Tantras

XV

In a darkened chamber, surrounded by a dozen of his most faithful worshipers and high priests, Lord Myrkul stared at the five-tiered stage that had been set for his performance. Emerald and black marble slabs floating in midair formed a stairway, one step for each of the five ceremonies the Lord of Bones had to perform to kill all the assassins in Faerun and grant Bane the power of their stolen souls.

From somewhere nearby, the God of the Dead heard the tortured screams of souls crying for release. Myrkul shuddered as he listened to the cries and thought of his lost home, his Castle of Bones in Hades. And even though the sounds Myrkul now heard were made by unfaithful worshipers who were receiving punishment and were nowhere near as horrifying as the screeches of those confined to his realm, the Lord of Bones enjoyed them nonetheless.

"Priests, attend me," Myrkul said as he pushed the memories of his home out of his mind, raised his bony arms, and walked to the first platform. Robed men bearing sharp-ended scepters made of bones approached and placed their offerings in the fallen god's hands. The robed men then knelt before Myrkul, raising their chins and baring their necks.

The fallen god started to chant in a hollow, rasping voice. In moments he was joined by the robed men at his feet. As their deep voices reached a crescendo, Myrkul used the scepters to tear open the men's throats one by one. The corpses fell backward onto the floor, their mouths hanging open in wordless protest at the unexpected agony of their final moments.

Far from Myrkul's hidden chambers, Lord Bane waited in a large abandoned warehouse in the port of Scardale. Tarana Lyr stood behind the God of Strife, and Cyric stood nearby, with five members of the Scorpions, Bane's new personal guard. Slater stood at the hawk-nosed thief's side, and Eccles remained close, staring wild-eyed at the fallen god. All of the Scorpions were heavily armed.

At the center of the warehouse, the faceless obsidian statue stood, for all the world, like a child's toy. A complex series of runes covered the floor around the figurine. The strange, mystical markings wound outward from the statue to fill the entire warehouse.

"Come, Myrkul, I don't have all the time in the world," Bane muttered, and a shadow passed across an open window. The Black Lord looked at the statue in anticipation just as a column of swirling green and amber light burst through the ceiling and engulfed the obsidian representation.

"Finally!" Bane cried, raising his fists into the air. "Now I will have true power…"

At that moment, far from Scardale, at the base of the mountains to the west of Suzail, a council of twelve men sat at a long rectangular table that had once been the dining table of the former lord of Castle Dembling. Now, Lord Dembling and his family were dead, murdered by the Fire Knives, a clandestine group of assassins who had sworn to kill King Azoun IV of Cormyr and had seized the small castle near his kingdom as their new base of operations.

The leader of the meeting, a dark-eyed, pug-nosed man named Roderick Tem, was tired of the small-minded bickering that had disrupted all of his attempts to organize his band of assassins into a productive company.

"Fellow assassins, this argument is getting us nowhere," Tem proclaimed, slamming the handle of his knife on the table to get his comrades' attention.

Before he could say anything else, Tem's eyes widened and his body stiffened. A green and amber light exploded from the pug-nosed man's chest and snaked around the room like a burst of lightning. In just a few seconds, the mystical fire from Tem's chest had pierced the hearts of each his friends. All the assassins fell over, dead.

Stalking the back alleys of Urmlaspyr, a city in Sembia, Samirson Yarth caught sight of his prey and drew his dagger. Yarth was a hired killer with an impressive record. Not one of his intended victims had ever escaped his blade. Yarth had even taken enough lives to personally warrant the attention of his deity, Lord Bhaal, on more than one occasion.

On this particular day the assassin was enjoying the hunt. His prey was a circus performer suspected of seducing the wife of a high-ranking city official. The purchaser of Yarth's talents, a seemingly mild little man named Smeds, had offered twice the assassin's normal fee if he could bring the performer's heart to him while it was still warm.

As Yarth watched, his victim leaped through the open window of a countinghouse. The assassin followed the young man into the semidarkness. There, he found his victim and saw the fear in his prey's eyes as the performer realized that he'd been cornered. Yarth raised his weapon.

Suddenly a blinding, green and amber light tore through the assassin's chest, and the killer's blade struck the ground a few feet from his intended victim. Samirson Yarth had failed to complete his first contract.

Far across the Realms, in the city of Waterdeep, Bhaal, the inhuman Lord of Murder, was visited by a sensation unlike any he had ever known. An incredible feeling of loss settled upon the God of Assassins, and for a brief instant he actually knew fear. Running from his chambers, the fallen god found Dileen Shurlef, an assassin who served as his faithful servant. Just as Bhaal opened his twisted, bestial mouth to speak, a green and amber flash filled the hallway. Shurlef gasped and cried out as if his soul was being torn from him. With a mind-numbing certainty, Bhaal realized that was exactly what was happening.

At the warehouse in Scardale, the obsidian avatar had grown to a height of over fifty feet, and the expansion of the magical statue showed no signs of slowing down. A large, steady stream of green and amber light poured into the warehouse and filled the black figurine.

