Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  “How very different from the way he drove his troops in the Battle of Shadowdale,” Adon observed. “I wonder if the Black Lord’s defeat has humbled him in some way.…”

  “I doubt it,” Midnight replied. “Perhaps he’s simply learned to recognize the value of his troops. In any case, we might just be able to turn his lenience against him.”

  “You mean you’ve solved the problem of how we get in?” Varden asked, running his hand through his blond hair.

  “We need to check out the warehouse before we worry about the garrison itself,” Midnight said as she turned to Varden. “We should circle around the building and see if there are any other doors.”

  The heroes slowly moved around the outside of the warehouse, staying as close to the side of the building as possible. Twice groups of Zhentish soldiers passed them, singing bawdy songs and telling off-color jokes, but they never even suspected that six intruders were only a few yards away.

  At the rear of the warehouse, Varden discovered another door, though this one was locked. The thief quickly took out his lockpicks, and in a moment the door was open. He opened it slowly and peered inside.

  “We couldn’t have come at a better time,” Varden whispered as he turned to Midnight. “The warehouse looks empty. We should be able to move around freely.” The heroes silently filed into the building, with Midnight in the middle so that no one would stray outside the invisibility spell’s area of effect.

  “Close the door,” Midnight hissed when they were all inside.

  Wulstan started to follow Midnight’s order, then paused and looked at the door’s lock. “It looks like it locks both ways,” the fighter said, motioning for Midnight to examine the door.

  Midnight nodded and removed a piece of the gum that she had left over from her incantation and handed it to the soldier. “Put this in the lock first. The door will shut, but it won’t lock. Then we won’t be trapped if we need to make a quick exit.”

  Wulstan and Varden both looked at the mage with surprised expressions.

  “An old friend taught me that trick,” the raven-haired magic-user said, her thoughts suddenly turning to Cyric. But then Midnight felt a dark, somber mood settle over her, and for an instant, she was almost overwhelmed by her sorrow. The mage closed her eyes, steeled her will, and dismissed the emotion. Cyric’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it, the mage decided calmly. Kelemvor’s alive and in need of my help. I can grieve later.

  Midnight’s thoughts were interrupted when Gratus moved to her side. “Could that be something you’re looking for?” the old man asked as he pointed toward the shadows twenty feet to the left of the door.

  Midnight squinted. Something sparkled in the moonlight. It looked like tiny shards of amber light.

  “It couldn’t be!” she breathed, then advanced toward the light. Adon rushed ahead of her and bent down over a partially open canvas sack.

  “Midnight, they’re here!” the cleric cried, a broad smile lighting up his face. “The sphere of detection and your spellbook are right here!”

  “The assassins must have forgotten about them in the confusion caused by our escape!” Midnight said, picking up the sack.

  “I didn’t forget about it at all,” a voice boomed from a darkened corner across the warehouse. “And I was counting on your not forgetting it either.” Durrock stepped out of the shadows and into the pale moonlight filtering in through the windows. He wasn’t wearing his armor, and his disfigured face was uncovered as he walked toward the heroes.

  Midnight nearly gasped as she saw the assassin’s face, and a brief flicker of sympathy flared inside her. Then she felt the canvas bag slip in her grasp, and she tightened her grip on it. Quickly the mage realized that, since she didn’t have the canvas sack with her when she first cast the invisibility spell, it was still visible!

  “Thanks for showing me exactly where you are,” Durrock growled as he drew his night-black sword. The assassin was striding straight toward Midnight. “I’ve been waiting here for you for some time now.”

  The heroes spread out as far as they dared, and as Durrock came close to the mage, several of them circled behind him. Midnight tossed the sack to the ground and tried to dodge the assassin’s attack, but the scarred killer made a feint forward, then reached out and grabbed the mage’s hair. Midnight screamed.

  Suddenly a large wooden plank crashed over the assassin’s head, staggering him and forcing him to release his grasp on the mage. As Midnight scrambled away from Durrock, a blue-white aura enshrouded each of the heroes as the spell of invisibility faded.

