Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  “Halt!” Kelemvor called as he held up his hand to signal the troops. When all the men got close enough to hear, the fighter added, “We need to decide where to go from here.”

  “We follow the river,” Yarbro snapped. “What else can we do? In fact, we’re wasting time even talking about it. We should be charging across Mistledale as fast as we can. It’s open land, and—”

  “The road to the Standing Stone,” Kelemvor interrupted flatly. The fighter dismounted and stretched. “We can ride even faster on the road than we can across open fields.”

  Gurn ran his hand through his white hair. “But the road angles to the north and east, away from the river.”

  Kelemvor fished a piece of dried meat from his saddlebag. “And then it turns to the south, all the way to Blackfeather Bridge. We know they’re going to Scardale, following the river. They have to pass the bridge eventually.”

  Yarbro cursed. “How will we know they haven’t already passed the bridge when we get there?” A few of the other men mumbled in agreement.

  “We won’t,” the green-eyed fighter said as he stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth and mounted his horse again.

  “Kel’s right,” Terrol Uthor said over the mumbled curses of the two fishermen. “We’ll never catch up with them if we continue along the river. Once we’ve crossed the dale, the woods between here and Battledale are very thick. At times we wouldn’t even be able to ride.”

  Kelemvor smiled and turned his horse to the east. “That’s it, then. Our guide has spoken.” The fighter kicked his horse into a gallop and headed east, toward the road. A few of the men looked at Yarbro, who cursed again, then spurred his horse and raced off after Kelemvor. The rest of the men followed.

  It wasn’t long before the huntsmen reached the wide, well-traveled road that led from Hillsfar in the north to Tilverton, Arabel, and eventually even the great city of Suzail in the south. To Kelemvor, the open road seemed to carry the sweet scent of freedom and release. Even the mood of Kelemvor’s fellow hunters seemed to improve.

  By midafternoon, however, the dry heat of the sun had managed to burn off whatever good cheer the dalesmen had felt. As was becoming common on the journey, the men vented their ill humor by suggesting new and inventive means of dealing with the escaped criminals once they were caught. Yarbro’s fertile imagination accounted for fully half of these.

  Kelemvor’s anger grew as the day went on. If Mourngrym thinks that these men will support his justice, the fighter thought, he’s a fool! They’re a bloodthirsty lynch mob, no more or less vicious than the wild-eyed fanatics in Tilverton who tried to kill Midnight, Cyric, Adon, and me because they thought the God of Blacksmiths wanted us dead.

  Kelemvor knew that he should remind the men of Mourngrym’s orders that the prisoners were to be returned to Shadowdale alive, but he couldn’t. Instead, he brooded silently, and his refusal to contradict the hunters’ angry threats and boasts was taken as unspoken consent. The tales became wilder and more cruel as the day went on.

  As the fighter looked around at the leering, cursing men he commanded, he remembered Cyric’s tirade against the “justice” the dalesmen would provide to Midnight and Adon, and for the first time since Lhaeo had burst into Mourngrym’s chamber, Kelemvor wondered if he was doing the right thing.

  The fighter turned the idea over and over in his mind all day, until finally the sun became a low, blinding orb at the hunters’ backs, and the road ahead was blanketed by the first hints of nightfall. The food reserves had not been replenished in the last few days, and Kelemvor gave silent thanks for a task that would take the dalesmen’s minds off their murderous imaginings.

  The fighter signaled the company to come to a halt. “We’ll need to forage here,” the fighter snapped as he dismounted. “Perhaps the earth has not yet turned sour from the chaos in this part of the Realms, and we will find healthy game.”

  Dividing the hunters into three groups, Kelemvor led Bursus, Jorah, and Terrol into the south woods while Mikkel, Carella, and Gurn went to the north. Yarbro, the priests of Lathander, and the remaining soldier, Cabal, stayed behind to guard the camp.

  Half an hour later, as night was beginning to fall in earnest and a dark blue veil hung over the woods, Kelemvor and his group emerged from the forest. They were carrying the carcass of a deer that had been felled by one of Jorah’s arrows.

  A few minutes after that, Mikkel and his men exited from the thick, dark woods north of the road. The fisherman carried the still form of a jackrabbit in his hands. His look of triumph faded quickly as he saw the meal Kelemvor had secured. The hunters laughed at the sight of Mikkel, standing alone and dejected with his prize, then welcomed him and his party to join in the meal. The hunters feasted on the fresh deer meat, then lingered around the fire at the edge of the woods.

  Well fed if not well rested, the hunters buried the deer’s remains and took to the road once again. For a short time, Kelemvor sensed a camaraderie that he had never before associated with the grim, disparate band of hunters. Stories of past adventures, real or imagined, were traded as they traveled through the moonlit night on their way to the Standing Stone.