Bane stared at the form of what would soon be his new avatar as if he were in a trance. "Myrkul is preparing to step upon the final tier," the Black Lord whispered to Tarana. The sorceress backed away and gestured for the Scorpions to do the same.

Beside Cyric, Slater cursed her hands for shaking. "Lord Bane is in communion with Myrkul," Cyric whispered. "This is exactly what he said would happen."

Before the Scorpions, the God of Strife opened his arms, and a tongue of green and amber fire swirled around him. "After I depart this avatar, its flesh will be weak, its mind disoriented. Tarana, you will stay behind to safeguard Fzoul and protect my interests in Scardale."

"I would give my life — ," Tarana started to cry.

"I know," Bane murmured, holding up his hand to stop the madwoman's oaths of loyalty. "And one day you shall. Take comfort in that, for now I leave you."

A reddish black cloud burst from Fzoul's mouth and shot toward the obsidian avatar, trailing a line of green and amber flame. The red-haired priest moaned softly and fell backward into Tarana's arms. The essence of the God of Strife entered the huge statue and an incredible scream burst forth. The cry echoed across all of Scardale and nearly deafened those who stood in the warehouse.

The statue's arms slowly raised and Bane's new avatar clutched the sides of its head and continued to wail, though it still had no mouth. Sharp spikes, similar to those on Durrock's armor, burst from the arms, chest, legs, and head of the obsidian avatar. Finally the swirling mists stopped flowing into the room, and the roiling colors inside the statue changed from amber and green to reddish black.

An evil, leering mouth and a pair of glowing red eves appeared on the statue's face. Bane stopped screaming and looked down at his hands.

"Hollow," he said in a voice that was unmistakably that of a god. "My world is hollow. My body…"

On the ground, Cyric stared up at the God of Strife in disbelief, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. To have such power! the hawk-nosed thief thought. No matter the price, one day I will strive with beings like Bane.

Suddenly the Black Lord began to laugh. A frightening, cavernous roar filled the warehouse. "I am a god. At last, I am once again a god!"

The huge, obsidian avatar of the God of Strife rushed forward, bursting through the front wall of the warehouse as if it were tearing at frail paper. The Scorpions, save for Cyric, helped Tarana carry Fzoul away from the warehouse before the roof collapsed.

The Zhentilar made it to the street just in time to see Bane reach the edge of the port. A vague greenish amber aura enshrouded the God of Strife as he stood on the shore of the Dragon Reach and looked out toward Tantras. The fallen god was sure that nothing could stop him from regaining the Tablet of Fate.

The sudden death or disappearance of all the worshipers of Bhaal who frequented the Dark Harvest — in fact, all the assassins who lived in Tantras — troubled Tenwealth and the other members of the Council of Torm greatly. The assassins had proven themselves to be a considerable asset, despite their blasphemous alignment, and the council members, usually united, were now finding it difficult to locate men willing to rid the city of heretics for a flat fee.

The council had other troubles, too. There had been occasions recently when members had argued that Torm should be made aware of their efforts to unify the city. But as Tenwealth frequently told the council, the God of Duty had only recently taken the body of a mortal; he might not understand the unfortunate measures they had to take to convert most of the population or rid the city of unbelievers. Actually, the council members had stood united in their cause until Tenwealth had recommended that they hire assassins to deal with citizens too unreasonable to convert or leave.

Then, those council members who had failed to see the true value of Tenwealth's plans were killed, too. The high priest had ordered those murders with the same zeal he'd felt when he'd plotted the harbormaster's death, as well the demise of several dozen other intractables. And Tenwealth truly believed he was serving Lord Torm throughout all the bloodshed.

In fact, Tenwealth had just received word that some of his men had taken care of the small sect of Oghma worshipers in town when the order to appear before Lord Torm arrived. Leaving his room, the high priest walked to the audience hall with a light step and the knowledge that all he had accomplished over the years had been for the sake of his god. He knew, too, that Torm would eventually thank him for it. After all, the Tablet of Fate was safely hidden in the temple's vault, and when the city was united behind the God of Duty, the high priest planned to give the tablet to Torm. His god could then triumphantly return to the Planes, an entire city of devoted worshipers behind him.

Tenwealth smiled at that thought. But the smile left the platinum-haired man's face as he entered the private chambers of Torm and found a large group of people gathered there. When he recognized all twelve members of the council, along with many of their subordinates, Tenwealth's heart skipped a beat. The doors slammed shut behind the high priest just as he noticed a group of five old men standing in the corner, their eyes burning with anger.

The worshipers of Oghma, Tenwealth thought frantically. The followers of the God of Knowledge are alive! I've been deceived!

The rest of the room was filled with heavily armed guards. Lord Torm himself sat upon his throne, a gray stone gauntlet with its palm resting parallel to the floor. The golden lion to which the God of Duty had given life the day he spoke to Adon in the garden prowled back and forth at his feet. Tenwealth had placed the statue there himself after taking it from the abandoned Temple of Waukeen.

