Tantras

II

The mystical wards that Elminster had placed throughout the Twisted Tower had begun to fail the night the Temple of Lathander was destroyed. The passageways within the tower that were cloaked to appear as part of the walls sometimes revealed themselves as open doorways, and during the first day after the Battle of Shadowdale, people passed through them without incident. By that night, however, an unwitting guardsman walked into one of the openings and was killed as the break in the wall sealed up by itself, trapping him within.

Outside the tower, the torches lit by blue-white eldritch fires either smoldered dimly or blazed with a light that blinded any who dared to look directly at them. Any attempts to remove the torches met with failure, since mortal hands merely passed through the torches as if they weren't there.

The mists that engulfed the upper levels of the tower were meant to stop any prying mystical eyes, but their nature had changed, too. Now the mists swirling around the tower caused a continuous, ear-piercing shriek. The shutters in the upper levels had been closed and heavily boarded over in an attempt to block out the noise.

Dressed completely in black, Cyric ignored the shriek as he stood in the trees at the far end of the tower's stables. Though it was night, the thief could see the guard who stood before the northeast entrance to the tower, near the kitchen. During his last night in Mourngrym's home, on the day Midnight and Adon had been arrested, Cyric had made a detailed study of the tower's defenses. Plying a disgruntled guardsman with gold and liquor, the thief had learned all he needed about the tower's secrets to formulate his plan.

A half dozen guards were always posted at the main entrance, while other soldiers patrolled the tower's perimeter. Security at the Ashaba bridge stations had been relaxed, since most of the bridge's length lay in ruins at the bottom of the river. The guard Cyric had bribed stood alone on the west bank of the river, but when the time came, he would be at the northernmost end of the bridge, investigating a "minor disturbance" that Cyric left to the guard's imagination.

The only other guards who had been posted near the boathouse were inside the tower, looking out from time to time through spy holes to verify that the quiet of the night held no hidden dangers. The workmen who sometimes prowled the boatyard long into the night had been ordered home to their families, so that they might be properly rested when they attended the execution of Elminster's murderers in the morning.

Inside the tower, a large number of Mourngrym's men had been assigned that night to the upper levels, to guard their liege. The magical wards that normally protected the dalelord were unstable. Worse still, the trial had raised concern about the whereabouts of Lord Bane, and Mourngrym was troubled over the welfare of his wife and child should the Black Lord seek revenge against him.

Cyric was certain that the lower levels of the tower, where Midnight and Adon were being held until their execution the next morning, would be occupied by quite a few guards, too. But Cyric was prepared to assault the Twisted Tower. He was armed with a pair of daggers, a hand axe, several lengths of blackened rope, a small black cylinder, and the skills that only training by the Thieves' Guild in Zhentil Keep could foster.

The light from the torches lining the tower wall suddenly flared intensely, and a series of brilliant flashes lit the streets. A string of curses erupted from a guardsman. His back pressed against the trunk of nearby tree, Cyric forced his breath slowly from his lungs as he waited for the lights to flicker and fail. He had been in full view of the rear guard when the torches flared.

The guard, a young blond man who reminded Cyric of Adon, rubbed his eyes. Silently hurrying for the cover of the stables, Cyric glimpsed a pair of eyes in the stable and tensed, but he did not break his stride. He sighed with relief when the huge whites of the eyes merely revealed a pony that had wandered to the doorway.

"Here, now!" a deep, age-withered voice called. "You come back here!"

The pony pranced closer to the stable door, and the footsteps of the stablemaster sounded inside the building. Cyric unsheathed one of his daggers, angled to his left, and doubled up into a crouch, ready to spring at the man and silence him before he could raise an alarm. Another voice cried out abruptly as the guard from the rear entrance turned the corner.

"Manxtrum! You've got a runaway, it seems," the guard shouted. "Better get a tighter rein on your charges!"

The man from the stables walked past the pony and stood at the doorway, oblivious to the dark figure who crouched in the shadows a few yards to his right. Cyric was not facing the guard, and the thief couldn't tell if he'd been spotted. He didn't dare to turn around, but since no one had cried out yet, he assumed neither the guard nor the stablemaster had seen him.

