Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  Kelemvor pushed the guard’s sword away. “And were you right about the clerics?” Yarbro snarled, and his sword flashed out toward Kelemvor’s chest. The fighter slapped the sword aside with his own blade, however, and Yarbro was knocked backward a few feet by the blow. Jorah, Cabal, and Mikkel drew their swords.

  “See?” Yarbro hissed as he sheathed his weapon and held up his hands. “You’re alive only because I say so.” The other dalesmen sheathed their swords as well. Kelemvor turned away and readied his horse for another long ride.

  The ride to Blackfeather Bridge was long and silent for Kelemvor. The dalesmen stopped in Essembra only long enough for supplies and to have a local healer look at Bursus’s leg. The wound was not too serious, and after a few poultices, Bursus was ready to ride on to the bridge with the other hunters. All along the road, Kelemvor rode far out in front of the others, hoping that something would attack them from behind.

  The green-eyed fighter knew that if the dalesmen were ambushed, he wouldn’t lift a sword to save them. There was nothing but Mourngrym’s gold and his promise holding him to the quest now, and even that was proving to be little incentive.

  Kelemvor had expected that the shock of losing their companions to such a horrible fate would cause the dalesmen to withdraw into themselves, to tone down their viciousness. At the very least, he thought they would stop dwelling on ways to torture Midnight, Adon, and Cyric. But Yarbro and the other hunters—even Bursus, when he was well again—spent much of their days plotting horrible fates for Kelemvor’s friends.

  Occasionally Yarbro would catch up to Kelemvor and tell him the latest cruel imaginings, just to taunt him. The fighter always remained silent, but it never stopped the young guard from telling him over and over again how the dalesmen were going to kill the magic-user and her allies.

  Eventually the hunters arrived at Blackfeather Bridge, where they secured their mounts in the forest on the north bank of the Ashaba, then took up positions on the bridge.

  As the dalesmen set up a rough camp, Kelemvor stood at the northern end of the bridge and cleared his throat loudly. “Yarbro is now your leader,” the fighter began, “and rightly so. However, I have something to say to you all.” A low rumble of mutters ran through the camp. Yarbro eyed Kelemvor suspiciously, then nodded to his men, letting them know that they had his permission to listen to the fighter.

  When the dalesmen had all turned to glare at him, Kelemvor continued. “This is the last time I’m going to remind any of you of the explicit orders of Lord Mourngrym.” Yarbro frowned deeply. “Our orders are to capture Midnight, Cyric, and Adon, and return them to Shadowdale, where they will pay for their crimes. They are to be taken alive unless there is no other option.”

  The cold stares of the hunters seemed to bore through the fighter. His words were stated calmly and without passion. Kelemvor knew they would have no effect, but he could not stop trying. When he was done speaking, the fighter slowly walked back to his horse and unpacked his gear.

  After almost an hour had passed and the dalesmen were beginning to get restless, Mikkel asked, “What if they’ve already passed this way?” The archer kicked a pebble off the bridge and watched it plummet into the Ashaba.

  “Impossible,” Yarbro snapped, trying more to convince himself than his men. It was entirely possible that the hunters had arrived late. Their quarry might be miles away by now, perhaps in Scardale already.

  Sitting on the north end of the bridge, Kelemvor felt his heart jump at the archer’s question. By all the gods, Kelemvor thought, let it be so! Let the decision be taken out of my hands!

  * * * * *

  The God of Strife summoned his sorceress, Tarana Lyr. Moments later, a beautiful young woman wearing the ebon robes of Bane’s dark order entered the massive throne room of the god’s temple in Zhentil Keep. Her long, blond hair was regally styled and held in place by a silver headpiece. A red sash pulled the robe tight about her slim waist, and a slit up the side of the robe allowed a glimpse of her long, shapely legs. Her eyes were a deep, unearthly blue.

  “Milord,” Tarana purred, her voice rich and melodic. “I am at your command.”

  “I have summoned you to open a scrying portal to Scardale,” Bane said. “I wish to contact our garrison.”

  “Of course,” Tarana murmured and immediately started the spell. The instability of magic did not trouble the sorceress. She relished the thrill of tampering with forces that might one day destroy her. Taking risks had been an integral part of her upbringing, and the magical chaos since the time of Arrival had allowed her many talents—and her madness—to be put to full use.

