Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  The pain in Fzoul’s chest was terrible now, and the priest was panting hard. “Why—why didn’t he come himself?” he gasped between breaths.

  “He did,” Myrkul said softly, chuckling. “Look around you.”

  The blood-red haze that Fzoul had taken for the sky now flowed into the hut through the opening in the ceiling and slowly drifted toward the high priest.

  “Death or life?” the skeletal man asked. “The choice is yours.”

  Fzoul watched as the red mass grew brighter, then started to pulse in time to the rhythm of his own heart. A black flame emerged from the center of the red cloud.

  “I want to live!” Fzoul screamed as the flame shot through the air. The black energy entered his body through the wound in his chest.

  “Alas, I knew you would,” the God of the Dead sighed as he stepped back and watched Fzoul’s body writhe. Streamers of black and red light burst from the high priest’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

  The high priest felt his flesh become numb as Bane’s dark essence coursed through his body. The flow of Fzoul’s blood slowed, then stopped for a moment as it was overwhelmed by the presence of the evil god. Then the priest’s internal organs were violated as the spark of godhood merged with humanity. Fzoul felt the tide of Bane’s evil rise within him, and he welcomed the sensation.

  The pleasant feeling was short-lived, however. A sudden agony pierced Fzoul’s consciousness as his memories and desires were laid bare to the Black Lord. Then the pain subsided, and Bane’s voice eased into the high priest’s mind.

  Have no doubts concerning who is in control, the God of Strife growled. The god’s mind stretched and shifted as it tried to grow accustomed to its new home. Your tasks will be simple. Fail me, or act in rebellion even once, and I will destroy you.

  Muffled sensation returned, and Fzoul vaguely felt the chill of the night air as it drifted in from above. How long has this taken? he wondered, and he attempted to put voice to his query. Fzoul was only mildly surprised when the words did not come.

  The high priest watched from somewhere deep inside his own mind as his hand rose up before his eyes. The hand clenched and became a fist, then opened and passed over the priest’s bloody, wounded chest. Instantly the wound was gone, and Fzoul realized that he was sitting up.

  “Myrkul,” the Black Lord said with the voice of the high priest. He sat upon the rough straw mattress and stretched. “Attend me.”

  “There is no longer a need, Lord Bane,” Myrkul said calmly as he bowed. “Once I have delivered you to Zhentil Keep, you will need to attend to your own needs. It is best you start now.”

  The Black Lord snarled. “You go too far, Myrkul! I will not stand for this insubordination!” As the God of the Dead bowed once more and spread his arms wide, Lord Bane considered striking the skeletal god. Or perhaps, he thought, I should cast a spell. Nothing too powerful, of course, but something strong enough to show Myrkul who is in command.

  Looking out through eyes that were no longer his to control, Fzoul tried to scream. Bane would destroy them both if he attempted a spell and it backfired!

  “Remember your place,” Bane snapped. Myrkul nodded, and Fzoul found himself tumbling back into the recesses of his own mind.

  “My apologies, Lord Bane,” the God of the Dead murmured. “This has been a very difficult and tiring time for me. Are you ready to return to the Dark Temple in Zhentil Keep?”

  Bane ran his hands over the body of his avatar. He had altered his previous incarnation into something more than a man, a horrible creature with sharp talons and hard, charred skin that only the sharpest of instruments could penetrate. The pale, vulnerable flesh of the high priest made the Dark God uneasy. Myrkul had argued in favor of Bane’s new appearance, reasoning that humans would trust the god more readily if he appeared to be one of them. Bane had reluctantly agreed. After all, his previous tactics—trying to frighten his forces into submission—had been a rather decided failure. After the defeat at Shadowdale, he would need to regain the confidence of his followers.

  The God of Strife shivered as he realized that his power in the Realms was nothing more than the sum of all his worshipers. The thought was revolting. “Yes,” the Black Lord sighed after a moment. “Take me to my temple in Zhentil Keep.”

  Creating a mystical gate, Myrkul stood aside and beckoned to Bane to come forward. Through the opening, the Black Lord saw the seemingly deserted streets of Zhentil Keep. Bane stepped through the opening. In a moment, the Black Lord was standing in a dark, rat-infested alley. A cutpurse let out a yell as Bane’s avatar suddenly appeared nearby. The grimy thief scurried out of the alley and ran down the street in panic.

