Sand of the Soul

by Voronica Whitney-Robinson

  Steorf muttered an oath and started to climb back up. Tazi strained at the other end and helped pull him as best she could. She provided an anchor and was fully prepared to lock down on the rope if Steorf showed a hint of slipping.

  A few moments later, his blond head cleared the drop, and he hoisted himself the rest of the way out of the pit.

  “Are you all right?” Tazi asked as she untied the cord from the stalagmite and began to coil it up.

  “I’ll live,” Steorf proclaimed, rubbing his shoulder.

  “All jokes aside,” Tazi said seriously, “are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Thanks to you,” he told her.

  She smiled up at him and dusted his black shirt playfully.

  “Don’t you forget it,” she admonished with a wink.

  They continued along, more aware of the potential pitfalls along the route. At the next crossroads they had a differing opinion as to which was the correct direction.

  “It’s definitely getting brighter in here,” she told him, “and I know I’ve seen this design before.” She pointed to a distinct pattern in the wall of the tunnel that branched to the right.

  “Tazi,” Steorf replied in an exasperated tone, “that’s not a deliberate design. I’ve seen markings like that in every tunnel we’ve passed through.”

  “Trust me on this. You might as well save your strength, anyway,” she added with a nod toward his illuminated hand. “I’m sure we’re going to need it.”

  “All right,” Steorf replied, agreeing to both of Tazi’s directions.

  Trying to add some levity, he said, “If you’re wrong about the tunnel, you owe me a round of drinks at the Kit.”

  “You think we’re going to make it back alive?” came her retort.

  Steorf looked at her. Tazi tried to hide her worry in jokes, but she could see that Steorf saw right through her.

  “I know we will,” he answered her seriously. “So no hedging on the bet.”

  “You know me,” she countered, a real smile slowly growing.

  “I most certainly do. How many drinks do you actually owe me at this point?”

  Tazi laughed, and they remained on the course she had chosen. For a short distance, the path started to slope downward, and Steorf pointed out that they should consider backtracking, but Tazi held firm to her certainty that they were on the correct course.

  Soon enough, the tunnel turned upward again, and even Steorf spotted a few familiar signs. They both grew quiet as they knew the temple was not too distant. Tazi’s heart started to pound harder, and her mouth dried out. One look at Steorf told her that he was affected as well.

  Tazi and Steorf finally saw the carved entrance into the Temple of Ibrandul. They gave each other a curt nod and burst into the large receiving chamber.

  They were not disappointed in the welcome they received. Two novices were in the main hall waiting for them. The Mysterious Lurker, however, was nowhere to be seen. Tazi and Steorf had no time to worry about that. The Children of Ibrandul split their forces, one attacking Steorf and the other charging Tazi. They both brandished scimitars like the one Asraf had possessed, but nothing else.

  The Child of Ibrandul who cornered Tazi was one of the novices she had seen in the council room the day before. She regarded her enemy with new eyes. It was still difficult not to hate him. Asraf’s lifeless face floated before her and Tazi was afraid that Fannah might have already met the same fate.

  But he’s been used, she tried to convince herself, like so many of Ciredor’s victims.

  He charged her with his blade held above his head with both arms. As soon as he was in striking distance, he swung his weapon down. Tazi crossed her Sembian guardblades over her head, stopped his killing blow, and used them to wrench the scimitar from his grip.

  She grabbed him by his ears and brought his face smashing down into her knee. He fell to the ground hard, knocking the air out of him. Tazi dropped to one knee and slammed one of her blades, hilt side down, on his skull. She left him alive but unconscious.

  While she was dealing with her novice, Steorf had his hands full with the other. The Child of Ibrandul and he exchanged several thrusts and parries until the novice got lucky. Steorf’s blade had been slightly damaged during his battles with the drow, and the Child of Ibrandul managed to strike the flawed spot with his scimitar and shatter Steorf’s sword.

  Steorf screamed in rage and threw the remains of his weapon to the ground. He backhanded the novice and brought his other arm down on the Child’s sword arm, causing the novice to loose his scimitar. The two were barehanded and evenly matched again. They grabbed at each other.

