Waterdeep by Troy Denning Page B

part of his mind remained alert. So when he suddenly found himself completely awake with the dim memory of hearing a scream, he did not doubt for an instant that something was wrong. His first thought was that Bhaal had come for the tablet. The cleric slipped his hand beneath the straw mattress and felt the reassuring texture of the leather saddlebag.
    Adon lay motionless, listening for another scream. The only sounds were his own panicked breath and the patter of rain on the shutters. For another thirty seconds, nothing stirred in the black room. Adon began to suspect he had dreamed the scream and silently chuckled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d been afraid of the dark.
    But Adon knew better than to feel silly for being frightened. Bhaal was on their trail, and from the Lord of Murder, there was only one protection: the blessing of another god. Adon could no longer provide that protection, and he worried for an instant that it had been wrong to turn away from Sune Firehair. The cleric caressed the ugly scar beneath his eye. Certainly, it had been wrong to turn away because she hadn’t removed the blemish. In a time of so much strife, it had been selfish to expect her to repair his marred visage. Adon could accept that fact now, just as he accepted the imperfection.
    What he could not accept, however, was the gods’ indifference to their worshipers. Since his youth, he had venerated Sune, believing the goddess would watch over him in return for his dedication. When she had allowed him to be scarred, Adon had fallen into a deep despair, realizing Sune cared little about her worshipers. Recovering from that disappointment had been a slow and tedious process. His confidence and will to live had returned only when he’d turned his devotion to his fellow man.
    But this newfound devotion had not renewed the cleric’s faith in Sune. In fact, the more dedicated to other men he became, the more Adon resented Sune - and all the gods - for abusing the faith of their mortal worshipers.
    Unfortunately, it had been faith in Sune that supplied Adon with clerical abilities. No matter how deeply felt or sincere, devotion to fellow man would never restore those powers. Gods were magical, supernatural, and, for reasons of their own, they rewarded fervent belief in their existence with the barest fraction of their power.
    The door to the stairwell creaked open, abruptly ending Adon’s reflections. A sliver of yellow light slipped into the room. Watching the partially opened door, Adon reached for his mace and put his feet on the floor.
    As the cleric stood, a black shadow flew out of the doorway, striking his face with a cold weight. Shrieking in surprise, Adon fell back onto the bed.
    “Quiet!” Sneakabout hissed. “Put that on.”
    Adon angrily peeled the mail shirt from his head then slipped into it. “What’s happening?” he asked.
    But Sneakabout, who had spent the last three hours examining every trap in the keep tower, had already disappeared. As the halfling reached the bottom of the stairs, the doors to the banquet hall opened. Six Cormyrian guards rushed into the room carrying torches and weapons.
    “Jalur, help me bar the doors!” ordered the sergeant, waving his drawn sword at the entrance. “Kiel, Makare, and you others - to the stairwell!”
    Surprised at how quickly the Cormyrians had retreated into the keep, the halfling crept toward the kitchen. His destination was the room directly below Adon’s, the steward’s office. Unfortunately, the office was locked and Sneakabout would have to pick the lock or find a key. Then he would have to rearrange the furniture so he could reach the crank. It would take time - time he might not have. The halfling had no idea what it was that the guards were fighting, but he knew that it had torn through them with frightening speed.
    The guards knew little more about their opponent than Sneakabout. Orrel had seen something crawl down a dark corner of the inner wall.