  “So it begins anew, Myrkul,” Bane said as he gazed at the partially constructed spires of his temple in the distance. When he received no response, the Black Lord turned to find that the gate had vanished and the God of the Dead was nowhere to be seen.

  It hardly matters, Bane thought as he left the alley. Myrkul has served his function for now.

  Bane traveled through the city, shunning the poor and homeless people he passed. Sounds that might have come from thieves or slavers falling upon new victims drifted from nearly every shadow and caused Bane to quicken his step, until finally he was running through the streets, the spires of his temple fixed in his eyes. As he turned one last corner and approached the temple, Bane spotted the figures of several temple guards ahead.

  “Guards!” the Black Lord shouted with Fzoul’s voice, then stood motionless as one of the watchmen stepped forward, his weapon drawn.

  “You’ll get no free meals here!” the guard growled, looking out at the tattered clothes of the avatar from under a black hand on a red field—Bane’s own symbol. “Off with you now!”

  “Don’t you recognize me, Dier Ashlin?” Bane asked, running his hand through the tangle of red hair on his head.

  The guard squinted as he examined the tired, grimy man who stood before him, wearing the tattered remains of an officer’s uniform. Blood spattered the redheaded man’s shirt, and his face was covered with sweat and dirt. But even the grime and blood could not hide Fzoul Chembryl from the guard for long. “L—Lord Fzoul!” Ashlin shouted and lowered his sword.

  “Indeed,” the God of Strife grumbled. “Get me inside. I have traveled all the way from the Dales since the battle.”

  “The slaughter, you mean,” Ashlin mumbled as he turned and headed for the front of the temple.

  The Black Lord longed to kill the guard without another word, but something inside him—Fzoul, perhaps—told him that now was not the time for bloodshed. Now was the time for the God of Strife to rebuild his kingdom.

  As they entered the partially finished Dark Temple, Lord Bane was impressed with the amount of work that had been accomplished since he had last been there. Unfortunately, the Battle of Shadowdale had diverted many of his men from the task of rebuilding his temple. In fact, now, with the exception of the guards, the wounded who had survived the journey from Shadowdale, and a handful of devout worshipers, the temple was deserted.

  “Who is in charge, now that Bane has disappeared? I assumed Sememmon had taken the reigns of leadership,” Bane said as he stopped and looked out a window.

  Ashlin shrugged. “Sememmon was wounded on the field of battle in the Dales. Some of our men said they saw him dragged off, and that was the last anyone saw of him.”

  A chill ran up the avatar’s spine. “Then the city is once again in the hands of incompetents!” the God of Strife growled. Balling his hands into fists, Bane turned to the guard. “Lord Chess?”

  “Aye,” Ashlin muttered. “With Bane gone, you and Sememmon missing, and Manshoon off in hiding somewhere, Lord Chess could see little reason to continue work on the temple, and so it sits. Rumor has it that Chess, the filthy orc, wants to turn it into a brothel!”

  The shoulders of the avatar tightened. “I would like to see Lord Chess,” snapped the Black Lord. “Tonight.” The God of Strife turned back to the window and
looked out on the dirty, rubble-strewn streets around the Dark Temple.

  “Yes, Lord Chembryl,” Ashlin said, and he turned to leave.

  “Wait! I haven’t dismissed you yet!” the Black Lord shouted without turning from the window. The guard froze in his tracks. “There are others who I wish you to summon.…”

  * * * * *

  For the next several hours, Bane retired to his private chambers, hidden behind the throne room, and prepared himself for the meeting he had called. The ceremonial robes Fzoul had left in his quarters before the battle were brought to the Black Lord. He bathed, then dressed as his guests began to arrive.

  When the noise from the outer chamber became a roar, Bane opened a small secret panel to the room and listened to the crowd. The members of the Zhentarim—Bane’s Black Network, some called them—were silent. Lord Chess’s men, the high-ranking city officials and the heads of the militia, were not.

  “Lord Bane has forsaken us!” they cried. “Lord Chess should rule the city now!”

