Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

Yarbro moved toward the thief again. “If you hold still and fight like a man, I’ll show you a fight!”

  Laughter erupted from the Zhentilar. “Aye, Cyric,” Slater called. “Hold still so the dalesman can relieve you of your head!”

  To Cyric’s right, the leader of the Company of the Scorpions stood with his arms crossed. “Aye, thief, give us a taste of blood!” Tyzack yelled. “Wound him before you kill him.”

  The thief forced a smile. “That would be too easy!” Cyric growled, thinking that he’d best end this contest quickly, before the Zhentilar got bored and tossed Yarbro a sword or something.

  Yarbro swung out a fist wildly at the thief, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed, sweat pouring down his face.

  The thief easily ducked the clumsy swing and kicked Yarbro in the stomach. “This is getting boring, isn’t it?” Cyric said, circling around the guardsman and slapping him with the bow in the back of the head. The thief smiled at Yarbro, who was buckled over in pain, and tossed the bow aside. “I’ll give you a running start,” Cyric growled. “You can have fifty yards before I come after you.”

  Yarbro looked up at the hawk-nosed man, disbelief in his eyes.

  “Make it a hundred, Cyric!” Ren cried.

  Cyric bowed quickly to the golden-haired soldier. “A hundred yards it is,” the thief said with a flourish. “Go on, run back toward the river. Maybe I won’t catch you before you get to the water. Then you can escape and warn all the Realms about me.”

  Sweat was pouring into Yarbro’s eyes. A lump was forming where the thief had smacked him with the bow, and pain exploded behind his eyes with every movement. “Damn you!” Yarbro hissed. “I’d kill you and everyone else from Zhentil Keep if I could!”

  A rumble ran through the Zhentilar, and Cyric gritted his teeth. Yarbro was wearing the company’s patience, such as it was, very thin. If Cyric didn’t prove to the soldiers he was one of them—a brutish, bloodthirsty Zhentish agent—they might not let him live until Scardale. That just wouldn’t do.

  “Two hundred yards,” Cyric said flatly. “That’s my final offer.” When the guardsman still didn’t move, the thief narrowed his eyes and snarled, “Run, damn you! This is your only chance. I won’t take a step toward you for two hundred yards.”

  Yarbro’s breath caught in his lungs. “But they will,” the guard whispered, nodding toward the Zhentilar.

  “Scorpions!” Cyric called. “Will you honor my pledge? Two hundred yards before I move after him on foot. And you stay where you are.”

  “Done!” Tyzack agreed. The rest of the company nodded or grunted their consent.

  Cyric smiled a wicked grin. “Go. It’s your only chance. Go now!”

  A final grimace of pure hatred crossed the blond guard’s features as he turned and began to run. The Zhentilar parted for the dalesman as Cyric strolled to the edge of the ring. Yarbro had run for less than twenty paces when the thief grabbed a dagger from Praxis’s boot and hurled it. Blinding pain coursed through Yarbro as the blade entered his back at the base of his spine. Then the guardsman collapsed.

  Cyric turned to the stunned Zhentilar. “Come on. He’s not dead yet.” As the thief approached the place where Yarbro lay, he knew that the next few moments were all-important. By turning his back on the Company of the Scorpions, he had allowed himself to become vulnerable to their attack. For every step he heard them take behind him, some walking, others riding, Cyric’s confidence grew. Every moment that Slater’s shaft did not strike his back was a victory.

  The thief bent down over the twitching body of the hunter.

  “You promised …,” Yarbro gasped, his teeth gritted in pain. “You promised!”

  A chill ran down Cyric’s spine. “But I didn’t come after you, Yarbro. I didn’t take a step. It was my blade that did the job.” The dalesman started to moan, and Cyric felt a swirling anger growing in his soul.

  The Zhentilar gathered around the thief and his victim, and Cyric stood up and started to walk away. “Wait a minute!” Eccles snarled. “You haven’t taken care of him yet.”

  Cyric stood motionless for a moment and closed his eyes. “It’s over,” he hissed. “Leave him here to die.”

  “He might get away,” Croxton roared, balling his hands into fists. “You’re no Zhentish agent if you leave him like this! You’re not—”

  They’re not going to make this easy, the thief cursed. But I’ll do what I must. Cyric whirled around, his face emotionless. “Give me another dagger,” he murmured flatly and started back toward Yarbro.