  Steorf and the last Child of Ibrandul tumbled against the dais and knocked the sacred book to the ground. Distracted by the pages fluttering everywhere, the novice tried to protect the holy writings. Steorf used the opportunity to grab his opponent’s shoulders and slam the novice’s head into the dais. He slumped to the ground.

  “Both you and your divine scribbling can roast in hell,” Steorf swore, and spread his hands wide to deliver a killing bolt.

  “Don’t,” Tazi screamed, grabbing Steorf’s wrist.

  She could see that he was nearly lost to his own blood-lust, and she had to force her way bodily between him and his intended victim. Only when he would have had to blast through her to get to the Child of Ibrandul did a small amount of sanity return to Steorf’s cold blue eyes.

  “Get out of my way,” he growled, chest heaving.

  “No,” Tazi told him, partially shielding the unconscious Child of Ibrandul. “I won’t let you do this.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  His temper showed no sign of cooling, and Tazi knew she was in an uncertain situation.

  He’s dangerous right now, she recognized, and I don’t know what he might do even to me if I get in his way.

  Aloud, she explained calmly, “This isn’t you. You don’t kill indiscriminately like Ciredor does.”

  Steorf looked at her for a time.

  “This is war,” he finally said.

  “You’re right,” she agreed, “and war is full of innocent victims, but you don’t have to kill this one. He can’t hurt us now.”

  Steorf started to calm. He backed up a step and regarded the scene. Tazi seized the moment.

  “They are as much victims of Ciredor as we are. He’s lied to them and manipulated them … and who knows what other evils he’s brought down on them.”

  “He has much to answer for,” Steorf agreed, lowering his hands.

  “Yes, he does,” Tazi agreed. “So let’s put an end to the evil for everyone’s sake.”

  Steorf looked once more at the inert novice before saying, “You’re right. Let’s get Fannah.”

  “We’ll start just beyond that council room they took us to,” Tazi ordered.

  Though they were ready for others to show up, Tazi and Steorf didn’t have any more run-ins with the Children of Ibrandul. The council room was empty and looked much as it had when they were last in it. Steorf spotted a door in the rear of the room and silently signaled Tazi over. Neither one of them saw any wards on it, so Tazi opened the door carefully to reveal the Lurker’s study. Tazi swallowed back bile and Steorf grimaced in disgust.

  The bodies of both of the Children of Ibrandul who had led them into the trap were roughly where Ciredor had left them. The only change was that the quiet one had finally been released from Ciredor’s sorcerous manacle, and his body was crumpled in a heap. The room was rank from the beardless novice’s brain tissue. Tazi had to swallow hard.

  “Gods, I hope Fannah is all right,” she said shakily. “We’ve got to keep searching.”

  Seeing that the Lurker’s study was a dead end, Tazi and Steorf exited back through the counsel room and entered the hallway. The next few doors exposed only innocuous rooms with no one occupying them. Tazi tried not to get discouraged.

  “Ciredor might have moved her,” Steorf said quietly, voicing both their unspoken fe
ars.

  “She’s here,” Tazi asserted. “She’s got to be.”

  Almost at the end of the tunnel, there was one door left. Tazi breathed deeply and swung it open. The room was ordinary enough, almost a parlor. Besides a large divan and a desk, there were many bookcases and a few tapestries adorning the walls. Candles were everywhere and they lent the chamber a cheery glow. Toward the back of the room, Tazi could see a large loom with Fannah seated behind it, busy with a shuttle in her hand. Tazi nearly laughed aloud.

  “Fannah,” she cried with delight.

  At the sound of Tazi’s voice, Fannah raised her sightless face and tilted it.

  “Tazi,” she replied, “you’re back.”

  While Steorf guarded the doorway, Tazi made her way to Fannah’s side. The two women clasped hands briefly, and Tazi couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.

  “Did you find out what you wanted?” Fannah asked her.

