“They’ll never know.” Kelemvor smiled as he patted the harbormaster on the back. “You’ve been a true friend, and you have my gratitude. I owe you for this.”
“Then repay your debt by getting out of this city in one piece,” Alprin grumbled and walked away, scanning the crowd as he went.
Kelemvor nodded, and walked from the harbor. The fighter moved along the streets quickly, and stopped only long enough to receive directions to the Dark Harvest Festhall when he got lost.
An hour later, the fighter stood before the one-story, ebon and scarlet building, shaking his head. He could understand why the sight filled Midnight with trepidation. The festhall even looked corrupt. Kelemvor suppressed a shudder and walked inside.
“Are you expected?” an ugly, obese man asked sharply as the fighter entered the Dark Harvest.
“Good news is never expected,” Kelemvor growled. “Just tell Sabinus that the owner of the Ring of Winter is here, anxious to relieve himself of some excess baggage.”
The fat man snorted. “You don’t have a name?”
“Sabinus doesn’t need my name. He only needs to know what I possess,” Kelemvor snarled.
“Wait here,” the guard said as he eyed the fighter suspiciously. Then the fat man passed through a set of double doors. The sounds of gaming and laughter flooded into the lobby the instant the doors were open, then disappeared as they shut again.
A few minutes later, the guard returned and motioned for Kelemvor to follow. They entered the festhall, and the sights and sounds of unbridled decadence rushed at the fighter. There were five bars with men and women two-deep. Dancers from far-off lands gyrated on the bars, and some leaped from table to table, taunting the men and taking their money.
Gamblers wagered with stakes that were sometimes their own lives, but more often the lives of others. A beautiful woman lay on a table between two old men who rolled a set of dice to see who would possess her for the evening. At another table, the scene was reversed: a handsome, muscle-bound man with golden hair lay smiling between two women gamblers.
The whole room smelled of spilled liquor and decaying rubbish. Strange beasts ran along the crowded floor. Fur brushed Kelemvor’s leg, and he saw a lump of matted hair and fangs speed away, swallowing anything that happened to be loose on the floor. He had no idea what the strange creature was.
Soon, though, the fighter was led to Sabinus’s table, and he was surprised to see how young the notorious man really was. The smuggler could not have been more than seventeen winters old. His red hair was cropped short, and his complexion was almost as red as his hair. And though he looked young, there was a feeling of dark wisdom about Sabinus—the same air that surrounded old, musty secrets and ancient, decaying cursed artifacts. The smuggler motioned for Kelemvor to sit. The fighter did so and rested his hands above the table, empty palms facing up, in a standard gesture of trust.
“You have aroused my interest,” Sabinus hissed. “But do not think to waste my time. The Dragon Reach is filled with louts like you whose reach exceeds their grasp.”
“I would never consider wasting your valuable time,” Kelemvor lied. “I bring something of great value.”
The smuggler squirmed in his seat slightly. “So I’m told. The Ring of Winter is not an item to be taken lightly. I thought it was lost for all time.”
“That which has been lost can always be found. Now let’s stop fencing and get to business,” Kelemvor told the boy flatly, moving his hands beneath the table.
A dark, toothy grin passed over Sabinus’s face. “Good. To the point. I like that.” The red-haired smuggler rocked in his chair, almost giddy with anticipation. “If you have the ring, produce it.”
“You think I would have it with me? What kind of fool do you take me for?” Kelemvor asked bitterly. “That depends on what kind of fool you are,” the boy snapped. “Are you the kind of fool that would dare lie to me about such an important matter? The Ring of Winter is power. With it, a new ice age could be brought down upon the Realms. Only the strongest, or those prepared for the disaster, could hope to survive.” Sabinus ran his hands through his hair.
Kelemvor narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the smuggler. Two guards nearby stiffened and reached for daggers, but Sabinus waved them away. “I can give you the precise location of where the ring is hidden. I can tell you the dangers involved in retrieving it and how to get around them,” Kelemvor told the boy.
“What do you want in return?” Sabinus asked warily.
