Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  “I’m dying!” Bane cried as he staggered to his feet. He looked at his wounds, saw his energy draining away. The Black Lord’s eyes blazed with crimson light as he lowered himself into a crouch. “Come, Torm. We will visit Myrkul’s kingdom together.”

  Before the God of Duty could get away, the Black Lord charged to his side, grabbed his shoulders, and drew Torm into a deadly embrace. A dozen spikes pierced the lion-headed avatar, and Torm roared in pain.

  The juggernauts teetered back and forth for a moment, standing only because they were supporting one another. Bane laughed, low and hollow, and the sound drifted out over the Dragon Reach. Torm looked into the Black Lord’s eyes, then opened his sharp-toothed maw and slowly brought the rows of teeth down upon Bane’s throat.

  The God of Strife’s laughter abruptly ceased.

  On the southern hill of Tantras, Midnight released her hold on the bell’s rope. It was no use. She had tried time and again to force the Bell of Aylen Attricus to sound once more, but she had failed.

  “Try again!” Elminster snapped, then turned to look out at the sky over Tantras.

  “Elminster, I can’t,” Midnight cried, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

  The old sage did not take his gaze from the strange lights above the city. The frail bonds of reality seemed to be coming undone and lines of force were snaking out across the sky. The center of this web of energy rested just above the avatar’s battleground and took the form of a swirling vortex that rose toward the clouds. Sky-blue streaks of power intertwined with amber, green, and reddish black strands. The souls of the followers of the Black Lord and the God of Duty battled for control of Tantras, even beyond death.

  Huge, glowing meteors had begun to rain down upon the city, too. The fiery balls struck the earth in every direction. Some demolished buildings, others devastated ships in the harbor. As Adon watched, one fireball tore a hole in the side of a Zhentish craft and the galley foundered, then sank in the Dragon Reach.

  Still another meteor struck the amber dome that protected the bell tower. Though it couldn’t reach the heroes, the glowing chunk of rock bounced off the magical wall and fell into the hundreds of panicked Tantrasans who had seen the shield from the distance and had flocked around it. Kelemvor had to watch in helpless anger as the meteor killed two dozen people and injured a score more.

  Inside the tower, Elminster felt his aged heart racing. “Ye must try again,” the sage said slowly, turning back to the raven-haired mage.

  Midnight fell to her knees, the rope in her hands. “Can’t you teleport some of the refugees inside the shield?”

  “Magic won’t penetrate this barrier,” Elminster grumbled. “Ye should know that.”

  The old sage paused and walked to Midnight’s side. He helped her to her feet and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Midnight,” Elminster said in a comforting tone the mage would never have associated with the cranky old sage, “ye alone have the power to complete this task. Mystra believed in ye. It’s about time ye did the same and justified her trust. Now, force away thy fears and concentrate on saving this city.”

  With those words, the old sage turned and left the tower. Midnight stared up at the bell and imagined it ringing. For a moment she could almost see the bell swinging back and forth in the tower, its rich tones filling her ears. She closed her eyes and the image remained. In that instant, Midnight finally understood the reason for the magical silence that gripped the tower before the bell was rung. Only by blocking out all distraction, by concentrating fully on the task of ringing the bell, could a mage hope to make it sound.

  For a moment, Midnight did not think. She did not feel. For an instant, she didn’t even breathe.

  Then, the raven-haired mage pulled the rope, and the Bell of Aylen Attricus sang out again, its song of power so loud that it nearly deafened her. The bell tower glowed with a bright amber light, and a terrifying chill flowed down and engulfed Midnight. Amber waves of energy and black lightning flashed in the tower, then leaped from the high windows to the dome that protected the heroes. The walls of the shield quickly spread outward, and the huddled Tantrasans suddenly found themselves safe within its confines.

  Midnight ran to the tower’s door and watched as the dome continued to expand. She gasped, though, as she saw that the shield was slowing as it moved across the southern hill. She raced back inside and grabbed the rope once more. The mage pulled with all her strength, ignoring the blasts of cold and the maddening sound of the bell tolling. She pulled on the rope again and again, with no regard for herself. All that mattered was the city.