  As the Zhentilar watched, Cyric walked slowly to the suffering dalesman and kneeled beside him. As the thief looked into Yarbro’s fear-filled eyes, he felt something die inside of him, some tiny spark go out in his soul. “You’d do the same to me,” Cyric hissed. He pushed Yarbro over onto his face and quickly slashed the tendons at the backs of his ankles.

  As the dalesman wailed in pain, Cyric stood up, tossed the dagger onto the ground next to Yarbro, and walked away. “Now he won’t go anywhere,” the thief growled as he approached the now-silent Zhentilar.

  As the Company of the Scorpions prepared to ride to Scardale, Slater went to the body of the dead fisherman and bent over it for a moment. She gave a throaty laugh and snatched the prism earring from the dead fisherman. Yarbro continued to scream as the woman robbed Mikkel’s corpse and the rest of the company packed, but no one seemed to notice.

  Cyric mounted one of the dalesman’s horses and rode up to Tyzack. The thief’s expression was unreadable. Finally the leader of the Zhentilar patrol allowed a grin to spread across his face. “I’m sure Lord Bane will be pleased to see you when we reach Scardale,” the black-haired man said and held his hand out to Cyric. The thief paused for a moment, then grabbed Tyzack’s hand.

  “Welcome to the Company of the Scorpions,” Eccles chuckled as he rode past Cyric and Tyzack. And as the Zhentilar started on the long, hard ride to Scardale, the wild-eyed man’s laughter drowned out the screams of the dying dalesman.

  Midnight used the time it took the assassins to fly back to Scardale wisely. Although she pretended to be asleep much of the time, the mage took advantage of the rough ride on the nightmare to conceal the tiny motions she had been making with her wrists, ankles, and face for almost the entire journey. A small piece of metal on the saddle allowed Midnight to gently saw away at the bonds that held her in place. The journey was long and tedious, and the mage had made some progress on her bonds by the time they reached Scardale.

  Just after sunrise, the nightmares were in the right configuration and close enough together that Midnight could catch Adon’s attention. She tried to let the cleric know surreptitiously, through subtle hand signals and gestures, that she was trying to cut through her bonds. The mage knew that Adon saw her, but if he understood what she was trying to tell him, it didn’t register on the cleric’s face.

  When the port town came into sight, it was clear to the heroes that this was a place they did not want to be. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from various sections of the city. In the harbor, the heroes could even see huge fires greedily consuming some of the larger ships. Worse still, a number of Zhentish slave galleys cruised offshore.

  “The city is under siege!” Durrock cried. “Scardale is at war!” He raised his sword high over his head and signaled the other assassins to hurry. The assassins urged increased speed from their mounts, but it was still almost half an hour before they were over the city.

  The assassins laughed and cried out in joy as the nightmares raced over the city. Buildings had been set aflame. Corpses lined the street, and in a few places, the fighting was still in full swing. The heroes noted, though, that Bane’s symbol had been painted in red on a number of the larger, more important-looking houses and buildings they passed over. Armed troops, wearing the black armor of the Zhentilar, marched through the streets unopposed.

  Varro flew close to Durrock. “We should secure the prisoners,” the assassin c
alled. “Then perhaps we can aid the Zhentilar in the destruction of the garrisons—if that has not already been accomplished.”

  Durrock nodded, and the nightmare riders guided their mounts away from the heart of the city and flew toward the garrison of the Zhentilar, at the outskirts of town. A half-dozen buildings enclosed by a hastily constructed wall comprised the unimpressive fort. The warehouse to which Durrock had summoned the nightmare mounts was located just outside the newly constructed walls of the garrison. The few Zhentilar posted outside the garrison walls cheered when they spotted the assassins.

  Kelemvor was amazed as the nightmares descended into the street with a grace and a sureness he never would have associated with the massive beasts. Once the assassins were safely on the ground, Durrock quickly dismounted and opened the warehouse doors. The assassins rode into the old wooden building, then dragged their prisoners from their mounts. Varro quickly untied the ropes that secured Kelemvor to the nightmare, but he left those that held his arms and legs in place. As he did so, Varro talked to the horrid beast with a soft, comforting tone.