"Ah, this little beauty is the one Mourngrym promised to your daughter last week," Manxtrum said. "Care to come over and take a look?" Cyric gripped his dagger more tightly.

"Can't now," the guard said. "Perhaps after my shift."

"Decent folk will be asleep!" Manxtrum said, waving his finger at the guard like an angry parent.

"Then you should be wide awake," the guard called, laughing at his own joke, then suddenly bursting into a coughing fit.

Manxtrum shook his head and led the pony back into the stable. Counting to twenty, Cyric slowly looked over his shoulder and saw the guard cough again. The man's back was to him. Cyric shifted position slightly and, with a deft flick of the wrist, hurled his dagger.

The blond guard's arms jerked backward as the blade pierced his neck. He went down, falling backward with a gurgling, strangled cry that was cut short when he landed.

Cyric waited for any sign that the guard's cry had been heard. After a moment, the thief scrambled to the servants' entrance to the tower, near where the dead man lay.

Took care of that nasty cough, now, didn't we? Cyric thought grimly as he turned the corpse over to pull his blade from its throat. The thief grabbed a plank left over from some work on the shutters and placed it next to the guard. Uncoiling three lengths of rope from his waist, Cyric laid them out horizontally, then placed the wood plank over the center of the ropes. The thief rolled the corpse onto the plank, tying the ropes around his thighs, waist, and chest, then propped the dead man up in his usual station, visible from within the shadowy confines of the tower as well as the stables. His head hung limply upon the man's chest, concealing the bloodied throat.

Cyric entered the alcove that housed the servants' door. When he looked back toward the stables, the thief saw that the light from within the building revealed no sign that his actions had been detected. He then looked up to check where he had removed the large stone block in the alcove's ceiling several hours earlier. It had not been sealed up. Cyric silently climbed up the wall into the indentation, took a breath, then, reaching down with one leg, gave the wooden door a kick.

Moments later, he heard a muffled voice call from the other side of the door. "Segert?"

Cyric frowned, lowered his leg once more, and kicked the door once again, this time adding an exaggerated cough. Drawing back up into the indentation in the ceiling, Cyric watched as the door opened and a short man with a gray mustache stepped out into the alcove.

"Segert?" the guard asked as he moved toward the still figure that leaned against the wall just outside the alcove. Muscles straining, Cyric prepared to drop on the guard, but froze when he heard a second guard approach from inside the tower.

"Trouble, Marcreg?" the second guard asked, his voice high and trembling. Cyric could barely see the younger guard's face in the doorway.

"Guess not," the guard with the gray mustache snapped impatiently. "Better get back to your post. We'll continue your training later."

"Aye, sir," the other guard said and hurried away.

Marcreg shook his head and stepped forward. "Now, what's your problem, Segert? There'll be no sick leave until after the prisoners are executed. I told you that — "

Cyric relaxed the pressure on his braced legs and allowed his body to fall. The thief landed with his legs around the neck of the gray-mustached guard and twisted hard until he heard the sound of cracking bones. Marcreg fell into the door, nearly slamming it closed. In a moment of blind panic, Cyric let go of the guard and jammed his foot in the upper corner of the door. Suppressing a cry of pain as the heavy door pressed against his foot, Cyric wriggled out of his boot and landed beside the corpse.

Cyric dragged Marcreg's body away from the door, then slid his boot to the bottom of the doorjamb. The thief unraveled his last section of rope, set it aside, and arranged Marcreg's body like that of the other guard. After propping up the corpse outside the door, Cyric entered the tower.

The service hallway stretched in both directions, following the curvature of the tower. Cyric knew that he would have to search out the guard who had spoken to Marcreg. The younger man wouldn't wait for his tutor forever. When the older man didn't return, he would certainly raise the alarm.