  Gratus stood behind the assassin, the shattered plank of wood still in his hands. Durrock gripped his night-black sword more tightly and screamed with rage and pain. The assassin’s sword flashed out just as Varden grabbed the old man’s shoulders and yanked him backward. The sword bit into Gratus’s chest and blood spurted from the wound.

  Midnight backed away from Durrock in shock. The assassin turned and took a step toward the raven-haired mage, but Adon appeared beside her and took hold of her arm. “Run!” the cleric hissed as he pulled the magic-user toward the door.

  Durrock started to follow her, but the two soldiers from Hillsfar stepped into his path, drawing their swords. “Come on, you Zhentish pig. Let us see how you fare against someone closer to your own age!” Tymon taunted as he stood before the scarred man.

  Wulstan glanced over his shoulder at Midnight. “Take your treasure and run!” the fighter screamed. Midnight hesitated for an instant in the doorway, then picked up the canvas sack and backed out of the warehouse. Varden was already pulling the wounded merchant to the door, but Adon took hold of Gratus, too, and the heroes disappeared into the night. They slipped into the shadows and were far from the Zhentish garrison before the drunken soldiers even knew what had happened.

  * * * * *

  “Wake up!” the guard yelled and clanged his sword back and forth over the steel bars of Kelemvor’s cell.

  The green-eyed fighter was jolted from his sleep, but he pretending to wake gradually, making a show of shaking the sleep from himself, rubbing at his eyes, and yawning broadly. Two guards stood outside Kelemvor’s cell, but the fighter didn’t want the men to have the satisfaction of knowing that they had indeed startled him awake, that their little cruelty had affected him.

  The fighter knew why the guards had awakened him, too. The Black Lord had expected an immediate answer to his proposition, but Kelemvor had argued that he needed time and solitude to consider the bargain. The fact that Bane agreed to his request had come as a complete surprise to Kelemvor. But now the time to consider the offer was past.

  The fighter heard footsteps approaching from down the hall, and from the way the guards snapped to attention, Kelemvor knew who his next visitor would be. It was no surprise.

  “You said I had until morning,” Kelemvor noted calmly as Bane stepped between the guards.

  “Circumstances have changed. The time for you to act is now. Have you considered my offer?” Bane asked sharply. The edge in the fallen god’s voice told Kelemvor that something had obviously angered him.

  “I’ve been unable to think of anything else,” Kelemvor answered as he rose to his feet and stared into the blood-red flickers of light that danced in the Black Lord’s eyes.

  It was true. Even the fighter’s dreams had been consumed by thoughts of freedom from the curse. Kelemvor had often wished that he was a hero, someone who could do noble deeds for the sole reward of helping others. But the curse had always stood in the way. The fighter believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Bane could deliver on his promise. The God of Strife could make his dreams a reality.

  Which only left the problem of Midnight to consider. If Kelemvor accepted Bane’s terms, he would obviously have to betray the trust the mage had placed in him … and his feelings for her. But Midnight has betrayed me many times, Kelemvor thought bitterly.

  Then the fighter reviewed the insults and petty hurts the mage had heaped
upon him, trying to rationalize a decision he had really already made. The mage had left Shadowdale without him. Certainly her words upon Blackfeather Bridge were of love and commitment. Still, the simple truth was that Kelemvor had known Midnight for but a few weeks.

  Suddenly Kelemvor wondered just how well he really knew the raven-haired mage. The fighter no longer worried about whether Midnight had committed the crimes the dalesmen had accused her of. There was no question that she had not. But Kelemvor wondered now if Midnight really loved him.

  “You had visitors during the night,” Bane said casually, snapping Kelemvor away from his thoughts.

  “Who?” Kelemvor asked. The fighter took a step toward the bars of his cell.

  Bane narrowed his eyes and sneered. “Who do you think, fool. Midnight and her accomplices. She was here to retrieve her spellbook and whatever other personal items she might have had with her when Durrock and his assassins captured her.” The God of Strife paused for a moment, then smiled. “However, she did not try to rescue you.”

  The fighter breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Obviously the mage escaped again, or you wouldn’t be here,” Kelemvor said.