The lion roared, and Torm leaned forward to address his followers. "I hardly know where to begin," the God of Duty growled, his voice low and burdened with emotion. "My disappointment and my outrage cannot be measured by human standards. If I had learned of the horrors this council has committed in my name while I was still in the Planes, I would have used my power to burn this temple to its very foundations."

Tenwealth's entire body began to quake as he wondered how much Torm really knew. He felt an impulse to run, but the high priest knew that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

"For the past three days, the mortal who has served as my avatar has assisted me in a charade," Torm told the assembly of traitors and pounded the arm of his throne with his gauntleted fist. "While he has sat upon my throne, I have journeyed into the city, possessing the bodies of a few of my true worshipers and learning first-hand the state of affairs in Tantras." Torm paused and gritted his teeth. "What I discovered has sickened me to the core. There is no punishment great enough for what this council has done, but know this: you will be punished."

Tenwealth's legs gave out beneath him and he fell to his knees. The members of the council quickly mimicked his actions. The Tablet of Fate, Tenwealth thought desperately. He might not know about the tablet yet! There is still a chance to save our holy cause!

"All that we have done has been in your name," the platinum-haired high priest cried. "For your honor, Lord Torm. For your glory!"

The golden lion roared as Torm leaped from the throne. The god crossed the room in a few running steps, then grabbed Tenwealth by the throat and yanked him into the air.

"How dare you say that!" the God of Duty screamed. Holding Tenwealth with his left hand, Lord Torm raised his fist to strike the priest.

A wave of total fear washed over Tenwealth and he blurted out, "We have the Tablet of Fate, Lord Torm!"

Torm stared at the mortal for a moment, then dropped him to the floor. "How could you have the tablet?"

"It was hidden in the vault beneath the temple. On the night of Arrival, when the fireballs split the sky and the one that bore your holy essence crashed through the temple, I found it. I had no way of knowing what the object was at the time, but — "

"Then I told you the true reason the gods suddenly appeared in Faerun, and you understood the greatness and the power of the object you held," Torm said, closing his eyes. "What were your plans for the Tablet of Fate, Tenwealth? Were you going to sell it to the highest bidder? Bane and Myrkul, perhaps?"

"No! Have mercy," Tenwealth begged. "Let us prove our loyalty to you, Lord Torm. All that has happened was done in your name!"

The god shuddered and looked down at Tenwealth. The high priest lay quivering at the God of Duty's feet. "Stop saying that," Torm whispered. "You know nothing about my wishes."

The fallen god clenched his gauntleted hand into a fist, turned his back on the council, and strode to his throne. He sat down and tried to force his anger away, but couldn't stop quivering with rage. Torm had suddenly recognized the extent of the damage wrought by Tenwealth and his perverted plan. All this time, when the Realms were torn by chaos and good people suffered, the God of Duty had possessed the means to make things right, to fulfill his duty to Lord Ao. And his priests had hidden it from him, supposedly for his own good.

Torm looked out at the frightened priests and awestruck guards, and for the first time, he saw himself through their eyes. I'm just another petty tyrant to them, the God of Duty realized. I'm nothing but a very powerful despot whom they will do anything to please.

"We were going to give you the tablet when the time was right. We — ," Tenwealth wailed.

"Silence!" Torm shouted. "Where is the Tablet of Fate now?"

"In the vault," Tenwealth said softly. "I had an illusion cast over the tablet to disguise it, and mystical wards keep it safe."

The God of Duty stood up again and pointed at Tenwealth. "You and your council will be held until I decide what to do with you," Torm growled. "Guards, take — "

A wild-eyed messenger burst into the room. "Lord Torm! There are Zhentish ships on the horizon! They're heading this way!"

The priests all gasped and got off their knees. The messenger stopped moving toward the God of Duty when he saw the golden lion at his feet. "Go on," Torm said. "What else do you have to report."

The messenger swallowed hard and spoke again, never taking his eyes off the lion. "There is something else crossing the Dragon Reach, too. A night-black giant, over fifty feet tall. The goliath wears spiked armor, like one of the Black Lord's assassins!"

"Bane!" Torm yelled. The lion roared and leaped to its feet. "He's come for the Tablet of Fate!"

The fallen god was then silent for a moment, and he considered the city's dilemma. After a moment, he said, "Issue a summons to all of my faithful. I wish them to meet in the outdoor cathedral in one hour."

"We are your faithful!" Tenwealth cried and took a step toward the God of Duty.

Torm looked at his former high priest. "In one hour, each of you will have a chance to prove that." Gesturing to his guards, the god added, "Take them to the cathedral. Watch them. Then tell the soldiers to prepare to defend the harbor from the Zhentish ships. The Black Lord will be my responsibility."

The hour passed quickly for the god as he formulated his plan and waited for his faithful to gather in the temple. Soon, he was standing on a platform, looking out over a throng of priests and fighters. The Council of Torm stood near the stage, chains around their wrists and ankles.