There was a clanging of metal bowls and a whispered curse from off to Cyric's right. The thief followed the noise to the delivery entrance to the kitchen. A sign had been tacked up above the open doorway, marking it as a portal safe from magical chaos. Cautiously he peered around the corner. Inside the kitchen, the young guard stood in semi-darkness. The dull orange glow of a lantern revealed the furtive motions of the guardsman as he gorged himself on a rare delicacy, a chilled bowl of chocolate covered with cherries and cream. He had his back to the door.

Drawing a dagger, Cyric advanced on the guard. This is too easy, the thief thought. He noticed, a moment too late, that the young man was gazing at the flickering shadows on the shiny metal surface of the bowl.

The cold metal bowl flashed in the dim light as the guard whirled and hurled it. It struck Cyric full in the face, but the thief managed to catch the bowl before it could clatter to the floor. Cyric's blade flew by his head as the young guard turned to run. The dagger missed completely, thudding dully into the wall beyond.

Drawing his hand axe, Cyric leaped upon the guard, slashing with the axe and driving his knee hard into the man's back. Cyric grinned as he heard the crack of breaking bone. The guard's legs twitched for a few seconds, then were still.

Rising from the dead man, Cyric glanced around for any signs that a disturbance had taken place. After straightening a few stools and clearing away the spilled chocolate, Cyric dragged the guard's body down a flight of stairs to the food storage cellar. Then the thief took the lantern and went back up into the hallway.

Following the layout of the tower from memory, Cyric skirted the north wall, passed through a series of interlocking chambers, and emerged near the southwest hallway, leading to the boathouse. The information Cyric had been provided was accurate so far. Only one guard was stationed at the far end of the hallway. However, Cyric was trapped in a single moment of indecision as he stared at the nearly seven-foot-tall guard. It was Forester, a man who had served under him at the Ashaba bridge.

Forester turned sharply, then relaxed as he saw Cyric emerge from the shadows.

"I've been sent to relieve you," Cyric said, smiling. "You're needed on the upper floors."

"But I just got here," Forester said as he approached Cyric. "Where have you been all day? I sent word for you to meet me at the Old Skull — "

Forester didn't even scream when Cyric's dagger pierced his heart.

Just according to plan, Cyric thought as he dragged the body through the hallway. The thief had to remind himself that the battle was only two days ago. It might as well have occurred in another lifetime.

Once Forester's body was safely hidden away, Cyric returned and began to search for the secret entrance to the dungeon level. Following the explicit instructions of his contact, Cyric pressed the uppermost edge of the twenty-eighth wooden panel from the west door. Nothing happened.

Cyric frowned, then counted off a half dozen paces, crouched down, and located a small opening in the wall, just above the floorboards. Easing his dagger into the crevice, the thief heard the telltale clicks of some kind of mechanism working back and forth as he gently moved the hilt of the dagger. The door still didn't open.

A heavy weight seemed to fall on Cyric's shoulders, and he wondered if the guardsman who had given him the information had neglected to mention that both means of entry had to be performed simultaneously. Cyric drew another dagger, counted off the floor panels once again, then threw the blade at the upper edge of the wood panel as he yanked the floor release back.

The hilt of the dagger struck the panel. There was a slight hiss as the door opened and cold air escaped into the hallway. Cyric retrieved his second dagger and moved toward the darkened passageway, holding the blade out before him.

According to Cyric's informant, the long, winding stairway led to the rear of the dungeon, where the holding cells were located. The hidden stairway had been installed as a fail-safe, in case the main entrance to the dungeon was ever blocked or overrun. A single guardsman, if he was unable to reach the alarm gongs, could quickly reach the ground level by the stairs to get help.

Cyric descended the stairway until he came to the landing and a second door. The thief knew he would be spotted the moment he opened the door and stepped off the landing, but he was not concerned about the lone guard stationed below an alarm gong at the far end of the cells. However, the hallway took an abrupt right after that guard station and opened into a large hall, where six more men apparently were gambling. They were swearing so loudly that Cyric could already hear their voices.