I want you to tell me where the Tablet of Fate is, the fighter thought sarcastically, but I’ll settle for some clues as to its whereabouts. What he said was, “Information. I need to know why the followers of Sune, Ilmater, and any god other than Torm have been driven out of the city … and by whose order.”
“Perhaps I could tell you that,” Sabinus murmured. “Tell me more about the Ring of Winter. Your words may loosen my tongue and jog my memory.” The boy leaned forward.
Kelemvor frowned. He thought of the ice creature that guarded the ring when last he saw the artifact and of all the people the creature had slaughtered. Then the green-eyed fighter told Sabinus all that he knew.
Across the festhall, in a shadowy corner of the windowless building, two men sat and watched Sabinus and Kelemvor. One of the men wore a black visor with slits for eyes. The other man was lean and dark, and felt very odd as he watched the fighter fall neatly into his trap.
“Sabinus plays his part well,” Cyric said casually as he leaned back into the shadows.
“I don’t like this,” Durrock growled. “No more than I liked being shipped across the Dragon Reach in a crate that was more like a coffin.”
“You didn’t even have to get into the crate until we were in sight of land,” Cyric snapped. “Are you that superstitious? Do you really believe that lying in a coffin one day means you’ll draw your final breath the next? If that’s true, Durrock, perhaps we should go before you’ve had your contest.”
“No,” the scarred assassin grumbled and slid his hand toward his knife. “I’ve failed my god. I must make amends. But I don’t want to see that crate again.” And I’d like to see you dead, thief, he added silently.
Cyric shook his head and laughed. “How many times must I explain this? With your face, we never would have gotten into the city. You have a reputation, Durrock. You are famous, as assassins go. The crate and Sabinus’s connections at the docks were the only way to get you into Tantras without sounding alarms.”
Durrock looked away. Even with the interference of the visor, Cyric could tell the man was brooding.
“Look there. Sabinus is leading him away,” Cyric noted as he picked up his flagon and took a drink of dark, bitter ale. “They’re heading downstairs, to the arena. You’d best hurry. The instant Kelemvor thinks he’s been betrayed, he’ll try to escape.” The thief put down his ale and smiled. “And Bane would be very unhappy with you if that happened again, wouldn’t he?”
“With both of us,” Durrock reminded the hawk-nosed thief and stood up.
“May fortune shine upon you,” Cyric told the assassin as he watched him follow Kelemvor and Sabinus to the south end of the festhall. There, the fighter and the smuggler passed through a private doorway and walked down a winding set of stairs. The stairs, in turn, led into a darkened room, a lightless hole that seemed to hungrily absorb the flickers of light from Sabinus’s lantern. They reached the landing, then moved into the darkness.
The fighter was tense, his senses alert. “You have records stored down here?” Kelemvor growled impatiently as he tried to focus on any distinct object in the dark room.
“Where else could I keep them?” the smuggler laughed. “In fact, I have one document nearby that contains a seal and a signature you might find interesting. It is a warrant of execution.”
The edge of a large, white platform loomed out of the darkness before Kelemvor and the smuggler, and suddenly a dozen torches were lit, revealing the trap Kelemvor had foolishly st
umbled into. At that moment, the fighter realized that the festhall’s basement was some type of arena, with a platform in its center and balconies where spectators could view the proceedings from above. The fighter could see that almost a hundred people had gathered there already.
“The warrant is for your execution, of course!” Sabinus cried as he dashed toward a doorway near a row of seats on the ground level. Before Kelemvor could move after him, a bright flash of light caught his eye. He looked up and saw a huge man wearing a black visor standing upon the staircase. Torchlight reflected off the surface of the visor.
“Durrock,” Kelemvor hissed. But the fighter quickly put aside his surprise and got into a defensive stance, drawing his sword with a liquid grace. The scarred assassin silently descended the staircase, his night-black sword, marked with crimson runes, gripped in his hand.
The assassin was dressed in dark leather, with metal bands at his ankles, thighs, waist, and biceps. As Durrock reached the arena’s floor, he raised his hands and crossed his arms. When his wrists touched, there was a sharp sound, and the metal bands flipped up and became razor-sharp ridges. Durrock then ripped the visor from his face and threw it to the ground.