"There is little time to waste this day," the God of Duty cried. "By now, all of you know that our city will soon face an attack by Zhentish forces. Lord Bane, God of Strife and Tyranny, conqueror of Scardale, approaches the harbor of our city in the form of a giant warrior." The fallen god paused and listened to the frightened, excited murmuring of the crowd. After a moment, he added, "I can stop Bane. But to do so, I need the power that only your belief… and your sacrifice can give to me."

The noise from the crowd grew louder, and Torm raised his gauntleted hand to silence them. "My avatar has volunteered to be the first to offer me his essence." A deep sadness filled the God of Duty's eyes. "You must follow his example, do your duty as followers of my word, if Tantras is to be saved from destruction."

With those words, Torm plunged his hands into his avatar's chest and pulled out his heart. A torrent of sky-blue energy swirled around the staggering body of Torm's avatar then engulfed not only the frail, human form, but also the golden lion that raced to protect its master. When the swirling lights faded, a golden man more than nine feet tall stood before the worshipers of Torm. His head was that of the mighty lion, and his body crackled with energy.

"Your duty calls you," Torm roared from snarling lips of his new avatar. "There will be no pain. I would not bring suffering to my faithful. You need only accept your destiny, and you will pass quietly."

In unison, a dozen worshipers cried, "Take us, Lord Torm!"

With expressions of complete bliss, the worshipers fell to the ground. From their gently parted lips, sky-blue mists flowed and rushed toward the God of Duty. Torm opened his arms and embraced the souls, which lost their individual shapes and became a large pulsating mass of light. The lion-headed avatar absorbed the energy and started to grow. Soon the cathedral was filled with corpses, and the fallen god towered over the proceedings, the golden avatar now nearly fifty feet tall. Soul energy flowed toward the avatar from all across the city as word of the god's need spread. In the temple, Tenwealth and his fellow members of the council were among those who had not yet surrendered their lives.

"So beautiful," one of the priests wept as he looked up at the golden avatar. "Yet no matter how strongly I wish to join Lord Torm, he will not accept my life!"

"We were such fools!" Tenwealth cried. "Forgive us, Lord Torm! Accept our sacrifice! Let us prove our loyalty!"

The lion-headed avatar stared down at the council members. He could feel their desire to join him and almost taste the anguish in their hearts now that they recognized the price of their failure.

Torm closed his eyes and opened his arms. Tenwealth and the rest of the Council of Torm died, and their soul energies rushed to the avatar's embrace. The God of Duty absorbed the energy, let out a deep, loud roar, and pushed through the back wall of the temple. Then the lion-headed avatar went off in search of the God of Strife.

At the bow of the Argent, a Zhentish trireme, Cyric stared at a city on the horizon. The thief had not expected to return to Tantras so quickly, but Bane's orders had been explicit. Slater and a few of the other Zhentilar whom Cyric commanded were given orders to stay behind in Scardale, but the majority of the thief's men were assigned to the Argent and ordered to follow Bane. Dalzhel, the leader of one of the contingents of Zhentilar who joined the Scorpions before Tyzack's death, had been made Cyric's lieutenant. Dressed in an ebon cloak that was pressed against his sleek body by the heavy winds, Dalzhel ran his hand over his bushy, black beard.

"You're worried when you shouldn't be," Dalzhel noted. "There should be no doubt as to our victory. Lord Bane himself leads us to Tantras."

"Of course," Cyric replied, his voice distant. Realizing that Dalzhel was staring at him, the thief assumed the posture of a confident warrior. "We will bathe in the blood of our enemies."

Dalzhel was still staring. Cyric thought for a moment then realized his mistake. "If we are forced to engage them, we will slaughter the Tantrasans. Lord Bane's orders are not to be taken lightly, no matter how badly some of us may wish to engage these dogs and drive them under our heels."

The lieutenant looked away. "Were you privy to the ceremony where Bane took his new avatar?"

"I was," Cyric replied and felt a warmth spread through his body. "It was a spectacular event to witness. It was almost inspirational."

Dalzhel nodded. "I understand that three beholders were summoned from Zhentil Keep and Lord Myrkul himself was in attendance."

"That is something of an exaggeration," Cyric noted and proceeded to tell Dalzhel all that he had witnessed.

After reaching the harbor, the obsidian juggernaut that Bane had inhabited was forced to enter the Dragon Reach from the east side of Scardale, while most of the Zhentilar fleet, four sailing ships, three galleys equipped with rams, and the Argent, left from the Ashaba port to the south. Triremes were noted for their speed and superior handling, so it wasn't surprising that the Argent quickly pulled ahead of the fleet and passed the southeast tip of Scardale in time to see Bane's mammoth avatar enter the water.