Cyric withdrew a small black cylinder from the sash at his waist, then used his remaining dagger to ease the metal cap from its end. He wrapped his fingers in the sash and felt for the sharp point of the Gaeus Thorn.

Cyric's knowledgeable informant had made a pastime out of exploring the ruined hut of an alchemist and selling his finds on the black market. The Gaeus Thorn was very rare, possibly one of a kind, and Cyric smiled at the irony that Mourngrym's gold had paid for the item.

A moment passed as Cyric allowed all emotion to drain from him. He drew a deep breath, put the cylinder to his lips, and threw open the door. The guard was staring in Cyric's direction and immediately stood up to raise a cry of alarm. The thief blew hard into the barrel of his weapon and watched as a tiny dart pierced the guard's throat.

The wounded guard fell instantly into a stupor and sank down onto a stool, his head lolling back and forth. Cyric waited until the guard looked at him again, then gestured for the man to leave his post and come closer. Lifting himself from the stool with a flourish, the guard complied.

"Listen very carefully," Cyric whispered as he placed his hand on the guard's shoulder. "Lord Mourngrym has sent me to get one of the prisoners slated for execution in the morning, the dark-haired mage. He wishes to question the woman. Take me to her."

"I should inform my captain — "

"There's no time," Cyric said quickly. "Keep your voice low. You don't want to wake your other charges."

Many of the cells had been filled with mercenaries who had been hired to fill out Bane's forces in the Battle of Shadowdale, then surrendered themselves to the dalesmen when the battle was lost. Cyric heard the sound of a boot scuff the floor, and he tensed.

A pair of dirty hands protruded from the iron bars of a nearby cell, and a dark, sweaty face peered out. The prisoner laughed once, then nodded to Cyric and gestured for the thief to proceed.

"Let's go," Cyric said. The guard led him past the twenty cells that lined the corridor's north bank. An ugly stone wall on the southern side of the hallway was the only view afforded the prisoners. Finally the guard stopped before a storage room adjacent to the final cell and unlocked the door.

"Wait," Cyric said as the guard's hand reached for the heavy wooden door. "If anyone should ask, I am over six feet tall, with fiery red hair, the build of a wrestler, and a strange foreign accent."

"Of course you are," the guard murmured flatly. There wasn't a trace of emotion in his voice.

"Describe me," Cyric whispered as he gazed into the guard's face. The dalesman described the thief exactly as the hawk-nosed man had instructed. Satisfied that the effects of the dart were all that his informant had promised, Cyric gave the guard a few final commands and watched as he returned to his station.

The thief opened the door with care, fearful that the sound might alert the other guards. Cyric gazed into the confines of the black room and saw the object of his search lying on her side in the corner.

"Midnight," Cyric whispered as he entered the cell and went to work on the bonds of the dark-haired magic-user. He left the gag for last. "Keep it to a whisper," he cautioned.

As soon as the gag was removed, Midnight drew a deep breath, then looked at her fellow prisoner. The cleric sat with his knees drawn up before him, his forehead pressed against his knees to hide his face.

"Adon!" Midnight whispered. The mage rubbed her arms and legs, trying to massage some feeling back into them.

"Can you stand?" Cyric whispered as he got up and moved to the door. "We must leave quickly."

"We've got to take Adon," Midnight hissed urgently. She crawled toward the cleric.

"Your ordeal has left you confused," Cyric said. "Leave him."

Placing her hands on the cleric's shoulders, Midnight shook Adon, attempting to wake him. Shadowy, bloodshot eyes rose as Adon looked up, but the young cleric didn't seem to see his friends. He simply stared at the wall behind Midnight.

"He's useless!" Cyric hissed. "Besides, he betrayed you with his silence at the trial." The thief glanced nervously into the hallway, but no guards had noticed the open door yet.

"No!" Midnight declared, her voice cracking with pain and fear.

"Every moment we delay here increases our risk," Cyric snapped. He turned from the door, grabbed Midnight's arm, and tried to drag the magic-user to her feet.

"Get away from me," Midnight whimpered, but she was too weak to resist Cyric's less-than-gentle urgings.