Kelemvor backed away, shocked at the deformities of the assassin’s face. The crowd, silent until now, erupted into chaos, and cries and jeers rained down on the two men in the arena. The fighter leaped onto the white square, thirty feet at each side, and stared at Durrock’s face as the assassin jumped onto the platform, too. There were few hints of humanity left on the killer’s twisted visage.
Suddenly Durrock raced forward, his black sword spiraling through the air. The assassin moved like lightning, dancing around Kelemvor and slashing at the fighter. Then the scarred man backed away before Kelemvor had a chance to return the attack.
By all the gods! the fighter thought. Where was Durrock trained? Kelemvor’s own talent labeled him as more than a fair swordsman, but the assassin was a master.
The assassin backed up a step, then spun and kicked Kelemvor in the stomach with his full weight. The fighter recoiled from the blow, his hair flying forward, over his face. Durrock spun once more, this time slicing down with his blade, too.
A handful of black hair lined with grayish streaks sailed forward. Durrock snatched it from the air with quicksilver reflexes.
“This could have been your neck, scum,” the assassin said to Kelemvor as he held out the tuft of hair. “You might as well surrender now!”
The crowd roared. “Twenty gold pieces on the misshapen freak!” one of the spectators cried.
“Fifty gold pieces on the ugly brute with a scar for a face!” a woman screamed, and laughter erupted in the shadowy balconies.
Angered by the taunts, Durrock shouted and brought his sword down upon the fighter with a crude, overhand swing. Kelemvor blocked the blow with his own blade, and a rain of sparks pierced the shadows surrounding the arena. Still, the attack drove Kelemvor to his knees.
“Draw some blood, you freak!” a spectator shrieked. “Draw some blood or we’ll chain you to the festhall’s front door to frighten the little children away!”
“I’ll kill you, then I’ll find your little mage,” Durrock hissed as he turned and drove the hilt of his sword into Kelemvor’s forehead. The fighter fell back, and the assassin delivered a kick that tore open a bloody wound on Kelemvor’s chest.
Kelemvor thought of running, but he knew that the only way he would ever leave the Dark Harvest alive would be to kill Durrock first. The green-eyed fighter ignored the burning pain in his chest and threw his sword high into the air, then scrambled toward the assassin. Durrock’s gaze followed the sword for just an instant, but that was long enough for Kelemvor to kick him in the side, then grab his sword as it fell to the ground.
There was a sickening sound as the fighter’s sword bit through the assassin’s knee and leg. The tip of the blade had only passed through an inch of Durrock’s knee, but it was more than enough to cripple him. Durrock shifted his weight to his uninjured leg, sprang away from the fighter, and fell to the floor.
The crowd watched with breathless excitement as Kelemvor leaped over the downed assassin. The fighter’s blade swept through the air, and Durrock rolled and struck with his black sword. As the fighter leaned into his attack, a splatter of blood flew from his shoulder. Fearful that Durrock’s well-aimed slash had severed an artery, the fighter ducked into a crouch, one hand instinctively clamping over the cut.
Losing the use of one leg had barely slowed Durrock. The assassin drove his blade into the floor, pushed off with his good leg, and vaulted toward Kelemvor, twisting in midair to position his strong leg outward. In the split second before the assassin met his enemy, Kelemvor rolled away from the razor at Durrock’s ankle, which was aimed to rip open the fighter’s throat.
Kelemvor raised his sword as Durrock landed over him. The flat of the assassin’s blade struck the fighter full in the face, but the green-eyed man focused all his strength on a single forward sweep of his sword. Then Kelemvor felt his weapon pierce flesh and crack bones as it struck the assassin’s chest. The fighter collapsed onto the white canvas as Durrock fell upon him.
The razor on the assassin’s left arm grazed Kelemvor’s forehead as he tried to move. The fighter’s sword was trapped beneath Durrock’s weight, stuck in the scarred man’s body. Panic raced through Kelemvor as he tried to free his arms and saw the razor beside his face move a few inches. He looked up and saw Durrock’s twisted, scarred face only a few inches from his own. Blood was leaking from the assassin’s mouth as he tried, but failed, to speak. Durrock’s face fell forward, and Kelemvor knew that the assassin was dead.