The sun had been directly above the avatar as it waded into the Dragon Reach. Brilliant white light enshrouded the unnatural creation with an aura of blinding luminescence. Despite the glare, though, Cyric could see reddish black mists swirling inside the smoky body. The obsidian giant now hummed with a throbbing tone that rose and fell in time with the movements of the crimson light within its massive chest.

During the journey, only the head, shoulders, and parts of the God of Strife's arms were visible as he waded and swam through the Dragon Reach. The waves Bane caused made it impossible for the fleet to follow closely, and so the god was always far ahead of the ships.

Now, as Cyric told Dalzhel about the birth of the obsidian avatar, the Zhentish fleet's two-day trek was almost at an end. Bane had broken away from the main body of the fleet, taking two ships with him as he prepared to enter Tantras from the north, where the temple of Torm resided. The Black Lord justified the move by claiming he was going to destroy Torm, and thereby plunge Tantras into chaos.

Cyric knew better. The Tablet of Fate was all that concerned Bane, and the thief now knew that the tablet was somewhere near the Temple of Torm.

The Argent had been ordered to take up a position at the northernmost end of Tantras's harbor, closer to the scene of Bane's imminent raid upon the Temple of Torm than any of the other ships sent to blockade the western borders of the city. The Argent's orders had been to stand ready, but take no action unless it was necessary.

Cyric, however, had plans of his own.

Elminster's lair was a filthy hovel in the low-rent district of Tantras. The heroes had spent the better part of three days hiding there from the priests of Torm. They passed the time by arguing about a plan for the retrieval of the first Tablet of Fate.

"I think we should just charge in and grab it," Kelemvor grumbled sarcastically as he stared at the sharp edge of his blade. The fighter looked up suddenly as he remembered something Adon had mentioned about the Temple of Torm. "What about the main worship room in the center of the building? The vault might be there."

Elminster stared at the ceiling, his fingers absently playing with his beard. "Ye sound much like the lummox I always took ye for, Kelemvor," the sage sighed. "The tablet must be in the diamond corridors that Torm warned Adon about and Tenwealth threatened him with."

The fighter mumbled something rude about the old mage, but Midnight spoke before Elminster had a chance to reply. "So how do we get to the tablet, then?" the raven-haired mage asked. "If we teleported or even opened a gate — "

The sage threw his hands into the air. "Far too dangerous," he snapped. "With the instability in the weave, ye might find thyself a mile beneath the earth or somewhere beyond the reach of the sky. Ye might even find thyself halfway across the Realms, in a place like Waterdeep… but then, ye'll be going there soon enough anyway."

"That's the second time you've mentioned Waterdeep in the last few days," Adon said angrily. "Why do you think we'll go there soon?"

Midnight's eyes narrowed. "Yes. You mentioned Waterdeep when we were in the market, too. Why?"

Elminster thought it over then looked at the mage. "Ye can get to the second tablet through the City of the Dead, next to Waterdeep," the old sage sighed. "I learned this from… reliable sources during my time in the Planes. But whether or not ye are worthy of the task of retrieving both tablets — "

Kelemvor punched the rickety wall that stood a few feet away from him. "No!" he cried then looked to Midnight. "We're not going to go chasing after the other tablet, too. We're getting nothing in return for this. Let the old wizard get the artifact himself."

"Still the mercenary, aren't ye, Kelemvor," Elminster snapped. "If it's a reward ye seek — "

"Don't talk to me of reward," Kelemvor shouted. "Now that my curse is gone, I can take other things into consideration — like Midnight's welfare and our future together. Besides, even if I was interested in making a pact, you'd be the last being in Faerun I'd deal with. You reneged on our last agreement."

"I was indisposed," Elminster grumbled. "If ye could have waited for me to return instead of striking a bargain with the Black Lord, perhaps I would be more impressed with thy words."

"We'll search for the other Tablet of Fate, too," Midnight said softly, then put her hand on Kelemvor's arm. "But only because it's our duty and our choice. I refuse to be a pawn any longer."

Torm's words about duty and friendship echoed in Adon's mind as he moved forward and said, "We should wait a few days before we try to retrieve the tablet. Let them think we've left the city. Then we can get the artifact in the temple and head toward Waterdeep."

"But that still doesn't settle how we're going to get the Tablet of Fate from the temple's vault… if that's where it's being kept," Kelemvor said, and the heroes started their argument all over again.

They were still debating about how to retrieve the tablet when the shouting began outside. The heroes stepped out of the small, ramshackle building and saw that the entire city had suddenly been engulfed in chaos. Worshipers of Torm, wearing pendants or patches with the god's symbol, flooded from their homes as news of the deity's summons spread.

Adon grabbed a messenger and asked what was going on. The scarred man's face was pale when he returned to the heroes to report. "It's Torm," the cleric told them, his voice quavering. "He's asking his faithful to come to the temple. He needs their help to fight Lord Bane, who's coming from Scardale even as we speak."