  “I think I discovered what we needed to know,” Tazi answered, glancing down at Fannah’s loom.

  She was momentarily startled to see an elaborate tower with a blue glow radiating from it on Fannah’s tapestry.

  “What’s this?” she asked her sightless friend.

  “I hate to interrupt,” Steorf called from the doorway, “but I really think we should be going.”

  “He’s right. Let’s get out of here,” Tazi ordered. “We need to get somewhere safe.”

  Both she and Steorf flanked Fannah and they started to make their way out of the tunnels. In the main chamber, which was still deserted save for the unconscious bodies of the fallen Children of Ibrandul, they passed by the overturned dais. Fannah’s sandaled foot struck a few of the papers. She stopped and knelt down.

  “What are you doing?” Tazi asked, at first thinking that Fannah had lost her footing.

  However, she could see that her blind friend was carefully gathering the fallen pieces of parchment from the ground.

  “Just because we have not seen eye to eye, so to speak, with the Children of Ibrandul doesn’t mean these people are evil,” Fannah explained. “I would not wish these writings to be defiled unnecessarily.”

  “Make it quick,” Tazi told her. “Steorf, keep a watch on the inner door there.”

  She motioned to the entrance they had just come from.

  It took Fannah a few moments to collect all the dropped pages. Tazi stood guard over her with one blade drawn.

  “Hurry, Fannah,” she admonished, but saw that a frown had crossed her friend’s face. “What is it?”

  Fannah rose carefully to her feet with the bundle of writings stacked in her hands.

  She handed them to Tazi and asked, “Are these all part of the book they spoke of?”

  Tazi frowned as well but accepted the sheaf of vellum. After sheathing her sword, she flipped through them all carefully before she answered Fannah.

  “As far as I can tell, they are all written in the same hand. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” Fannah said slowly, “this bundle is significantly heavier now than it was yesterday.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked seriously.

  Fannah looked at her squarely with her white eyes and said, “I am very certain.”

  Before either woman had a chance to comment on the implications of that fact, Steorf rushed to their side.

  “Ladies, I suggest we exit as quickly as possible. There was definitely something slithering in one of the rear chambers,” he told them.

  Together, the three of them fled the Muzad.

  CHAPTER 11

  RITUALS

  “It’s gone,” the Mysterious Lurker nearly cried. “It’s gone.”

  The old priest wandered around the main chamber, paying little attention to the two injured novices who stood there looking nervous. He had eyes only for the once again upright, but very empty, dais.

  “How could this have happened?” he moaned.

  “How could what have happened?” a deadly voice repeated from the darkness.

  The Lurker whirled and nearly tripped on his own robes that were tangled around his legs. He watched with growing fear as Ciredor separated himself from the deep shadows behind the dais. The priest could see that the necromancer was already seething with anger. Thoughts of running crossed his mind, but he knew there was no choice but to face the dark mage.

  “Lord,” he cried, “those gharabs have fled with the sacred writings of Ibrandul. I cannot begin to … to apologize.”

  He clutched at his robes defensively.

  “What happened?” Ciredor demanded.

  “A-a few hours ago,” the priest stammered out, “the two Sembians found their way back to this chamber from the Muzad and stole the book.”

  “I thought you were going to take care of them,” Ciredor taunted him. “They escaped your trap with the aranea, but you swore they would never return here alive.”

  The Lurker dropped his robes and wrung his hands together.

  “They wouldn’t have,” he nearly screeched, “if that pariah, Asraf, had obeyed his orders.” He continued on a higher tone, having found someone else to share the blame with. “If these two—” he paused and pointed to the two Children of Ibrandul—“had been stronger in their faith, they would have stopped those Sembians here … permanently.”

  “Leave this room,” Ciredor told the Children of Ibrandul, suddenly very aware of their presence.

  When they hesitated, he hissed, “Now!”

  They fled without a backward glance at the Lurker, who felt very alone.

  Ciredor slowly paced around the priest. The Lurker bowed his head under Ciredor’s deliberate scrutiny and came to accept the fact that it was his responsibility alone regarding the safekeeping of Ibrandul’s tome. He couldn’t blame the others.