  The Black Lord stepped back cautiously from the enchantress as she released her spell. A fiery frame was carved in midair, and through the portal, Bane saw three men in soldiers’ garb seated around a wooden table. It was obvious from the dice and coins strewn over the table’s surface that they had been gambling. At the moment, the men were arguing over a bet.

  “Gentlemen!” Bane growled. His voice brought the soldiers to instant attention. News of Bane’s acquisition of Fzoul’s body as an avatar had spread to Scardale quickly, and these soldiers knew Fzoul’s voice well from past dealings with the high priest.

  “Lord Bane,” a stocky, red-bearded soldier named Knopf said as he quickly shoved his chair back and rose from the table. The other soldiers, Cadeo and Frost, hurried to do likewise.

  “I see that you have been ‘busy,’ ” Bane snapped, gesturing toward the table.

  As the Black Lord glared at the dice and money, the face of the red-bearded soldier paled. “The occupation of the dale has been very quiet of late,” Knopf said, trying to placate his master.

  Actually, the occupation of Scardale had been very quiet for several years. It hadn’t been long ago that Lashan Aumersair, a young, aggressive lord of the dale, overran Harrowdale, Featherdale, and Battledale with his armies. But Lashan’s empire hadn’t lasted for long. The Dales, Cormyr, Sembia, Hillsfar, and even Zhentil Keep all banded together to halt Scardale’s expansion. Now each of the kingdoms that had supplied troops to defeat the young lord had a garrison in the city. Like the other garrisons, Zhentil Keep’s contingent of soldiers was limited to twelve men-at-arms. The balance of power among the garrisons in Scardale shifted from one day to the next, but little of consequence ever happened to change the status quo in the occupied city.

  “In other words, there has been no progress!” Bane exploded. “I expect you to be doing more in Scardale than playing dice and keeping the peace!”

  “Actually, we engaged the Cormyrian soldiers in a small skirmish only last week,” Cadeo mumbled, trying to smile feebly.

  “Any casualties?” Bane asked, encouraged. “Cadeo broke one of their thumbs,” Knopf muttered as he pointed to the young, flaxen-haired soldier. “I’m afraid there really hasn’t been much excitement here recently, Lord Bane.”

  “I see,” Bane said slowly. “That sounds like something we can remedy. Where is Jhembryn Durrock?”

  “Lord Durrock?” Knopf asked. He shifted his feet nervously for a moment, then ran his hand through his beard.

  “If that is the pompous title he has assumed, then, aye, ‘Lord’ Durrock,” the God of Strife growled, his voice hardening. “Find him and bring him to this portal immediately! I will be waiting.”

  Bane folded the arms of his avatar as the three soldiers hurried from the small room. Looking away from the magical opening, he cocked his head slightly and glanced at his sorceress. “I suppose every moment this portal remains open increases the risk to you.”

  “It is not a problem,” Tarana responded. Her eyes narrowed to mere slits, and a mad smile stretched across her face, marring the illusion of delicate beauty. “I enjoy the danger.”

  Moments later, a huge, dark-skinned man appeared before the scrying portal. His flesh had been seared almost black, and severe burns grossly disfigured most of his face. A thick beard and mustache succeeded in hiding only some of the damage. A black-visored
helmet, which had been removed in respect for the Black Lord, acted as a mask to further conceal the worst of the assassin’s deformities. In fact, the other garrisons had demanded that Durrock wear the helmet at all times inside the city, since the assassin’s appearance had been known to give nightmares to Scardale’s children.

  “I live but to serve you, Lord Bane,” Durrock said, his voice a hoarse whisper. The assassin bowed slightly, but he didn’t allow his eyes to wander from the scrying portal.

  “Yes, Durrock. I know that you do,” Bane said in a low voice. “And that knowledge pleases me—especially in light of what I am about to tell you.” The God of Strife smiled an evil grin.

  “My spies have informed me that a mage, a raven-haired worshiper of Mystra who opposed me at the Battle of Shadowdale, is heading toward Scardale. She is traveling down the Ashaba.” The God of Strife paused for a moment and let the smile melt from his features. “Capture her … alive. I am coming to Scardale to interrogate her personally.”