  Midnight remained perfectly still as Durrock approached his nightmare to untie the ropes that held her to the beast. The mage kept her ankles pressed tightly together, and the assassin did not seem to notice that the bonds around her legs were frayed and nearly severed. Midnight glanced at Adon, and the cleric moved his hands apart a little ways to show the magic-user that his bonds were cut through, too. Midnight’s spirits rose, and she couldn’t suppress a smile.

  I’d best make good my escape now, before anyone catches on, Midnight thought as Durrock moved toward the front of the huge, jet-black horse. Entwining her fingers as if she were saying a prayer, Midnight raised her hands in a tight ball and struck the nightmare as hard as she could. The creature snorted in surprise at the blow and reared up, its forelegs hammering into Durrock, knocking the assassin to the ground.

  Midnight threw her arms apart, and the bonds at her wrists snapped. The mage fell back and away from the nightmare, landing on the floor at the creature’s rear. The raven-haired magic-user quickly untied the ropes around her ankles and tore the gag from her mouth. She was free!

  Only seconds after Midnight struck Durrock’s mount, Adon tried the same thing on Sejanus’s. The second assassin’s nightmare reared up wildly, too, and Adon was also thrown free. But Sejanus proved faster than Durrock. The assassin deftly avoided the wrath of his mount by tumbling away from its flaming hooves. Still, the panicked steed stood between him and his captive, so Adon had time to snap the bonds at his wrists and free himself.

  Kelemvor was not so lucky.

  Just as Adon struck Sejanus’s horse, Varro pulled Kelemvor from his mount and knocked the fighter to the floor. Kelemvor’s bonds were still secure. Then the third assassin reached for the dagger at his side, but Midnight was already gesturing a spell. Out of instinct, Kelemvor rolled away from Varro’s feet. He had no idea what spell Midnight would attempt or if it would succeed or fail.

  As Midnight cast a sleep spell, a pattern of blue-white light formed around her hands, wavered for an instant, and disappeared. Seconds later, just as Varro drew his dagger and prepared to throw the weapon, a sound like thunder ripped through the confines of the darkened warehouse as an invisible force struck the assassin squarely in the chest and drove him backward fifty feet. Varro hit the back wall of the warehouse with such force that the spikes of his armor were driven into the wall, pinning the assassin in place.

  Midnight and Adon moved toward Kelemvor, but Durrock and Sejanus were already on their feet, rushing to head off the heroes.

  “Run!” Kelemvor called, gritting his teeth as he struggled with his bonds. “I’ll be all right!”

  “I doubt that very much,” Durrock hissed as he stood over the green-eyed fighter. The scarred assassin drew his sword.

  Midnight hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should attempt another incantation. The spell she had cast against Varro had gone awry, but nevertheless it had worked in her favor. However, Midnight doubted she would be so fortunate if she were to cast a second spell against the remaining assassins.

  “Forget the fighter, Durrock!” Sejanus shouted as he raised his bolos over his head. “He’s not going anywhere. Get the witch! She’s the one we were sent for!”

  “Run, damn you!” Kelemvor screamed, glaring at his companions. Durrock kicked Kelemvor in the side of the head with his heavy boot. The fighter was struck speechless by the blow, and his head swam in a sea of pain.

  Adon grabbed Midnight’s hand and pulled her toward the open door at the front of the warehouse. “You can’t help him now!” Adon explained quickly. “We’ll have to come back for him!”

  A look of desperation crossed Midnight’s features, and she allowed Adon to pull her forward. The bright sunlight from the doorway, no more than six feet away now, was nearly blinding as the mage and the cleric turned and ran for it. Then Midnight and Adon heard the sharp hiss of Sejanus’s bolos slicing through the air as the assassin prepared to hurl them.

  “Down!” Midnight screamed as she shoved Adon to the floor. The bolos whistled through the air just above the heroes’ heads and went spinning down the street outside the warehouse.

  Grabbing Adon’s hand, Midnight jumped to her feet and yanked the cleric from the floor. Quickly they crossed the half dozen feet to the doorway, but the heavy footsteps of Bane’s assassins sounded close behind the heroes as they leaped from the warehouse out into the light.