The heroes quickly set off toward the Temple of Torm. As they traveled through the city, they found the streets littered with bodies, though none of the corpses carried wounds of any sort. Supernatural winds ripped through the city, dragging strange, sky-blue vapors in the direction of the temple. Man-sized wraiths walked or flew toward the golden spires in the distance.

"Look there!" Kelemvor said, and pointed to a young man at the other end of the street who fell to his knees. The man was dressed in the robes of a Tormish priest, and he shouted, "For Torm's eternal glory!" before he dropped to the ground. A burst of sky-blue flame rose from his body, then took to the unnatural winds.

"We'd best gather a few mounts and hurry to the temple," Elminster suggested and pointed toward a stable. The stable boy and the owner lay in the street, dead. The heroes took four horses and set off down the twisting streets as quickly as they dared.

As they looked toward the spires of the citadel and the temple that stood beyond it, Midnight and her allies glimpsed an impossible sight. A golden-skinned giant with the head of a lion towered over the temple. The strange winds flowed toward the monster, and the sky-blue lights that had once been the soul energies of Torm's worshipers were absorbed into his body. The lion-headed giant turned from the temple and looked toward Tantras's north shore, beyond the ridge of hills and the wall that protected the city.

"It's Torm!" Elminster cried, reigning in his mount. "He's created a new avatar to use in his fight with Bane."

"We'd best get to the temple before the battle starts," Midnight told the old sage. "If Torm loses, Bane will certainly recover the tablet." The mage kicked her horse into motion again and clattered off down the street.

In minutes, Midnight, Kelemvor, Adon, and Elminster passed the citadel and dismounted before the main gates of Torm's temple. All three sets of gates lay wide open. The guards had vanished from their posts. The gatehouses were ominously empty. The silence inside the temple was frightening, too, and a dire contrast to the constant sounds of chanting and worship that Adon and Elminster had both described. And as the heroes expected, corpses lined the halls.

"They've given their lives for Torm," Adon said softly. "Just like the others we saw in the streets." The cleric shook his head and ushered the party toward Tenwealth's chamber.

"If there's a vault in the temple," the cleric noted as they walked, "there will probably be a door to it in the high priest's quarters."

But as Adon reached the door to Tenwealth's room, a guard called out from behind the heroes. "You there! Where do you think you're going?"

"Go ahead," Elminster hissed. "I'll take care of this dolt. Ye just look for the vault."

Midnight stopped to protest, but Kelemvor grabbed her and pulled her into Tenwealth's room. Adon slammed the door closed behind the fighter. "Quickly," the scarred man said. "Look for a secret door."

Midnight and her allies could hear Elminster's laughter, along with the guard's, as they searched. Then there was silence in the hallway. Midnight went to open the door, but Kelemvor pulled her back. "Just find the door," he grumbled. "Then you can worry about the old man."

"But there's no doorway here," Adon cried at last, exasperated.

"None that we can see, anyway," Kelemvor noted sourly as he sat down in front of the door to the hallway.

Midnight put down the bag containing her spellbook and looked around the sparse cell. "You're right. Why should we think Tenwealth put the door in plain sight? It's probably hidden by magic!"

The fighter stood up quickly, and the heroes circled the room, rapping on the walls. Finally, Kelemvor found a hollow section in the center of one of the walls. "I'd say there's a doorway right here."

Midnight and Adon examined the wall. The cleric frowned and shook his head, but the mage wasn't discouraged so easily. "I think a sequester spell has been used to hide the doorway," she said. "But how are we going to know for certain?"

Midnight knew that the only answer was another spell, but the thought of using magic, even a simple incantation, frightened her terribly. Ever since the Temple of Lathander, Midnight had been terrified that the next spell she cast would injure someone… or even kill one of her friends. As she turned the problem over in her mind, though, the mage remembered Mystra's final words to her at the Battle of Shadowdale.

Use the power I gave you.

Midnight sighed and hung her head. "Get as close to the door as you can. Both of you." She walked to the section of the wall Kelemvor had pointed to.

"Don't do this," the fighter pleaded. "You don't know what could happen."

"I'll never know unless I try," Midnight replied. "Besides, we didn't come all this way to give up now."

The mage recited the spell to detect magic. A blue-white pattern of energy shot from Midnight's hands and struck the wall. For a moment, nothing happened then the wall began to shudder. Shards of mystical energy exploded from the hidden doorway, cutting harmlessly through the heroes' bodies, and pure white daggers of light flashed into Midnight's right eye. As suddenly as it had started, the shower of light ended.

Midnight stood in front of the door, trembling. "I think I can see it," she gasped, wavering on her feet. "I see the door to the vault."

But the image the mage saw was strange, as if two different pictures had been placed, one over the other. If she kept both eyes open, Midnight saw this confusing blur. However, the mage's vision cleared when she closed her right eye. Then she saw things normally. She looked at the wall and saw only stone and paint.

When Midnight closed her left eye and looked only through the orb that had been struck by the daggers of light, she could see the secret door clearly. In fact, through this eye, physical objects like the floor or the wall or even her friends appeared as ghostly gray shadows. Only the magic of the sequester spell seemed distinct or tangible.