  A scowl crossed Durrock’s ravaged face, and the assassin bowed again. “As you wish, Lord Bane,” he said flatly. “How will I find her?”

  “That is not my concern!” the God of Strife screamed, curling his right hand into a fist. “If you cannot accept this mission, ‘Lord’ Durrock, then tell me now so that I can find someone more suitable.”

  “That will not be necessary, Lord Bane,” the assassin replied. “I will find her.”

  The Black Lord smiled again. “Good. You will find her on the Ashaba River itself. I understand that a contingent of dalesmen are heading toward Blackfeather Bridge to intercept her flight. You may wish to begin there.” Bane turned to Tarana and waved his hand. “Oh, by the way,” the God of Strife said as the scrying portal started to fade. “She has two others with her. Do with them as you please.…”

  The portal vanished, and Durrock found himself staring at a circular, polished shield on the wall of the soldiers’ quarters. He scowled again and headed for the door.

  As he left the hastily constructed barracks, Durrock allowed the full effects of the sun to play on his ruined face for only a moment. Then he heard footsteps approaching and lowered the visor. Greeting a pale-skinned fighter from Hillsfar with a brief nod, the assassin passed him by silently. As he walked, Durrock surveyed the port town that stretched before him.

  The Scar, the steep ravine for which the town was named, lay to the north. Port Ashaba, the town’s busy harbor, was to the south, at the other end of town. In between the two landmarks, a host of buildings ran the gamut from functional houses where hardworking residents of Scardale raised their families, to abandoned shacks and workhouses that had fallen into various stages of disrepair since the war. There were also gigantic warehouses, where supplies for ships preparing to cross the Dragon Reach were plentiful. One such warehouse was Durrock’s present destination.

  The guards who stood watch before the warehouse moved aside quickly when the assassin approached. “Lord Durrock,” one said humbly, opening the large wooden door for the forbidding, black-robed figure.

  “I ride in an hour with my lieutenants. Inform the necessary parties,” Durrock snapped to the guards before he dismissed them and entered the warehouse alone.

  The warehouse was almost empty. A rickety, rotted wooden staircase led to an open trap door at the top of the stairs. A single shaft of light shone through the opening, bathing three suits of armor that lay in the lower room’s center in an intense, macabre brilliance that almost made them seem attractive. On closer examination, though, the armor’s appearance proved more ghastly than attractive—night black, covered with rows of razor-sharp spikes. Durrock and two of his most trusted men would don that armor soon.

  Next to the armor lay three fine leather saddles. They were magnificently crafted, but far too large for any normal steed. As Durrock waited for his fellow assassins, he busied himself with checking the armor and tack.

  Within five minutes, two more assassins quietly entered the empty, cavernous warehouse. Durrock nodded a silent greeting to the two men and moved toward the armor. The other assassins followed. Soon all three were fully clad in the frightening, deadly mail.

  “Summon your mounts,” Durrock said flatly as he placed a thick metal chain around his neck. A glowing black pendant hung on the end of the chain, in the shape of a small horse with glowing red eyes.

  In unison, all three assassins held up identical pendants and slowly repeated a series of powerful commands. Bolts of red and black lightning flashed across the room. A swirling blue cloud appeared in the center of the room, high in the air, accompanied by a wave of noxious-smelling mist.

  Three sets of glowing red eyes appeared in a rift in the cloud, and the assassins could hear the sound of heavy, thunderous hoofbeats. Their mounts were approaching.

  First one, then another, then a third gigantic black horse leaped through the swirling rift and landed heavily on the floor of the warehouse. Fire flashed from the horses’ hooves, and the creatures’ nostrils flared orange. The huge ebon steeds reared and bared a set of perfectly white fangs.

  “You are ours to command!” Durrock cried, holding the pendant out toward one of the nightmares. “Lord Bane has given us the tools to call you from the Planes to do our bidding!” The nightmare mounts reared again, breathing clouds of smoke from their nostrils.

  The nightmares whinnied nervously as the assassins moved toward them, but the horses could do nothing to prevent the humans from saddling them. The special magical pendants Bane had provided for Durrock and his men gave them complete control over the strange otherworldly beasts.