  The Zhentish garrison was to her left when Midnight burst from the warehouse, so she quickly ruled out running in that direction and headed to the right. The dry dirt street that the mage and the cleric found themselves on seemed to lead into the center of town. As they ran deeper into Scardale, they heard the sounds of fighting grow louder and louder, although the closest skirmish they could see was a number of blocks away, off to their right. Behind them, the heroes could hear the cries of the assassins and the Zhentilar from the garrison.

  The heroes raced through the narrow, twisting streets, looking for someplace to hide from their pursuers. They ran until the road they were following met another street to form a T. Midnight and Adon could hear the voices of the Zhentilar behind them, so there was no doubling back. The street to her left was lined with bodies and rubble from burned-out buildings. To her right, a huge, overturned wagon blocked the street, and a raging fire consumed a short, squat building. Thick smoke covered the road, obscuring everything that lay beyond the wagon.

  “The Zhentilar are following us!” Adon wheezed between breaths. “Where can we hide?”

  “How close are they?” a voice hissed from Midnight’s left. Midnight looked sharply and saw one of the corpses raise his head. The corpse frowned. “From your expressions, I would guess they’re right on your heels.”

  The “dead man” rose to his feet and dusted himself off. His violet clothing was trimmed with gold mesh, and bloodstains that had turned a deep brown covered him from head to toe. His yellow boots were almost brown with dirt, and he wore a cape with a crimson lining. The man’s fine, golden hair was matted and tangled, but Midnight could see that it was very long, curling about his shoulders. He was armed with a short sword and a dagger. On his forehead was a large, ugly purple welt.

  “Come on, then,” the man said cheerfully as he gestured for Midnight and Adon to follow him. “Don’t just stand there. You’ve already called enough attention to me. We might as well make a run for it.”

  Midnight looked back and saw Sejanus, Durrock, and a few Zhentilar approaching. Although the assassins were trying to run, their armor did not allow them much more than a brisk walk. The Zhentilar, on the other hand, broke into a sprint when they saw the mage and the cleric. When Durrock saw the heroes break into a run after the golden-haired man, he stopped and headed back toward the garrison.

  Midnight glanced over her shoulder as she ran and saw the scarred assassin quit the chase. “He’s going to get his mount!” the mage gasped. She
tightened her hold on Adon’s hand as they ran through the street lined with corpses.

  After several hundred yards, the man ducked around a corner and led the heroes into an alley between two large buildings. As the shadows of the alley engulfed them, Midnight and Adon realized that they faced a dead end. Midnight was about to speak when the man turned, smiled, and said, “If we’re going to die together, I’d like to know who I’m dying with.”

  “I’m Midnight of Deepingdale. This is Adon, a cleric of—”

  “Adon,” the cleric hissed and ran his hand over his scar. “Just Adon.”

  “Fair enough,” the man answered, running his hand through his long, golden hair. “My name is Varden.” The man turned toward the end of the alley, but Adon grabbed his arm.

  “Why are you helping us?” the young cleric asked.

  Varden turned back to face the heroes, the slight smile gone from his face. “You’re being hunted by the Zhents, right?”

  Midnight and Adon nodded. A handful of Zhentilar ran past the alley. The three fugitives held their breath and pulled farther back into the shadows. Luckily none of the soldiers stopped to investigate the alley.

  The man nodded toward the street where the soldiers had just passed. “That’s reason enough,” Varden growled. Adon took his hand from the man’s arm. Varden turned back down the alley. “Now let’s get rid of your slow-witted pursuers so we can talk in less … stressful circumstances.”

  Adon and Midnight followed Varden deeper into the shadows. Soon the golden-haired man uncovered a side door to a building flanking them on the right. He yanked at the door and found that it was locked.

  Just then, Sejanus appeared at the entrance to the alley, bolos in hand.

  “I hate working under pressure,” Varden hissed as he pulled a small set of tools from a band at his wrist.

  “You’re a thief?” Midnight gasped, her eyes growing wide with disbelief.

  “I assure you, I am fully licensed and accredited by the Thieves’ Guild,” Varden said as he fitted a skeleton key into the lock. He did not take his attentions from his work. “I suppose that lummox is still coming.”