  “Bane betrayed us!” another voice shouted. “Our forces were led into a deathtrap in Shadowdale! Then he abandoned us to be tortured by the dalesmen!”

  A roar of approval went up from a group of militia standing close to Bane’s listening post. It’s time I made my entrance, the God of Strife thought. Now that they’ve worn themselves down, it shouldn’t be too hard to manipulate them.

  As Bane’s avatar emerged from behind the large black throne that dominated the room, some of the cries were silenced. Still, a loud hum of conversation hung over the room, punctuated occasionally by a curse or threat. The Black Lord raised Fzoul’s hands, and the hum died away, too. “I am here to unify Zhentil Keep once again!” the avatar cried.

  Slowly Bane walked to the black throne. He turned to the crowd, which was now almost completely silent, and flashed a wide, malicious grin. Then he sat down upon the throne.

  The room erupted in a wave of gasps and cries of outrage. “This is an insult!” a dark-haired priest called out. “Have we been summoned from our homes in the dead of night to witness sacrilege? How do you explain this, Fzoul?”

  “With blood,” the red-haired priest said as he raised his hands again. “I answer your call with blood. For I am not Fzoul Chembryl, although his flesh hosts my essence. I am your lord and master, and you will bow before me!”

  The dark-haired priest screamed, clutched at his eyes, then fell to the ground. Visions of a world controlled by the God of Strife filled the priest’s mind. The rivers of Faerun ran with blood, and the land itself shook under the tread of Bane’s mighty armies. And there, in the middle of the carnage and ruin, the priest saw himself, covered with the blood and jewels of the defeated.

  Rising to his knees, the priest removed his hands and revealed glowing, blood-red eyes. “Bane has returned!” the priest screamed. “Our god has returned to deliver us!”

  “All my children will know my glory,” Bane said, and in moments the entire chamber was filled with the screams of his followers as they reveled in Bane’s vision of conquest and power. Looking out through a blood-red haze as a reminder of their true allegiance, Bane’s faithful stood before their lord, awaiting his orders.

  “We must first discover the strength of our enemies. Recall our spies from Shadowdale,” Bane cried, pointing to a greasy-haired city official who cowered near the throne. “I wish to learn the fate of those who stood against me in the Temple of Lathander. If Elminster or that raven-haired lackey of Mystra still live, I want them brought before me!”

  The minister of defense bowed before the Black Lord, then hastened from the throne room. “Of course, Lord Bane,” the minister whispered over and over as he fled from the chamber.

  “And now we must address the state of Zhentil Keep,” the God of Strife growled and turned to once again face the crowded throne room. “The discontent, fear, and confusion of our people must be put to rest before we may achieve the greatness that is our preordained future.

  “We will proceed through the streets of the city this very night, spreading the news of my return. The flames of hope that light your eyes will be fanned into an inferno. Together we shall sweep away the people’s doubts and begin a new age!” The audience chamber was filled with cries of thanks and shouts of support for the Black Lord. Bane allowed a slight smile to work its way across his face. Once again, he held his followers in an iron grip.

  When the frenzy reached a peak, the God of Strife held his fist aloft and spoke again. “Together we shall triumph where gods alone would fail!”

  Bane’s worshipers parted as their god rose from his throne and walked to the center of the room. The God of Strife stood among his screaming followers for a moment, then led the multitude out of the temple and into the night.

  The edge of the forest was over an hour away, and Kelemvor and his men could hardly wait to leave the slow travel and the many obstacles of the woods behind them. The sun had risen, and the last of the magical crystals Lhaeo had supplied the riders with had failed. The light from the crystals had pierced the veil of night and allowed Kelemvor and his charges to keep moving along the river almost constantly. In the days since they had left Shadowdale, the riders had stopped only twice to rest, for a few hours each time.

  Kelemvor reached for the small purse tied to his belt and jostled it slightly. The jingle of gold coins against one another rose above the sounds of the dalesmen as they made their way along the rough path. A few men glanced at the mercenary, then quickly looked away when Kelemvor scowled in their direction.

  I wonder if Cyric and Midnight received this much money to work against the Dales? Kelemvor thought for the fourth time that day. They probably got paid off when we were in Tilverton.