  Durrock wheeled his nightmare around and spurred it toward the huge double doors at the front of the warehouse. The nightmare reared up and gave the doors a mighty kick with its flaming hooves. The doors burst open, and the three assassins raced out into the street. At the sight, the nearby villagers gasped and shrieked. Several fainted dead away.

  Durrock laughed and pulled up on his nightmare’s reigns, and the creature leaped into the air. Within a few minutes, the scarred assassin and his lieutenants were racing across the sky, the nightmares’ hooves pounding flaring gouts of fire into the air as they flew toward Blackfeather Bridge.

  * * * * *

  Earlier in the day, Cyric had made the decision to portage the skiff around the dangerous rapids that lay ahead, where the horseshoe curve of the Ashaba led southwest and sprouted two tributaries before finishing its arc and traveling northeast. Midnight gazed at the violently churning water and felt relieved that they weren’t going to attempt the passage. Fallen trees groped over the shoreline, their branches half buried in the water. The trees looked like gnarled gray hands with thousands of skeletal fingers. Large, craggy rocks rose up out of the water in the distance. Clouds of froth gathered before the rocks, calling attention to areas where the flow of the river was temporarily slowed by the stones.

  Heavy woods stood sentinel on either side of the Ashaba, but there were occasional clearing on the shore, left, perhaps, by fishermen or other travelers. Cyric guided the skiff toward the eastern bank, where a small clearing was visible. As the heroes approached shore, the thief barked out orders for his companions to get out of the boat and guide it toward land.

  Cyric jumped out of the boat, too, and together the three heroes dragged the skiff to shore. Beyond the small clearing lay a path that followed the bank of the river. Obviously they weren’t the first to choose not to brave the rapids downstream.

  “We’ll have to carry the boat awhile,” Cyric grumbled as he pulled his pack from the skiff. “That path should take us to the edge of the woods. We can follow the Ashaba for a little ways, then cut overland through Battledale and get the boat back into the water beyond the bend.” The thief paused to wipe sweat from his eyes. “Is that simple enough for everyone to follow?”

  Midnight flinched. “You don’t have to treat us like children, Cyric. Your meaning is quite clear.” The raven-haired mage grabbed the sack containing her spe
llbook and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Is it?” Cyric said, then turned his back on the mage and shrugged. “Perhaps …”

  Placing her hand on Cyric’s upper arm, Midnight gave a gentle squeeze, then rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Cyric, I’m your friend. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me about it if you need to talk.”

  The thief pulled away from Midnight’s comforting touch with obvious repulsion, as if her fingers were the legs of a spider. He refused to look at her. “I don’t need to talk to anyone,” he snapped. “Besides, you wouldn’t like what I had to say.”

  Behind Midnight and Cyric, Adon trembled and climbed into the boat. The cleric pulled his knees up to his face and closed his eyes. Midnight took a step back toward the skiff, then stopped as she saw the thief’s back tense, as if he were preparing to attack Adon. Instinctively, the mage stepped in front of the thief, blocking the quivering cleric from view.

  “Cyric, you can say anything you want to me,” Midnight pleaded. “Don’t you know that by now? When you were wounded, on the ride to Tilverton, you told me so much about yourself, so much about the pain and the heartache that’s driven you. I know your secrets, and I—”

  “Don’t badger me!” Cyric hissed as he moved closer to Midnight in a rage. The hawk-nosed man pointed at Midnight with his right hand, his fingers thrust forward like daggers. The mage backed away slowly.

  “I—I wasn’t,” Midnight whispered. She looked into Cyric’s eyes and shuddered. There was something in the thief’s eyes that frightened her, something she had never noticed before.

  “I know your secrets, too,” Cyric growled. He stood only a few inches from the mage. “Don’t forget that, Ariel!”

  The mage stood perfectly still. Cyric had learned her true name on the journey to Shadowdale. With that information, in league with a powerful mage, the thief could, if he chose, hold dominion over her soul. Midnight knew she should have been afraid, but she was simply angry.

  “You know nothing about me!” Midnight cried and turned to the boat. Adon stood up and held his hand out toward the mage.