Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  “I know you,” the cleric said softly and moved to Midnight’s side. He pointed to Cyric, who was still glaring at the dark-haired magic-user. “I know you, too, Cyric.”

  The thief narrowed his eyes, then looked away and walked to the clearing. “We have a long journey. We should go now if we’re going at all.” After a moment, the thief cleared his throat and spoke again. “Are we going, Midnight?” he asked.

  The mage trembled. “We’re going. Let’s go, Adon.”

  Smiling at the mage, Adon gathered the remaining gear and got out of the skiff. Both he and Midnight turned to Cyric, who was still standing a few yards away. The thief muttered something, walked to the skiff, and grabbed the bow. Midnight and Adon took hold of the stern, and together the travelers flipped the surprisingly light craft upside down and held it over their heads. They followed the path through the woods, parallel to the river, for nearly an hour, speaking only when necessary.

  As the thief had suggested, the heroes soon broke from the woods to take the more direct route past the rapids. Soon, they were in view of the low, rolling hills of Battledale. For hours they were surrounded by lush green rises as they carried the boat over the soft ground. The hills in the distance seemed to melt, losing form until they became a hazy, greenish white wall on the horizon. A soft wind whispered over the dale, and occasionally a sound from the river made it to their ears.

  The heroes found a path that lay between a series of hills and followed it. On either side of the travelers, the rising earth was marked by ridges that angled up to the top of the hills, then blended into the soft, brownish green of the landscape. As they progressed through the dale, the hills that were closest came into sharp focus, while those in the far distance lost their form and melted into the sky. Slow-moving, puffy clouds drifted past.

  The work was tiring, but it was a pleasant break from the steady toil of rowing the skiff down the Ashaba. The heroes set a strong pace, and soon after highsun, they were once again nearing the river.

  “The Pool of Yeven should be very close,” Cyric said flatly. “The river’s usually calm here, but who knows what it’ll be like now? Be ready for anything.”

  The heroes reached the shore, and Midnight and Adon lowered their end of the skiff as Cyric did the same. Midnight was exhausted, and her muscles ached. She sat on the ground beside the skiff, and Adon knelt beside her. The thief stood with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “What do you want from me?” Midnight cried. “Do you want me to cast a spell that will take us to Tantras? I only wish I could. At this moment, I’d rather be banished to Myrkul’s realm than take on the Ashaba again.” The mage put her hands over her face. “But I don’t see that we have a choice.”

  Midnight stood and walked toward the thief. “We’re just as worthy to make this trip as you. In fact, I don’t know who put you in command of this little expedition in the first place.” Cyric started to speak, but Midnight cut him off. “The point is, Cyric, I’m not going to be treated as your baggage anymore. Neither is Adon. If you want to continue alone, then I won’t stop you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be whatever it is you wanted me to be. I tried to be your friend, but that doesn’t seem to be enough for you.”

  Cyric’s arms had fallen limply to his sides. There was nothing he could say, nothing he wanted to say, to make up for the pain he had caused Midnight. That simply didn’t matter. Cyric wanted the Tablets of Fate. The desire for the power and the glory they would bring burned inside him. All other considerations paled beside his need for control of his own fate, and ownership of the tablets would buy him that control.

  Cyric had begun his life as a slave, and until he confronted and killed his former mentor from the Thieves’ Guild, just before the Battle of Shadowdale, Cyric had never felt like a free man. Phantom chains of servitude had hung around his neck, wrists, and ankles all his life. Now, however, he had a purpose, a quest for his own gain. And if he succeeded, no one would ever control him again. The chains would be removed once and for all.

  But Cyric also knew that, for now, he needed Midnight, and perhaps even Adon, to make it to Tantras, to recover the first of the missing Tablets of Fate. He simply couldn’t allow the mage’s petty anger to spoil everything.

  “I’m … sorry,” Cyric lied as he pushed the boat into the water. “You’re right. I have treated you both badly. It’s just that … I’m frightened, too.” Midnight smiled and threw her arms around the thief.

  “I knew you’d come around, Cyric!” she said happily. Smiling, Midnight removed her arms from around the thief’s neck, helped Adon into the skiff, then threw her gear in the bottom of the boat. “We’re all in this together.”