  Anger burned in the Black Lord’s eyes. “She could not escape before one of her party was wounded and two were killed. Do not overestimate your importance in my plans, Kelemvor. Midnight will die. Your participation is merely a matter of convenience. By allowing you to go to her and draw her out, I can minimize the casualties in my own ranks.”

  Bane’s playing this badly, the fighter thought. He’s acting like a petty warlord, not a god. Still, the information Bane had just given the fighter about Midnight’s visit to the Zhentish garrison answered some of the questions that had been tugging at the corners of his mind.

  “Very well,” Kelemvor said softly but firmly. “I will accept your terms.”

  The Black Lord smiled. “Then you have finally come to your senses. There is nothing more precious than life on your own terms,” Bane hissed. “It’s about time you realized that.”

  The fighter nodded. “I will find Midnight and win her trust. I’ll convince her that I escaped on my own, and I’ll pretend to lead her to freedom. Then … I’ll subdue her at the first opportunity.” Kelemvor paused and ran a hand through his hair. “Later, I will travel to Tantras to retrieve the Tablet of Fate that you have hidden in the city. In return for all of this, you will remove the curse of the Lyonsbanes.”

  “That is correct,” Bane said, motioning for the guards to open the cell.

  Kelemvor stepped back from the door. “Now that our agreement is settled, where exactly is this Tablet of Fate?” the green-eyed fighter asked.

  “You must show a little faith,” Bane answered with a sly edge in his voice. “The information will be yours after you deliver Midnight to me. Right now there is another small matter that we must deal with.”

  Kelemvor’s heart was beating wildly. He couldn’t control his anticipation as the cell door was opened and the God of Strife moved to his side.

  “Guard, give me your sword,” Bane ordered sharply. The fires in the Black Lord’s eyes suddenly seemed bright enough to light the corridor without the benefit of torches. The guard complied without a word. The fallen god raised the sword high over his head.

  The fires in Bane’s eyes spread over the dark god’s body, and soon his entire form was covered by a blood-red aura. The Black Lord began to recite a complex incantation. Suddenly the sword burst into flames. The voice of the god rose in intensity as he waved the sword wildly. His form began to undulate like the body of a snake.

  The sword flashed through the air, and Kelemvor screamed as the weapon pierced his chest, cutting a jagged line from his breastbone to his abdomen. The fighter looked down at the torn cloth and flesh and felt weakness wrap itself around him. Still, the fighter struggled to stay on his feet. Even if he were dying, he would not kneel before the Black Lord.

  The flaps of the parted skin on the fighter’s chest seemed to bubble and quake, and Kelemvor nearly shouted in terror as he saw the panther’s ebon head push its way out of his gaping wound. The fighter suffered agony unlike any he had ever known as the claws of the beast raked at the inside of his body, savaging him in an attempt to break free.

  This is impossible! was the only thought in Kelemvor’s mind. Then the fighter’s entire world became a white-hot explosion of searing anguish that blurred his perceptions of everything but the pain itself. The beast was tearing its way free, but it was killing Kelemvor from within at the same time.

  There was a loud animal roar, and Kelemvor felt an incredible weight burst free from him. Instantly the pain lessened considerably, and Kelemvor saw that Bane had gripped both sides of the beast’s head. With a sharp, inhumanly swift motion, the god snapped the creature’s neck.

  The fighter looked down and stared at his chest. He watched in awe as his torn flesh began to close and mend together. The wounds were healing at an impossible rate.

  “It is done,” Bane said nonchalantly and dropped the body of the panther at Kelemvor’s feet. The god turned and strolled from the cell. “Tell him where to find the mage, clean him up, and send him on his way.”

  “No!” Kelemvor rasped, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Bane looked back to the cell, suspicion crossing his features.

  “I should look as if I had to fight my way out,” the fighter said and collapsed onto the ground, inches from the panther’s still-warm corpse.