There was commotion in the balcony, and the fighter heard the sounds of men racing onto the surface of the arena. The corpse was dragged from Kelemvor, and the fighter threw his head back in exhaustion. When he opened his eyes, Kelemvor focused on the balcony in front of him. He simply wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.
Cyric stood just beneath a flickering torch, staring down at the bloodied fighter in shock. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and a wicked grin crossed the face of the hawk-nosed man. Someone passed in front of Kelemvor at that moment, blocking his view. When the fighter looked into the balcony again, the thief was gone.
A short, almost completely bald dwarf helped the fighter to his feet. Rising unsteadily, Kelemvor knew that he would have to try to catch Cyric. But the fighter also knew that the thief, and Sabinus, too, would be long gone.
“A true champion!” the bald dwarf called out, then turned to face Kelemvor. “What would you like? Gold, women, power, secrets? Tell me, and it is yours. We haven’t had such an upset in this arena for years.”
“Secrets,” Kelemvor hissed wearily.
“Come with me, then,” the dwarf bellowed. “We will bind your wounds and tell you all you wish to know.”
Twenty minutes later, Kelemvor had discovered that Durrock’s blade had not hurt him badly, and he was already recovering from the loss of blood when he left the festhall. He stopped at a nearby stable and bought a horse, for he was far too weak to walk to the harbor and then to the inn.
As the fighter rode to the docks, he tried not to let his anger get in the way of the task he had to perform. In the Dark Harvest, Kelemvor had learned that a city official by the name of Dunn Tenwealth had been linked with the disappearances Alprin had mentioned. Tenwealth had also been placed in charge of the salvage of all religious artifacts that had been not been taken away or placed in storage by the various abandoned temples in the city. Many of these items had been locked in a vault that was located “beneath the hand of Torm.”
If the Tablet of Fate had been hidden in one of the temples in Tantras, it was possible that Tenwealth had unwittingly acquired the item, then locked it away, ignorant of its power. The man would have to be questioned and his vault would have to be searched. But there was something else Kelemvor wanted to deal with first: Cyric.
The thief mus
t have aligned himself with the Black Lord, the fighter concluded. But Kelemvor wasn’t going to let the thief escape to his master. Cyric would now be returning in a hurry to whatever ship he had come to Tantras in. Yes, the fighter decided bitterly, I’m going to find that vessel, catch up to Cyric, and beat the Black Lord’s plans out of him before hacking off his head.
At the harbor, Kelemvor tried to find Alprin to help him search for the Zhentish spy ship, but the harbormaster was nowhere in sight. The fighter made a few inquiries, and learned that Alprin had received a message that so filled him with fear that he ran from his station as if a fire giant were running at his heels.
The fighter walked away in silence, wondering what could have gone wrong to panic the harbormaster so. “Alprin,” he said aloud as he realized what must have happened. “Not his wife!”
Kelemvor ran from the harbor, collected his mount, and raced to Alprin’s home. The building was in flames when Kelemvor arrived, but he could still get close enough to peer through an open window. Alprin lay on the floor, a bloody smear behind his head. Moira lay beside him. The dead man’s hand had been placed around his wife’s body in a mockery of the tenderness they had shared in life. A message had been written on the wall behind his body.
I was unfaithful. This is my penance.
A frightened crowd was gathering in the street, calling for the bucket brigade to put the fire out before it spread to their houses and shops. Kelemvor clamped his hands over his mouth and stumbled away from the burning building. All thoughts of finding Cyric were lost in the fighter’s grief for the moment.
Horribly shaken, the teary-eyed fighter returned to the Lazy Moon Inn, and scribbled a three-word note to Midnight. By now, the fighter realized that he had little hope of finding the Zhentish spy ship. Cyric had escaped. For now. So the fighter turned his thoughts to the name he’d been given in the Dark Harvest, and set out to find Dunn Tenwealth, a lust to revenge the harbormaster’s death burning in his mind.
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