  Still, Midnight was only human, and after a time that seemed like an eternity to her, the mage felt her arms grow limp, her hands slide from the rope, and her legs buckle beneath her. She collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. When Midnight opened her eyes again, only a moment had passed, but Elminster, Kelemvor, and Adon were now inside the tower with her.

  The green-eyed fighter fell to his knees and threw his arms around Midnight. “The shield is over the city,” Kelemvor said. “It’s over.”

  “I don’t think so,” Adon whispered as he turned back to the door.

  The cleric saw that the shield was still expanding, although it had not yet reached the citadel and the Temple of Torm. Suddenly there was an explosion that made the sound of the bell tolling seem like a small child clapping his hands. A massive, night-black form rose over the north hill of the city. The shape was amorphous, and a blood-red spiral of energy curled within its center. A second shape rose behind the ebon blob, but it was sky blue with an amber core that looked not unlike a shining sun.

  The unprotected part of the city, which contained both the Temple of Torm and the citadel, was covered by a wave of searing flame. The land turned black, and the waters of the Dragon Reach bubbled and changed to vapor under the intense heat. The Zhentish ships exploded as the waves of flame struck them. Bane’s troops died instantly.

  On the shore to the north of the city, the discarded bodies of the avatars lay upon the rocks, charred and brittle. Bane’s obsidian giant was shattered in a dozen places, and its head lay yards from its body. The golden-skinned avatar of the God of Duty had been ripped to shreds, and its proud lion’s head lay twisted, its soulless eyes staring up toward the essences of the rival gods that hung over the coast.

  In the sky, the pulsating essences of Bane and Torm were dragged upward, caught in the pull of the vortex created by the freed souls of their followers. The vortex swallowed the shimmering, swirling masses that had once been gods, and a blinding white flash filled the air. The crimson spiral, the heart of what had once been Lord Bane, the God of Strife and Tyranny, and the amber soul of Lord Torm, the God of Duty and Loyalty, met in the whirlwind. A high-pitched shriek, the final cries of both gods, filled the air. The vortex swallowed the deities and the screams stopped. Both gods were dead.

  At the Tower of Aylen Attricus, Kelemvor and Adon helped Midnight to her feet. Together, they walked from the stone obelisk, Elminster trailing behind them. A group of Tantrasans had gathered around the tower, and the crowd was suddenly silent as the heroes stepped outside.

  Midnight smiled when she saw the people gathered around, safe from the destruction that had savaged the northern shoreline, but when she looked closer and saw the awe in their faces, she shuddered. Their expressions were composed of the same look of fear mixed with adoration that the mage had seen on the faces of those who’d given their lives for Torm.

  Softly, she asked Adon and Kelemvor to give her a moment alone with the old sage. As soon as her friends had walked away, Midnight turned to Elminster and asked, “What do you know about my powers?”

  “I have suspected many things since the first day ye arrived at my doorstep in Shadowdale. As for the true nature of your talents or what grand schemes ye may use them to pursue, I cannot help ye.” Elminster paused and smiled. “Mystra has blessed ye, I think. Perhaps the Council of Wizards in Waterdeep may be willing to hear your tale and offe
r some guidance. I could put in a word for ye, if ye like …”

  Midnight sighed and shook her head. “Why do you feel it necessary to taunt and tantalize and drive us to fits of near-insanity just to get us to follow your suggestions, Elminster?” the raven-haired mage asked. “If the second Tablet of Fate is in Waterdeep, then we’ll go to Waterdeep. Just tell me the truth: Do you know where in Waterdeep the tablet has been hidden?”

  The sage shook his head. “Sadly, I do not.”

  “That will make the task difficult,” Midnight noted sadly. “But probably no more so than finding the first of the pair.” The mage hefted the bag containing the tablet and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Aye,” Elminster laughed. “Difficult, but not impossible.” He turned away from the mage and looked out over the city. “But we can discuss this later. There are more pressing matters that call for our attention at the moment.”