  Neither Midnight nor Adon could see the expression on Cyric’s face as he turned his back to them and reached for his own pack. A peculiar smile crossed his face—a smile born not of happiness, but of victory. And contempt.

  As the heroes rowed toward the Pool of Yeven, Adon sat near the bow of the skiff, his hand hanging over the edge. The cleric watched the rushing, quicksilver lines of current in the blue-green water, and a slight frown formed across his face. “The direction of the river is changing up ahead,” Adon said softly. His words were smothered by the sounds of the river, and the cleric was forced to repeat himself.

  Cyric looked back over his shoulder and gazed toward the vast lake downriver. Adon was correct; the current was changing. A wall of pure white froth arose at the barrier where the river met the lake, obscuring the swirling chaos beyond.

  The Pool of Yeven had become a huge whirlpool!

  The thief looked to either shore and realized that he could never guide their fragile craft to land before the pull of the current caught them and capsized the boat. The only chance the heroes had was to guide the boat to the outer channels of the violent water and attempt to ride it out.

  The thief shouted hurried orders to Midnight and Adon, but his words were lost in the roar from the vortex. As they got closer to the whirlpool, Adon stared at the maelstrom as if it were somehow familiar. Midnight, on the other hand, seemed paralyzed with fear. With only Cyric’s frantic efforts to slow them down, the heroes soon passed through the barrier of mist where the river entered the pool. Although they were all soaked to the skin, the skiff did not take on enough water to cause alarm.

  Midnight was shocked from her paralysis by the splash of the ice-cold water. When she saw the gigantic, gaping maw of the whirlpool in the center of the once-placid Pool of Yeven, she couldn’t hold back a scream.

  Cyric couldn’t hear her. There was a wall of sound rising up from the center of the vast maelstrom that grew louder as the skiff was pulled into the outer rings of the madly swirling water. The thief jammed a single oar over the right side of the boat to steady the craft, but the tiny skiff spun and bobbed as it was dragged toward the maelstrom.

  In a matter of moments, the heroes were poised at the very top of the whirlpool, and they could see down into its lowest depths. A blinding blue-white luminescence was visible at the very bottom of the vortex. Using the oars as rudders, Cyric tried to keep the skiff steady, but the boat was lurching violently. A fine mist surrounded the heroes, and they occasionally caught glimpses of a landmark on the shoreline as they sped dizzily past it. The boat lurched, leaving the water for a brief moment, and Midnight had to force back a wave of nausea. Cyric fought with the oars, cursing loudly. Tears were streaming down Adon’s face as he stared at the swirling vortex of water.

  “Please, Sune!” the frightened cleric cried as he reached out and nearly fell from the boat. The skiff rocked, and Cyric shot a look over his shoulder.

  “Can’t you control him?” Cyric shouted, then turned back to the oars to compensate for the disturbance Adon had caused.

  “What is it, Adon?” Midnight screamed. “What is it you see?”

  Adon whimpered for a moment, then spoke softly, barely audible above the roar of the whirlpool. “Elminster’s in the rift. I want to save him, but I can’
t reach him.”

  Images of their final moments in the temple returned to Midnight. Bane’s avatar had been defeated, and Mystra’s essence had vanished in the explosion that destroyed the Black Lord’s avatar. During the battle, Elminster had been driven into a swirling vortex he himself had created. Neither Midnight nor Adon could save the old sage when the rift closed.

  “I—I tried to save him!” Adon cried. “I tried to cast a spell. But Sune refused to hear my prayers. She deserted me and let Elminster die!”

  “It wasn’t your fault!” Midnight screamed. The frame of the skiff was beginning to shake violently under the assault of the surging water.

  Adon turned to Midnight. Though his eyes were red from crying, Midnight saw clarity in them, a spark of understanding that had long been missing. “It is my fault,” the cleric said calmly. “I was unworthy. I deserved to be forsaken by my goddess.” Adon paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and pointed to the jagged scar that ran down his cheek. “I deserved this!”

  The boat shook violently, pitching the cleric forward. Midnight grabbed Adon and pulled him back from the gunwale. Midnight looked up at Cyric and saw that he was still fighting with one oar, using it as a rudder. The boat was now more than halfway around the outside of the whirlpool, but it hadn’t seemed to descend any deeper into the vortex.