  The Black Lord smiled. “Very well,” he hissed. “But know this, Kelemvor. If you even think of reneging on our agreement, I will know. My agents will hunt you down and kill you, no matter where you hide.” The God of Strife paused, and another evil grin flitted across his lips. “Or better still,” he added, “I’ll put that creature, or one even more horrible, back inside you.” The smile widened slightly. “One that would be far more painful to remove than the panther was. Remember that.”

  The fighter nodded. “It is no less than I would expect,” Kelemvor said. “And no less than I would do in your position. Set your mind at ease. I will follow the terms of our pact to the letter.”

  “This could be the beginning of a long and profitable association,” Bane called over his shoulder as he continued down the corridor. “Bring her to me alive, Kelemvor. If that’s at all possible.”

  Kelemvor shuddered and stood up slowly. He didn’t look at the guards as he staggered out of the cell. “I shall,” the fighter whispered as he followed the same path from the dungeon that the Black Lord had taken.

  Travel through the eastern dales was long and hard for the Company of the Scorpions, but the Zhentilar were well supplied and used to the difficulties of such a journey. Cyric quickly learned from Tyzack that the Scorpions had been on an expedition to Haptooth Hill, searching for an artifact of great power that wanderers passing through Zhentil Keep had made some offhand comments about.

  The Company of the Scorpions had received its orders before the Battle of Shadowdale, when Lord Bane had been obsessed with finding any artifacts that might be repositories of magical power. In all the confusion surrounding the battle and its aftermath, the Scorpions, and their mission, had been forgotten by Zhentil Keep—until the time came to amass every available unit of Zhentilar in Scardale. A mystical communication from Bane’s new sorceress, Tarana Lyr, had come one night, and the Scorpions had actually been relieved to receive the new orders. Their efforts at Haptooth Hill had been fruitless and extremely tedious.

  Two days after Cyric joined them, the Scorpions ran into a small Sembian patrol and were forced into combat, an opportunity for the thief to measure his new acquaintances’ skills, and for them to measure his. The battle was swift and furious, but not without cost to the Scorpions. Croxton was killed, though whether by a Sembian hand or a Zhentish, Cyric wasn’t sure. Much to Cyric’s surprise, Tyzack promoted the thief to second-in-command for his efforts in the battle, with Slater openly supporting the decision and the others saying nothing, thou
gh some—like Eccles—were obviously unhappy with Tyzack’s choice.

  One day after the clash with the Sembians, the Scorpions encountered the first of many Zhentish patrols heading toward Scardale. Tyzack automatically assumed command of the ragtag groups of fighters and thieves that the company met. No one opposed him.

  Now, as Cyric rode behind Slater, his mind wandered over a myriad of subjects. But mostly he watched the bright afternoon sunlight pulse through the prism earring the female warrior had taken from Mikkel’s corpse and attached to her right ear. The sparks of brilliant, multicolored light shot out from the bauble as Cyric stared dreamily at it, washing away all the thief’s concerns and fears.

  The line of the horizon was choppy, marred with sharp ridges, and the earth was a strange mixture of grayish green stone, with veins of raw, auburn clay. Small, barren hills and rises surrounded the riders. An immense growth of earth, with a crevice along its spine and serrated, evenly spaced depressions leading off in crooked gaps, lay ahead and continued for miles. Cyric felt that he was looking at all the skeletal remains of an incredible giant, which might have lived eons before the gods ruled Faerun.

  It should be the form of a god, towering over the Realms, he thought as he looked at the ridge. Tall enough to reach into the sky and pull down the very heavens, not trapped inside a frail body of flesh, like a mortal.

  Shards of light from the stolen earring drew the thief’s attention once more, and as the Zhentilar rode—now more than three hundred strong—Cyric realized that he had become just as fascinated with the prism as Slater was.

  The hawk-nosed thief watched the slivers of light as they glittered in a beautiful array of colors, and studied each shard. The lights came into existence and passed on in the blink of an eye. Much like a human life, he thought. Gone and quickly forgotten. Cyric wanted more from his life. He thought of the gods and the gift of immortality that they had endangered with their foolish, petty squabbling. The thief felt contempt for the deities like Bane and Mystra, who had allowed their vast powers to be stripped away.