  Elminster pointed to the refugees that had been wounded by the meteor earlier. Kelemvor and Adon were already moving through the ranks of the injured, trying to give whatever aid they could. Midnight smiled as she watched her lover and the scarred cleric.

  After a moment, the raven-haired mage looked up at the sky. The vortex was gone, and sunlight streamed through the amber shield that still hung over the city. Midnight gasped slightly when she noticed that the position of the sun was changing. The sky was actually getting dark. By eveningfeast, the eternal light that had graced Tantras since the time of Arrival would only be a memory. They’ll be better off without it, Midnight decided and walked with Elminster toward the refugees.

  The death of Torm and Bane had forged a crater at the northern end of Tantras, where the citadel and the Temple of Torm once stood. The rocky shore of the Dragon Reach north of the city was now as slick as glass, and a large section of the cliff leading down to the shore had been vaporized in the blast. Strands of amber, red, black, blue, and silver were woven in beautiful designs in the rocks of the glassy shore and blasted cliffs. Fragments of the shattered avatars lay in the surf at the edge of the glass beach.

  In the hours after the shield had finally faded and disappeared, Midnight and Elminster journeyed to the ruins caused by the gods’ battle. But as they approached the crater, a sudden fatigue overwhelmed the raven-haired mage and she fell to her knees. “Elminster,” she cried. The world seemed to spin for an instant, then Midnight dropped to the ground, unconscious. The white-haired sage was feeling a strange weakness, too. He called out to a young man with short-cropped red hair who was prowling through the wreckage of Torm’s temple.

  “Ye there!” The sage cried and gestured for the man to come closer. “Help me carry the woman.”

  The young man seemed ill-at-ease, but he did as the sage requested. Elminster and the red-haired man carried Midnight back to the edge of the ruins. They gently put her down upon a patch of bare ground. The young man stood staring at the raven-haired woman. “Off with ye now!” Elminster snapped. “Thank ye for thy help, but I’ll take care of her from here.”

  “What?” the young man asked. “You’re not going to pay me for my help?”

  The sage grumbled, flipped a gold piece at the red-haired man, then turned back to Midnight. When the young man had moved on, Elminster stroked his beard for a moment and considered the situation. “Something is amiss here,” he muttered and took out his pipe.

  In a few minutes, Midnight awoke to the smell of the old sage’s pipeweed. She coughed twice, then sputtered, “What happened?”

  “I believe the area is magic dead,” Elminster pronounced. “Nothing magical, not even wizards, can enter it.”

  “But how is that possible?” Midnight asked as she sat up. “I thought the weave touched every part of the Realms.”

  Elminster sighed and put out his pipe. “Once, perhaps,” he said, then helped Midnight to her feet. “Not since Arrival, though. The death of the gods here may have torn a hole in the weave. Perhaps the magical chaos is unraveling the weave itself.”

  “Are there more of these magic dead areas in the Realms?” Midnight asked as they walked back to their horses.

  “Aye,” the old sage said. “In places, they’re much larger than this.”

  Before she mounted her horse, Midnight looked back to the ruins, a look of fear in her eyes. “Can the weave be repaired?” she whispered.

  Elminster looked away and didn’t answer her.

  Twenty minutes later, Midnight and the white-bearded sage reached the harbor. Kelemvor and Adon were waiting on the pier where the fighter had first met Alprin, as they had planned earlier in the day. The cleric and the fighter had spent the last few days helping the Tantrasan military to restore order in the city. They served on patrols to stop looting. They helped to move the wounded to the makeshift hospitals set up around the city. They even worked at rebuilding a few important shops so commerce could pick up again.

  Now, when the fighter saw his lover, he took her in his arms. They held the embrace until Elminster cleared his throat noisily.

  The old sage turned to Midnight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “As much as I enjoy our little chats, I’m afraid I must depart. Urgent matters require my attention elsewhere. I will see ye all again soon, in Waterdeep.”

  “Wait!” Midnight cried as the old sage turned away. “You can’t just go!”

  “Oh?” Elminster asked, not stopping to face the heroes. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re sending us into danger. You should be there to help!” Kelemvor yelled. Elminster stopped and turned around.