  Midnight grabbed the other oar. “What can I do?” the mage screamed. “How can I help?”

  Cyric nodded toward the southern edge of the vortex. There the Pool of Yeven opened onto the Ashaba again. “We’ve got to break out of the curve!” Cyric yelled. “It’s either that, or we die right here!”

  The mage plunged the oar into the water. Adon grabbed the end of the shuddering oaken oar with Midnight, and together they held the second makeshift rudder in place. Together the three heroes forced the craft to break free from the ring of the whirlpool. In a moment, they had passed through another wall of froth and were moving downstream, away from the Pool of Yeven, toward Scardale.

  The whirlpool had apparently somehow corrected the misdirected current, and now the river was running as it should, though it was still dangerously swift. As they moved farther away from the Pool of Yeven, Midnight gave a hearty yell, happy just to be alive. The others didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm, however. Cyric simply scowled at Adon and turned away from the cleric, who sat quietly in the bow.

  This partnership has to end soon, the thief thought. I was wrong to believe I needed these fools to make it to Tantras! Cyric glanced over his shoulder at Midnight. In fact, he growled to himself, they practically killed me in that whirlpool with their whining, while I risked my neck to save them!

  The heroes continued down the Ashaba for several hours more, Midnight lounging happily in the stern, Adon silently staring at the water from the bow, and Cyric moodily handling the oars. Finally Cyric spotted a huge wooden bridge spanning the river in the distance. “Blackfeather Bridge!” Midnight called.

  “Perhaps we can rest here,” Adon said softly as he turned to gaze at the bridge.

  As they approached the bridge, however, a flicker of movement alerted Midnight. She quickly called a fireball spell to mind, but when she saw that the figures were men and not some strange creature lurking on the bridge, she hesitated to cast it. The spell could fail and destroy the skiff. Or it could succeed, and Midnight might learn that she had harmed an innocent group of fishermen or travelers like themselves.

  The hesitation proved costly.

  Cyric, too, saw the movement on the bridge, but he had also glimpsed sunlight glinting from steel. The three men standing on the structure were joined by two more. All had weapons. The thief turned quickly and shouted for Midnight to cast her spell.

  On the bridge, Kelemvor and the group of dalesmen stood waiting, arrows knocked, ready to fire at the skiff.

  The surviving members of the hunt were lined up in a row upon the bridge, their bows ready. Kelemvor stood next to Yarbro, and the two men looked out onto the Ashaba. A skiff rushed toward them, three people frantically scrambling about inside it.

  “Look at them!” Yarbro snarled, the muscles in his lean arms tensing as he prepared to loose an arrow. “They’re trying to turn around. They’ll never be able to do it in this part of the river. The current’s too fast.” The young guard’s flesh was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot. His lips pulled back in a grimace, the guard trembled with anticipation.

  The killing time had come.

  “I can see them,” Kelemvor snapped. Below, on the river, Midnight, Cyric, and Adon struggled to turn their boat to shore. The fighter glanced across the bridge. The men were all like Yarbro, barely hiding their glee as they held their bows ready to fire. “No one shoots without my order!” Kelemvor shouted.

  A few of the dalesmen laughed. Yarbro turned sharply to the fighter. “You don’t command us any longer. The men follow my orders now!”

  Sweat was streaming down Kelemvor’s face. “Our orders are to capture the prisoners, not to kill them on sight.”

  “Unless there’s no other choice,” Yarbro growled bitterly as he turned back to face the river. “Unless you want me to have you shot full of arrows, I suggest you either grab a bow or get off the bridge!”

  The small boat rocked violently in the fierce current as the escapees tried unsuccessfully to turn their shuddering craft. Kelemvor silently stared at Midnight and felt a strange pressure upon his chest.

  I can’t do this! the fighter cursed to himself. I simply can’t let these lunatics hurt my friends … and my love.

  A few feet away from Kelemvor, Jorah laughed. “Let them get to shore … if they can. I don’t want the river to sweep them away after we shoot them. We can have them stuffed and hung like scarecrows on the road to Zhentil Keep.” Bursus and Cabal chuckled and nodded.