  “What shall we do?” Ciredor whispered silkily. “Now that the book is gone and, I assume, Fannah as well, what do you suggest?”

  All the while, he circled the priest.

  It was all too much for the disciple of Ibrandul to bear. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

  “It’s my fault entirely,” he sobbed. “You discovered those amazing words, dedicated your whole life to retrieving them, and now, in one moment, I’ve lost them.” The Lurker prostrated himself on the ground and cried, “I have betrayed my god. I don’t deserve to live!”

  Ciredor stood over him and tapped his foot. Seizing on an idea, the mage slowly sank to his knees and gathered the Lurker’s shoulders in his steely grip.

  He flipped the priest around to face him and said, “So you wish to die? Very well.”

  The Lurker broke free of Ciredor’s icy hands and scuttled, crablike, a few steps back. His heart was pounding. He watched as Ciredor rose gracefully to his feet and reached with his right hand into a fold of his black silks. The priest cringed as the dark mage withdrew a glowing, amethyst gem and held it in his outstretched hand. The sight of the unholy artifact froze the Lurker’s blood in his veins.

  Somewhere he found the voice to ask tremulously, “W-what is that?”

  Ciredor smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his black eyes.

  “Don’t be frightened,” the necromancer consoled. “You said you don’t deserve to live.

  “Well,” he continued easily, moving closer to the Lurker, “I’m going to send you to join your cherished Skulking God.”

  When Ciredor mentioned Ibrandul’s title, something pierced the fear that had settled over the priest’s mind like a fog.

  He even found the courage to demand, “What are you talking about? You wouldn’t …”

  Ciredor advanced on the priest and extended his left arm. A green bolt escaped his fingers and shot over to the priest. Hovering over his body, the emerald orb divided into four smaller spheres, and each one pinned either an arm or a leg to the stone floor. The Mysterious Lurker was held fast.

  “What?” he screamed at Ciredor.

  The dark mage walked over to the bound priest and unceremoniously dr
opped the amethyst onto his chest. The gem winked and twinkled in the light, and the priest found himself mesmerized by the stone in spite of the predicament he was in. He fruitlessly strained against the sorcerous bonds. He was at Ciredor’s mercy.

  If there is such a thing, he thought morosely.

  Ciredor walked over to the Lurker’s head and stood so that the priest was forced to strain his neck back only to view the mage upside down. He scraped his scalp in the process, but the Lurker had a sneaking suspicion that that injury was the least of his worries. Ciredor gracefully dropped to his knees and leaned in close to the priest’s ear.

  “Your Lord of the Dry Depths,” Ciredor explained smoothly, “has been dead for several years now.”

  “Lies!” the Lurker shrieked. “What kind of lies are you spinning?”

  He was no longer aware of his vulnerability, having heard his god was so maligned.

  “Surely you recall the Time of Troubles years back, and the Godswar,” Ciredor continued, undaunted. “I’ll take your silence as an affirmation.” The dark mage chuckled. “My, this floor is rough.”

  He rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his pants. The Lurker watched as best he could while Ciredor prowled around his prostrate form.

  “While skulking about … if you’ll pardon the pun,” the dark mage said in a mock apology, “deep in the Underdark beneath Waterdeep, Ibrandul had an encounter with my goddess. Shar slew him on sight.”

  “No …” the Lurker denied, but without much passion.

  There was something in what Ciredor said that rang true to the priest. He had noticed over the past few years that there were fewer and fewer encounters with the Lord of the Dry Depths. He had been vaguely uneasy for months since Ciredor had been feeding him Ibrandul’s “lost words.” It was as though he sensed at a subconscious level that something was wrong.

  “How can that be?” he asked, still reeling from the realization that his god was indeed dead.

  “It was a time of great change,” Ciredor explained, savoring the pain the Lurker suffered as though it were a fine wine. “Ibrandul’s avatar was no match for my queen. She seized his powers, his dominion, and his followers after his death.”