Kelemvor took a step toward his lover. "Wait for Elminster to come back!"

"No, Kel," Adon said softly as he grabbed the fighter. "It's up to Midnight now. There's nothing we can do."

"It is a sequester spell that prevents us from seeing the door," Midnight noted, holding a hand over her left eye. Her voice was low and distant, as if she had just awoken from a dream. The mage shivered. "I think I can open it now."

The mage reached for the wall. Kelemvor and Adon saw a doorway suddenly appear in the wall, then open. Pale light flooded from the large room the heroes saw through the secret entrance.

"I see a lot of magical traps in there," Midnight noted dreamily. "Tenwealth has been very busy." The mage stepped into the vault's antechamber.

Before anyone could react, the door slammed closed behind her.

The antechamber was a small room, no more than ten feet wide and ten feet long, lit by four bright globes that hung in the corners. Midnight covered her right eye for a moment and looked around. There wasn't much for the mage to see, at least not with her left eye. The room was completely barren, save for a huge mosaic of Torm's gauntlet embedded in the north wall and a large diamond-shaped trap door in the center of the floor.

When Midnight looked out into the room with her right eye, though, she saw a vast web of spells hanging over the trap door and snaking around the room. The spells hung like strands of silk from the ceiling and walls, intertwined and pulsing. The mage followed the weave and pattern of a few of the simpler spells, for the wards all seemed to have slightly varying colors, and she easily identified a few of them.

Tenwealth had ordered a number of spells to be placed on the door to protect whatever was hidden there from thieves. One ward raised an alarm if the door was opened. Another caused a cloud of fog to appear, which would blanket the room and obscure vision. A third spell was meant to keep the trap door magically locked. But when Midnight looked at the wizard lock spell through her right eye, she smiled. Written in the weave of the magic was Tenwealth's password.

She followed the pattern of the wizard lock spell for a moment, just to make sure that it wasn't backed up by another spell. The mage then discovered that a few of the other wards, including the alarm and cloud of fog spells, had actually been linked with the wizard lock. Midnight realized that the password might disable the handful of spells that were connected to the lock — or set them all off.

And not all the wards Tenwealth had placed on the trap door were as harmless as an alarm spell. Midnight recognized the pattern of a spell meant to deafen the person who tripped it. Another set off a fire trap, causing a burst of flame to shoot from the door. Worst of all, there was a feeblemind spell attached to the lock. If this was set off, it could wipe a spellcaster's mind clear, lowering his or her intelligence to that of a moronic child until another powerful spell was cast to heal the wizard's mind.

The secret door from Tenwealth's chamber opened again, and Elminster poked his white-bearded head into the antechamber. "What do ye think ye're doing? I said ye should find the door, not open it!"

As the old sage started to step into the room, Midnight saw the weave of a few of the spells tighten. "No," the raven-haired mage cried. "Elminster, don't come in here. You'll set off Tenwealth's traps!"

Elminster froze and looked around the room. "What traps? I don't see any traps!" he sputtered.

"They're magical wards. I can see them hanging over the trap door," Midnight said without taking her eyes off the web of spells. "Somehow, I can see the spells themselves."

Elminster arched a bushy eyebrow and ran a hand slowly through his long, white beard. "Ye can see the spells, ye say? Can ye dispel them?"

Midnight swallowed hard. "I don't know," she said softly. "But I'm going to try." The mage paused for a moment then added, "And I think you should wait in Tenwealth's chamber, with the door closed. If something happens and a spell… misfires, Kelemvor and Adon will need your help to get the tablets."

"Can't we do something?" Kelemvor cried from the priest's room.

Midnight heard Elminster sigh. "She's right," the old sage said solemnly. "There's nothing for us to do but wait."

Kelemvor was cursing, and Midnight could picture him stomping around Tenwealth's room. Adon, on the other hand, stood quietly by the door. "Good luck," the scarred cleric said softly. Then Elminster backed away from the secret door and Midnight heard it close.

My luck's been pretty good with magic so far, the mage sighed to herself. None of the spells I've cast since magic became unstable have backfired too badly. I haven't accidentally tossed a lightning bolt at a friend or lost an arm because of a spell misfiring. Not yet, anyway.

The raven-haired mage took a deep breath and spoke the words that Tenwealth had set to disarm the wizard lock. "Duty above all."

The web of spells tightened and quivered. The golden weave of the wizard lock spell glowed brightly for an instant, then the spell was gone. Most of the other wards disappeared, too. After the strands had stopped flaring and vanishing, two spells still hung over the entrance to the vault.

The remaining spells were incomplete, filled with gaps where other wards had been linked to them. Though the mage couldn't identify one of the patterns, she did recognize the tendonous black strands that wove around the room. They were parts of the feeblemind spell she had seen earlier.