  “That’ll let any Zhentish scum who might plan to attack the Dales again know exactly what we’ll do to them,” Bursus agreed. The wounded archer hobbled to Jorah’s side and patted the younger, auburn-haired man on the shoulder.

  “Let’s just kill them now,” Mikkel suggested. As he looked down at the fishing skiff, images of the countless days he had spent on that boat with his partner flooded into his mind.

  The skiff was within range now. The hunters watched as Adon stood up and grabbed Cyric’s arm. The thief lashed out at the cleric, and Adon fell. The young cleric hit the side of the skiff hard, and Midnight and Cyric were unable to maintain their balance as the boat careened wildly and capsized.

  Midnight screamed as she struck the water and sank as if a heavy weight had been attached to her body. Adon also plummeted into the Ashaba and vanished beneath the surface of the river. Cyric fell in the opposite direction, and the current grabbed him and began to pull him downstream.

  “Fire!” Yarbro shouted, and a rain of arrows struck the river around the capsized boat.

  “No!” Kelemvor screamed, but it was too late. Midnight and Adon had disappeared from sight, and Cyric was bobbing up and down in the strong current. The thief tried to plunge under the surface of the water, but he was helpless in the tide. The skeletal branches of a large, dead tree that had fallen into the river reached out from the shoreline, and the thief managed to grab a limb as he rushed past. As the thief hung there, suspended in the rapid flow of the Ashaba for a moment, an arrow struck the water mere inches from his face. Cyric let go of the branch instinctively, then sunk beneath the surface of the water.

  Beneath the river’s surface, Midnight flailed her arms and legs in a frenzied panic. Suddenly a large shape approached her out of the darkness. The cleric held one of their canvas bags in his left hand as he swam toward the mage. His eyes were wide with fear.

  We’re going to drown unless I do something! Midnight realized. The mage reached out, trying to grab anything on the bottom that would stop her from tumbling down the river. She came up with a handful of reeds. Unconsciously a spell thrust itself into Midnight’s mind.

  Pushing back her fear, Midnight recited the b
rief incantation in her mind as she plucked a reed from the riverbed. Before she could turn and cast the water breathing spell on Adon, a huge sphere filled with air flashed into sight around her. The shell surrounded Adon as well, who now lay on his stomach, soaked and gasping.

  “Thanks, Midnight,” the cleric groaned and rolled over onto his back. “I owe you my life … again.”

  Midnight smiled weakly, then looked shocked and fell to her knees as the bubble lurched into motion and quickly rose to the surface of the river. “Mystra, help me!” the mage cried as she looked up and saw the bridge only about twenty yards away. Arrows rained down from the bridge again, and she heard the curses of the dalesmen as the arrows glanced harmlessly off the sphere.

  On the bridge, Kelemvor stepped back from the other men. The fighter watched as Yarbro swore and stamped around on the bridge in frustration, screeching orders at the other dalesmen. The group had degenerated into a band of killers, differing little from the orcs they had encountered near the Standing Stone. The fighter relaxed slightly. Midnight had managed to save herself, and in doing so, she took the need to act away from him.

  As the sphere passed beneath the bridge, close to the southern bank, one of the archers ran to the shore to get a large rock. When the sphere emerged on the other side of the bridge, he was waiting, the rock held high over his head. The other dalesmen stood stock still, bows at the ready.

  Midnight looked up as she passed beneath the bridge. She saw Kelemvor leaning over the bridge’s edge, and her heart skipped a beat. For only an instant, the mage’s attention was completely focused on her former lover. So when the large stone came hurtling down at her, it took the mage completely by surprise. The rock bounced off the top of the sphere, but Midnight lost her concentration, and the sphere disappeared in a flash. The magic-user and the cleric plunged into the water, very close to shore but also very close to the bridge.

  I’ve got to help her! Kelemvor thought desperately as the sphere disappeared. At that moment, the fighter let out a terrible, high-pitched scream. The dalesmen loosed a volley of arrows at Midnight and Adon, but the distraction caused by Kelemvor’s horrifying scream disturbed their aim. Three of the dalesmen turned in time to see Kelemvor’s breastplate clatter to the bridge. Mikkel and Yarbro were too intent on their prey to notice.