face.
"They have a considerable head start. The only way to overcome their lead is by land," Mourngrym said with a sigh. "Will you do
it?"
Kelemvor roughly brushed the dalelord's hand from his shoulder and stood up. But before the fighter could speak, the door to
the chamber suddenly burst open and Lhaeo stumbled into the room. "Lord Mourngrym, your forgiveness!" the scribe said and fell to
his knees before the ruler of the dale. "I did not know! I believed in their innocence! But they have spilled innocent blood and soaked
my hands in it!"
"Slow down," Mourngrym said as he reached down and grabbed Lhaeo's shoulders. "Tell us everything."
Elminster's faithful scribe sighed and looked up into Mourngrym's eyes. "As I said at the trial, I thought Elminster was alive. I-I
went to the tower, thinking to help the magic-user and the cleric escape before they were executed... But Cyric had already done
that." Lhaeo bowed his head again and covered his face with his hands. "I let them get away - No. I helped them get away. I gave
Midnight her spellbook... and some other things."
Mourngrym frowned and turned to Kelemvor. The fighter stood silently over the scribe, his face devoid of all emotion.
"I should have realized that the guard inside the tower was dead," Lhaeo snapped, suddenly angry. "Someone should have
seen us and sounded the alarm. I never thought that they..." The scribe shuddered and looked up at Kelemvor. "I can never forgive
myself for what has occurred!"
Mourngrym tried to remain calm, but anger marched across his features like a rampaging army. "The killings occurred before
you arrived, Lhaeo. You must not blame yourself."
Lhaeo swallowed and bowed his head again. "You must place me under arrest."
Mourngrym stepped back from the scribe. "Consider yourself under house arrest," Mourngrym said flatly. "Do not leave
Elminster's Tower unless it is to procure food and drink for yourself. That is my final word."
The scribe lifted himself from the floor, bowed before his liege, and turned to leave. "One other thing," Mourngrym snapped
before Lhaeo could leave. "Do you know where the criminals were headed when they left?"
The scribe turned. Kelemvor could see that his face was white, and anger clouded his eyes. "Yes," Lhaeo said through partially
clenched teeth. "They are going to Tantras."
Mourngrym nodded, but Kelemvor held up his hand. "Wait, Lhaeo. You just said that you thought Elminster was alive. Don't you
believe that anymore? Do you think that Midnight and Adon... murdered him?"
Shoulders drawn tight, the scribe stood up straight. His voice was barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. "After what they did
in the tower, I believe they are cold-blooded killers. Worse still, they have fooled good men-like Elminster. Like you, Kelemvor. They
must be brought to justice!"
III
THE NEREID
In the privacy of his own thoughts, Cyric had murdered Adon well over a hundred times. During the trip down the Ashaba, the
thief often imagined himself bashing the cleric with an oar and watching as the pathetic, weak-willed man allowed the river's current to
swallow him up without a fight. But the sudden, unwelcome intrusion of reality would always shatter Cyric's daydreams. Adon would
begin to weep, and Midnight would try to comfort him by stroking his hair and whispering into his ear. At those times, Cyric quivered
with anger and thought of even bloodier ways to dispose of Adon.
Still, travel down the river was generally quiet and uneventful. Since they rarely spoke, these lulls gave the heroes far too much
time to think. At the moment, highsun was approaching and Cyric's stomach growled as he contemplated a fine banquet. The food
they had taken from Shadowdale was filling but far from appetizing, and so the thief didn't relish the thought of eating, even though he
was hungry.
Midnight shared Cyric's feelings. As she sat in the bow, trying to study her spellbook, swatting away annoying, bloated
mosquitoes, thoughts of fine meals drifted through her head, too.
"A few more hours of this and I'm going to become delirious," Midnight said at last, slamming her spellbook shut. "We need to
eat something."
"No one's stopping you," Cyric croaked, his throat dry from the intense heat of the midday sun.
Midnight frowned. She was hungry, but she wanted Cyric to rest for a while and eat, too. The thief hadn't allowed her to take a
turn at the oars since they left Shadowdale, and he just snorted and shook his head when Midnight had suggested Adon try to row.
"You need to rest, Cyric. Why don't we pull in to shore and all eat something?"
"Because the dalesmen might catch up to us, and I, for one, don't want that to happen," Cyric said. Midnight crossed her arms
and leaned back into the how. The thief scowled and turned away from the raven-haired mage. When he looked over his shoulder,
