Waterdeep by Troy Denning Read Free Book Online Page B

had seen tonight. “Have the men gather in groups of six,” the thief ordered. “One group in the great hall-” A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions.
    “The stable,” Dalzhel observed.
    The men mumbled, but stood still and waited for their orders.
    Again, the pony whinnied, this time sending chills down Cyric’s spine. “We’d better have a look,” he said, cringing at the thought of what they would find.
    The men on the stairs reluctantly started toward the stable, Cyric and Dalzhel close behind.
    By the time the hawk-nosed man reached the ground floor, the pony was quiet. As Cyric stepped into the courtyard, a ghostly wail whistled through the castle. Outside the stable, ten men stood with their swords drawn, peering inside and clearly reluctant to enter. Cyric slopped his way across the ward and pushed them aside. Grabbing a torch, he entered the stable, his sword arm aching with the desire to lash out at something.
    The pony lay dead in its stall, a withered and puckered hole over its heart. The lips of its muzzle were twisted back in horror, and one eye stared directly at Cyric.
    Dalzhel approached and stood next to his commander. For a moment, he observed in silence, wondering whether or not Cyric was mourning the beast’s death. Then he noticed something on the beam over the stall. “Look!”
    A circle of drops had been drawn in blood. Cyric had little trouble recognizing the Circle of Tears. It was the symbol of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, God of Assassins.

II
BLACK OAKS
    Kelemvor reined his horse to a stop and lifted his waterskin to his lips. He thought he smelled smoke, but that was no wonder. Despite the absence of the sun, which had simply failed to appear that morning, the day was blistering. A flickering, swirling orange fog clung to the ground, bathing everything it touched in dry heat.
    The fog had leached all moisture from the soil, turning the road into a ribbon of powdery dust that choked man and beast alike. The horses moved slowly and resentfully, stopping every few steps to sniff for the cool odor of a river or pond. Kelemvor knew they would find no water. The company had already crossed several brooks, and the only thing in the streambeds had been billows of orange mist.
    After washing the dust from his mouth, Kelemvor turned his rugged face to the left. Through the fog, the forest that ran along the road’s left flank was barely visible. He sniffed the air and definitely smelled smoke. It carried a greasy odor resembling burned meat. Visions of battles involving razed towns and villages came unbidden to his mind.
    “I smell smoke,” Kelemvor said, twisting around to face his companions.
    The second rider, Adon, stopped and sniffed the air. “So do I,” he said. He kept his head slightly turned to hide the scar beneath his left eye. “I would guess there’s a fire, wouldn’t you?”
    “We should have a look,” Kelemvor said.
    “What for?” Adon demanded, waving his hand at the fog. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the air itself were burning.”
    Kelemvor sniffed again. It was difficult to be sure, but he still thought he smelled scorched meat. “Can’t you smell it?” he asked. “Burned flesh?”
    The third rider stopped behind Kelemvor and Adon, her black cape now gray with road-silt, her hair braided into a pony tail. “I smell it, too,” Midnight said, inhaling. “Like charred mutton?”
    Sighing, Adon turned to face Midnight. “It’s probably a campfire,” he said. “Let’s go.”
    Absent-mindedly, the cleric rested a hand on the reason for his concern, the saddlebags containing the Tablet of Fate. Nothing was more important than getting it to Waterdeep as quickly as possible. Adon did not want to waste a single moment with detours, especially after the troubles of the last few days.
    Kelemvor knew the source of Adon’s concern. After escaping the zombie riders, they had gone to Wheloon to rest. However, the trio had scarcely arrived