  “Ye should understand that the mission ye are going on is vital for the survival of Faerun, but it isn’t the only important thing that needs doing!” Elminster snapped. “I’m needed elsewhere now, but ye’ll see me again in Waterdeep.”

  Without another word, Elminster walked back toward the city. No one tried to stop him.

  Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon stood silently looking at the ship on which they were to leave Tantras. After a moment, Midnight smiled and said, “We’ve done pretty well so far, considering what we’re up against. I’m almost looking forward to going to Waterdeep.”

  Adon, his clothes cleaner than they had been in a long time, turned to face the Dragon Reach and frowned. “I wonder if Cyric was on one of those Zhentish ships that got destroyed.”

  Midnight shook her head. “He’s still alive. I just know he is.”

  “He won’t be for long, though,” Kelemvor growled. “Not when I get my hands on him.” The fighter put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  A cloud of anger crossed Midnight’s face. “You should give him a chance to explain—”

  “No!” Kelemvor snapped, turning his back on the raven-haired woman. “You can’t make me believe that Cyric was acting against his will at the Dark Harvest. You didn’t see the look of surprise on his face when he saw that I’d survived his trap. You didn’t see the smile on his lips when he saw my wounds.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Midnight said coldly. “You don’t know Cyric.”

  “I know that animal better than you do,” Kelemvor growled. He turned around, his green eyes flaring with rage. “You may have been taken in by Cyric’s lies, but I learned long ago never to believe him. The next time we meet, one of us won’t walk away.”

  Adon nodded. “Kel’s right, Midnight. Cyric is a threat to all of us, to all of Faerun. Do you remember how he acted on the Ashaba? Can you imagine what would happen if he got his hands on the Tablets of Fate?”

  Midnight turned away from Kelemvor and Adon and walked toward the ship they had booked passage on. She clutched the pack containing her spellbook and the Tablet of Fate tightly as she climbed aboard.

  Kelemvor cursed loudly and stormed to the ship behind the mage. “Hurry up, Adon,” he grumbled. “Our mage has decided it’s time to go.”

  Adon took one last look back at Tantras and thought of Torm’s words to him in the temple’s garden. The scarred cleric smiled. Yes, he thought, my duty is clear. My friends need me
. Adon paused for a moment and straightened his hair, then joined Midnight and Kelemvor aboard the ship.

  In the shadows of a warehouse near the pier, the young red-haired man who had helped Elminster earlier watched as the heroes departed. As soon as Adon had climbed aboard the ship, he ran for a small boat that bore a sign declaring it off duty. The red-haired man tore the sign from the boat, threw it into the water, and kicked the brawny man who lay asleep in the bow.

  “I was beginning to think you would never show,” the boatman rumbled, rubbing the wart on his bulbous nose.

  “You’re not being paid to think. Just get this heap of rotting wood moving,” the young man spat. “You know where to go.” He climbed into the boat, and the brawny man pulled out a set of oars and started to row.

  The small boat soon left the harbor and made its way along the shore south of Tantras. A night-black trireme stood in a small cove a few miles away. The red-haired man signaled the ship as he got close, then climbed aboard.

  The captain of the Argent was waiting to greet him.

  “Sabinus,” Cyric said happily as he helped the red-haired man climb aboard. “What have you to report?”

  The smuggler told all that he had heard and described the ship in which the heroes were leaving Tantras. The young man laughed as he showed Cyric the gold coin Elminster had given him.

  Cyric smiled. “You’ve done well. You’ll most certainly be rewarded.”

  “Tantras is no longer safe for me,” the red-haired man told the thief. “You promised me passage to a place far from here.”

  “And I will deliver on my promise,” Cyric said casually, putting his arm around the smuggler’s shoulder. “I always do.”

  Sabinus never heard Cyric’s dagger leave its sheath, but the smuggler felt the biting pain as the blade bit into his neck. He stumbled. The thief stabbed Sabinus again and pushed him over the railing. The red-haired man was dead before he hit the water.

  Cyric looked down at the body. “Nothing personal,” he muttered. “But I have no further need of your services.”