After closing both her eyes and concentrating for a moment, Midnight called the incantation to dispel magic into her mind. The mage knew that Tenwealth had probably paid a powerful wizard to cast the wards on the vault, so she should have little hope of dispelling the magic. Still, she said a silent prayer to Lady Mystra — though she knew the Goddess of Magic couldn't hear the plea — and cast her spell.

The green web that comprised the spell Midnight couldn't identify vanished instantly. However, the black coils of the feeblemind spell quickly curled around the mage. "No!" she screamed, and in desperation repeated the incantation again. A flash of blue-white light filled the room. The feeblemind spell was gone.

Midnight opened the diamond-shaped trap door. A set of iron handholds led down into a small chamber lit by two more magical globes. The mage entered the vault and found herself surrounded by much of the wealth of Tantras's temples. Gold and platinum plates, silver candlesticks, and finely wrought icons were piled in crates. A priceless tapestry depicting the Goddess of Trade was stuffed against a wall. And somewhere in the cramped little room lay the Tablet of Fate Bane had hidden in the days before the gods were cast from the Planes.

Midnight knew that the tablet could be disguised as anything, but the illusion cast over the artifact would be visible to her enhanced vision. The mage quickly held a hand over her left eye and scanned the room. A bright red light leaked from a small box in the corner, and Midnight rushed to open it. She quickly pulled the cover from the long steel case. For an instant, Midnight saw the illusion Tenwealth had chosen for the tablet — that of a large, mailed fist — then the intensity of the light that burst from the box blinded her. She stumbled backward a few steps.

In a moment, the raven-haired mage's vision cleared. Her right eye had returned to normal, and she could no longer see the glow of magic. The world appeared as it always had. The mage looked in the box, and the Tablet of Fate lay before her.

She picked up the artifact and saw that it matched the vision Mystra had given her before the goddess's death. The stone tablet was less than two feet long, with sparkling runes carved into its surface. Holding the artifact with one hand, Midnight turned and carefully climbed the iron handholds into the antechamber.

Kelemvor looked up the instant Midnight passed through the secret door. The fighter raced to her side, and Midnight held the artifact out to him. "That's not a tablet," the fighter cried. "You've got the wrong thing!"

Midnight sat down on the rough mattress in Tenwealth's chamber. The absurdity of the fighter's remarks finally struck the mage and she started to laugh. "It's an illusion," she coughed between bursts of laughter. "Just disbelieve the illusion and you'll see the tablet as it really is."

Adon and Elminster had moved to Midnight's side, too, and the heroes stood for a moment, staring at the Tablet of Fate. Midnight stopped chuckling, and Kelemvor and Adon helped her to her feet. She slid the tablet into the canvas sack that held her spellbook.

Kelemvor hugged the mage, a wide grin upon his face. "Now we can leave this place before anything else happens!"

Elminster frowned and shook his head. "Ye still have things to do here before ye can be off to Waterdeep. Do ye happen to recall what happened when Helm and Mystra battled on the Celestial Stairway outside Castle Kilgrave?"

"None of us could ever forget," Midnight answered, slinging the sack containing her spellbook and the Tablet of Fate over her shoulder. "The devastation went on for miles in every direction."

Adon nodded slowly. "And if one of the gods manages to slay the other…"

"Tantras will be destroyed," Kelemvor concluded.

Midnight turned to the sage. "There might be a way to save the city even if Torm and Bane destroy each other. The Bell of Aylen Attricus. They say the bell was only rung once — "

"I know," Elminster snapped, a sly grin crossing his lips. "Legend has it that the bell has the power to throw a shield over the city, protecting it from harm." He turned and raced from the room. "We must go there at once!"

The heroes raced after Elminster and they only caught him when he had stopped outside the temple. "But the bell is at the top of the southern hill of Tantras," Midnight panted. "That's an hour's ride from here, provided we push our mounts to the point of exhaustion. The avatars will be at each other's throats long before we get there."

Elminster stood away from the heroes and began to gesture. "If we ride."

The sage cast his spell so quickly that the heroes didn't have time to object. An intricate blue-white shield of light formed in the air and engulfed all four of them. Kelemvor was seized by a fierce panic when he saw the mage cast a spell, and a fear that Elminster might try to teleport them to the bell tower grabbed Adon. But the old sage finished his incantation, and the heroes found that they still stood in front of the Temple of Torm.

"Are ye ready?" the sage asked. The heroes looked at one another in confusion. The sage frowned. "Take their hands, Midnight."

The raven-haired mage did as Elminster asked. Kelemvor started to protest, but he swallowed his words as the white-haired sage grabbed Midnight's hand and the heroes all rose from the ground. In a few seconds, they were high above the city.

"I just hope this spell doesn't fail halfway to the tower!" Adon cried.

Elminster pointed to the west. The golden, lion-headed avatar of Torm stood ominously still, towering over the city wall, waiting for the black-armored avatar of the God of Strife to leave the Dragon Reach. "It's worth the risk," the old sage said grimly. "The gods'll not wait for us to trek to the tower on foot."