  As always, however, the topic of Midnight and her accomplices soon became the central focus of conversation, and the veneer of civilized behavior disappeared, to be replaced by the bitterness and savagery of the hunters’ threats and curses. Kelemvor realized that, no matter how much he might hope otherwise, it was the common hatred of the three criminals, whom most of the hunters had never even met, that truly bonded the men.

  The moon was high when the hunters reached the Standing Stone, where the road split, one branch continuing northeast to Hillsfar, while the other ran south, past the town of Essembra, to Blackfeather Bridge. The stone itself was a huge, glossy gray square that rose twenty feet into the air. At its base, elvish runes were inscribed in a series of bands that wound around all four sides of the stone.

  There was a clearing behind the stone, a perfect crescent of brownish black earth where nothing grew. The trees farther back behind the Standing Stone were unlike any others the hunters had seen this side of the Great Desert, which lay far to the west. The bases of the trees were wildly knotted, with their roots twisted forward and dug into the ground like an old miser’s fingers in a pile of gold. The trees’ branches grew away from the stone, curving strangely midway along their lengths so that they remained generally parallel to the earth instead of growing straight and proud. The trees were a dull orange, while their occasional leaves appeared yellow and sickly.

  Some of the men were obviously nervous about being so close to the Standing Stone, which was known to hold extraordinary reserves of magic, especially now that the art was unstable. Others did not care to remain so close to the ruins of Myth Drannor, which lay to the north. Indeed, stories of the creatures that stalked the land around the ruined city made most of the men jumpy. Still, the hunters were exhausted, and when the issue was put to a vote, the dalesmen chose to make camp beside the stone, despite their fears.

  Kelemvor and Yarbro took the first watch along with Bursus, one of the archers from the dale. Although Yarbro’s open hostility toward Kelemvor had ceased, the fighter still didn’t trust the young guard. Bursus sat beside the fighter, and they gazed at the mystical stone before them as it reflected the soft moonlight and the flickering flames of their fire.

  “There’s something I’ve never understood,” Bursus sighed as he turned to face the fighter.

  “What’s that?” Kelemvor asked, absently tossing a stick into the fire and watching as a tiny explosion of sparks floated into the air.

  “The murderers we’re chasing were once your friends. You fought at their side.” The archer paused for a moment. “Isn’t this difficult for you?”

  The fighter’s eyes were fixed on the fire. “They betrayed me,” Kelemvor growled. “They lied to me right from the beginning.” He turned to look at Yarbro and found the guard staring at him.

  “I shouldn’t
have doubted you,” Bursus said, nodding. “You have as much cause for revenge as any of us. Perhaps more.”

  Revenge? Kelemvor thought. Is that all the motivation I have for this quest? Perhaps that’s not reason enough. Midnight certainly wasn’t given a proper chance to defend herself at the trial. Justice wasn’t served … and these dalesmen certainly aren’t going to see that Midnight, Cyric, and Adon are treated fairly.

  Kelemvor cursed silently and shook his head. When he looked up again, the fighter saw that Yarbro was still watching him, except that now the guard had a curious, sly look on his face.

  “Yes, Bursus,” Yarbro murmured, never taking his eyes off Kelemvor. “He should have more incentive for hunting down that witch than the rest of us put together.” A grin slowly worked its way across the guard’s face.

  Looking into Yarbro’s eyes, Kelemvor decided that he would prevent the dalesmen from harming Midnight and her allies … if that proved possible. He couldn’t hinder the hunters or help his former friends directly. That would activate the curse. But he could try to hold the dalesmen to Lord Mourngrym’s instructions. After all, that’s what he was being paid to do.

  Suddenly there was a sharp snapping sound from the twisted trees behind the hunters. It didn’t take Kelemvor’s enhanced senses to detect the sound. Each of the sentries had heard the noise and was looking to Kelemvor for orders.

  The fighter paused for a moment, then, from the woods at their backs, heard the sound of branches snapping and leaves rustling underfoot.

  “Wake the others,” Kelemvor whispered. “Let’s hope it’s nothing more than some harmless beast that got curious about the fire.” The fighter stood up slowly and drew his sword.

  Yarbro stood beside Kelemvor. “Put out the fire,” the green-eyed fighter said calmly. The young guard complied without question, which surprised Kelemvor. More sounds came from the forest as Yarbro extinguished the flames. Standing out in the open, bathed by firelight, the hunters would have made easy targets. If the watchers in the woods had hostile intentions, they had just lost part of their advantage. Still, the cover of the woods would be in the hidden creatures’ favor. Kelemvor urged the hunters to pack their belongings as quickly as possible.

  “If we keep our wits about us, we may be able to get to the horses and outdistance whoever is out there,” Kelemvor said, slinging his pack onto his horse with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other.