  Letting the purse drop to his side, Kelemvor glanced around at the men Mourngrym had sent on the hunt with him. They were, all in all, a less than remarkable lot. The fighter saw them as typical residents of a farming town: narrow-minded but sincere. The men had done little to impress or surprise the experienced adventurer during the long journey from Shadowdale, but that was fine with him.

  The only thing about the party that had surprised Kelemvor was Mourngrym’s insistence that Yarbro, the young guardsman who had taken an instant dislike to Kelemvor and his companions when they had first arrived in Shadowdale, join them. But there had been no time to argue about personnel if the hunters wanted to catch the escapees, so Kelemvor had reluctantly agreed.

  “A cold heart is needed for this task,” Mourngrym had said as Kelemvor prepared to ride after his one-time allies. “Your rage might blind you to justice. I want the criminals returned alive, unless there is absolutely no other choice.” The dalelord paused for a moment, then handed the fighter the purse full of gold. “Yarbro will see that reason prevails”

  Kelemvor snorted. Placing “Yarbro” and “reason” in the same sentence was almost a joke. It seems far more likely that Mourngrym wants someone to keep an eye on me, the fighter thought. He pulled up on his reins, and his horse jumped over a fallen branch. Kelemvor looked around again and sighed. At least the rest of the men seem relatively trustworthy.

  The guide chosen by the dalelord to lead the hunters through the forest was Terrol Uthor, a veteran of several battles against the drow and a scholar steeped in the ancient lore of the elven clans that once claimed the forest around Shadowdale as their own. Uthor was a short, powerfully built, square-shouldered man in his late thirties with blue-gray eyes and thick, black hair that he wore slicked back.

  A common bond of hatred for the escapees was the one thing that united the remaining members of Kelemvor’s charges. Gurn Bestil, a woodsman in his fifties with a shock of white hair, had lost his twenty-year-old son in the Battle of Shadowdale. Kohren and Lanx were priests of Lathander. Kohren was tall, and all that remained of his dark hair was a widow’s peak. Lanx was of moderate build, with thin, curly blond hair and dull brown eyes. Both priests wore the red crest of their order on their clothing.

  Bursus, Ca
bal, and Jorah were soldiers who had watched comrades and friends die in the battle. Of the three, Cabal was the oldest, with a gray beard and thick white eyebrows. Tired, jet-black eyes and deeply tanned skin distinguished Bursus. Jorah was of slender build with wild, auburn hair. All three were archers as well as swordsmen, and they carried spare bows and arrows for the other huntsmen.

  Mikkel and Carella owned the fishing skiff that had been stolen by the escapees. No one knew their last names, but in appearance, they could have been taken for brothers. Their faces were baked red by the sun, and their builds were rugged and well toned. Both their heads had been shaved. They even dressed alike. The only thing that really set them apart was the sparkling prism that dangled from Mikkel’s right ear.

  Since the trip through the thick woods along the Ashaba had been uneventful so far, Kelemvor had no idea how the men would react in a battle. Not that he was worried about their fighting ability. The battle against Bane’s troops had given the adventurer enough proof of the dalesmen’s general fighting prowess. Still, the fighter wondered how his pack of huntsmen would work as a team.

  “Until we run into a stray band of Zhents or a wild creature that is addled enough to attack a party this size, or those butchers we’re chasing, we won’t know how the men will fight,” Yarbro said snidely when Kelemvor had posed the problem to his second-in-command. “But I wouldn’t worry,” the soldier added. “We’ll all pull together when we catch up to that witch and her friends.”

  Even now, as he rode through the forest with the troops, Kelemvor was not reassured by Yarbro’s confidence. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the soldier was right-that the dalesmen’s hatred would pull them together when they finally caught Midnight, Cyric, and Adon—that troubled the fighter the most.

  Kelemvor shook the thoughts from his head. I’m doing the right thing, he growled to himself. They betrayed me. They murdered innocent people. They killed Elminster.

  The fighter spurred his horse and raced down the path. His men pushed their horses on as well, and soon the company was out of the forest and on the edge of the open fields of Mistledale. So far, they had seen no sign of the skiff or the escapees. Unless they got lucky or did something drastic soon, the huntsmen were in danger of losing their quarry.