  Suddenly there was a piggish grunt from the forest, and one of the horses whinnied in terror. The horse rose up on its hind legs and threw its rider, Jorah, to the ground. Then the frantic horse raced onto the Mistledale road and vanished into the night. There was a hiss, like the whisper of a sudden gust of wind, and Gurn, the white-haired woodsman, grunted and fell forward.

  One of the fishermen, Carella, was near Gurn, close to the Mistledale side of the crescent-shaped clearing. He leaped from his mount and rushed to the woodsman’s aid. Gurn lay on his chest, writhing in agony. A three-inch dart protruded from the back of his neck. The fisherman reached down, grabbed the woodsman’s arms, and tried to drag the white-haired man to a horse.

  “Kelemvor!” Carella shouted between puffs of breath. “They’re using some kind of darts. They could be poisoned. They—”

  The fisherman’s words were cut short as a dart pierced the side of his face, passed through his cheek, and impaled itself into his tongue. Despite his absolute horror, Carella was quickly satisfied that the darts were not poisoned. He felt no sensation other than intense pain. The fisherman lost his grip on Gurn and fell to the ground, clutching at his face. As Carella quickly struggled to his feet, another dart pierced his throat, and the fisherman fell backward, his body quivering as death claimed him.

  Rough, snorting laughter erupted from the forest. For the first time, Kelemvor saw something—a few faces—in amongst the trees. The creatures had large, watery eyes, set irregularly over a piggish snout. The fighter knew immediately what the hunters faced—ores. Probably a dozen, at least.

  “To the road!” Kelemvor shouted and wheeled his horse around. Several darts and two or three black-fletched arrows flashed from the trees. Cabal pulled Jorah onto the back of his horse, and the other two archers raced after Kelemvor.

  Near the center of the clearing, Mikkel screamed as he saw Carella fall. They had been childhood friends and inseparable for most of their lives. Mikkel started to move quickly to help his friend, but Yarbro grabbed the red-skinned fisherman from behind and dragged him back toward the horses. Arrows flew all around them as they mounted and made for the south road.

  No one was there to stop Terrol Uthor from rushing to Carella’s side. However, as the guide crouched over the fallen fisherman, an arrow flew out of the darkness and pierced Terrol’s chest. The guide gasped once, then fell onto his face in the dirt.

  Five orcs, wearing dirty, rusted armor and carrying swords, burst into the clearing near the Standing Stone. Two immediately ran toward the bodies of the dalesmen, but the other three rushed toward Kohren and Lanx, the two clerics of Lathander, who were still fumbling with their saddlebags.

  “Forget your books!” Bursus screamed as he spurred his horse down the south road. “Hurry! We—” A black arrow pierced the fighter’s leg, pinning it to his horse. Bursus careened down the road after Kelemvor, gritting his teeth in pain. Five more orcs, most carrying bows, leaped from cover. A few stray arrows and a larger number of curses screamed in Orcish followed the dalesman down the road.

  Kelemvor reined in his horse and stopped around a bend in the road. Cabal and Jorah, riding the same horse, quickly joined the green-eyed fighter, as did Yarbro and Mikkel. The hunters sat silently for a moment, listening to the orcs cursing in the distance. Only Kelemvor could understand what the orcs were saying, but all of the riders shivered. The meaning of the threats were clear enough, despite the difference in language.

  In another second, Bursus’s mount cantered into sight. The black-haired dalesman was lolling in the saddle from the pain of his wounded leg, but his horse had continued down the road. Jorah jumped down from Cabal’s mount and stopped Bursus’s horse from continuing past them.

  “The Lathanderites …,” Bursus mumbled. “Save them!” The archer tried to raise his hand, probably to point back at the Standing Stone, but couldn’t. Cabal dismounted and examined the arrow wound in Bursus’s left leg.

  Kelemvor turned his horse away from the Standing Stone. “Let’s go,” he muttered. “The clerics are lost. There’s no way they can escape those orcs.”

  Yarbro drew his sword and looked at Kelemvor. “Sometimes orcs let their victims live … for a while.” The young guard paused for a moment. Mikkel drew his sword and Cabal remounted. “We’re going back for them.”

  Kelemvor closed his eyes. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he could go back for the clerics. It simply wasn’t in his best interest to endanger his life for them. “Do what you want, Yarbro. I’m not going to help you.” The fighter got off his horse and walked toward the trees. “I’ll wait here until you get back.”

  “I’ll look after Bursus,” Jorah said flatly. “I’ll try to get that arrow out and bind his leg.” The slender, auburn-haired archer turned to Kelemvor and spat, then turned back to the others. “If that’s what you want me to do, that is, Yarbro.”

  The young guard narrowed his eyes and stared at Kelemvor for a moment. “Yes … it is up to me now, isn’t it?” Yarbro said 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.”