"I came back for you!" Cyric hissed.

"You'll take us both, or I'll start screaming until even the gods know you're here!" Midnight warned. "He's sick. Can't you see that?" The mage ran her hand through Adon's tangled hair.

"I see only his cowardice," Cyric growled. "That and nothing more. But if his life truly matters to you, even after what he's done, I suppose I have no choice."

Midnight stumbled back as Cyric tore into Adon's bonds with an alarming fury. The tip of the thief's dagger drew a few drops of blood from Adon's wrists as Cyric hurriedly cut the last bit of rope and reached down to pull the cleric up by his filthy robes.

At the end of the corridor, the drugged guard waved stupidly as Cyric dragged Adon from the black room. Midnight stumbled along behind the thief.

Every step was a struggle for Midnight, and it became worse when they reached the darkened stairway. Cyric contemplated dropping Adon down the stairs, hoping that the cleric would break his neck in the fall. But Midnight walked close behind him, as if sensing the thief's intentions.

"Where's Kel?" Midnight gasped through sharp breaths as they struggled up the stairs.

Cyric hesitated as he decided which lie would serve his needs best. "He refused to join me. He said he 'couldn't interfere with justice.'"

"Justice!" Midnight spat out in amazement.

"I told him he was a blind fool," Cyric said, shrugging. The thief waited for a response from Midnight. When none came, he assumed the lie was enough to satisfy the mage — for now, at least.

At the top of the steps, Cyric saw the soft orange glow of torchlight from the hallway and wondered if he should warn Midnight about the dangers of the randomly solidifying doors. He decided against it and secretly hoped that the wall would reappear just as he pushed Adon through.

Shoving the cleric through the portal first, Cyric quickly hurried through the narrow passage. "Make haste," he hissed into the darkness. Midnight dragged herself through the doorway and stumbled along behind the thief.

At the end of the corridor, Cyric looked out through a series of spy holes to verify that the boatyard was still deserted. Midnight helped to support Adon as Cyric unlocked the door with the key he had taken from Forester's body.

The boatyard was quiet. Only the sounds of the gently lapping waves from the Ashaba and the conspiratorial creak of wooden boats rubbing against the dock helped to cover the plodding footsteps of the escapees as they followed Cyric. A host of blue-white torches illuminated the arched wooden ceilings of the boathouse and the vast array of craft docked nearby.

Making his way toward a twenty-foot skiff at the south end of the yard, Cyric imagined the boathouse in flames. The chaos such an event would create was exactly the distraction they needed to ensure their safe escape. With the destruction of Mourngrym's small fleet, the repairs to the Ashaba bridge would be stalled and any pursuit of the escapees would be severely restricted.

Much to Cyric's regret, however, they didn't have time for such an elaborate operation.

Cyric stood before the boat and looked around quickly. "Can you spellcast, Midnight? We might need a diversion."

Midnight shook her head from side to side. "I would need to study first, and my spellbook was left in Elminster's Tower."

Cyric was about to speak when he heard the soft padding of footsteps. Someone was leaping from boat to boat, carefully avoiding the dock where his footfalls would give him away. "What do you think of this boat?" Cyric said as he made an exaggerated motion with his right hand, hoping to draw attention away from the quicksilver motion of his left hand as he drew out one of his daggers. Suddenly the thief whirled on the intruder.

Midnight grabbed Cyric's hand before the dagger could fly. One of the torches on the tower flared, and the heroes found themselves gazing into the searing green eyes of Elminster's scribe, Lhaeo. Midnight softly breathed his name, and the brown-haired young man gracefully leaped from the bow of a nearby boat to the dock. A huge sack was slung over the scribe's shoulder, but he carried it without effort. An elegant black cloak hung rather loosely around his shoulders.

"What do you want here?" Cyric hissed, suspicion burning in his eyes. The thief held his dagger pointed toward Elminster's servant.

"I'm not about to give you away, if that's what you mean," Lhaeo whispered, then carefully set his canvas bag down on the dock. "Do you have any idea how annoyed Elminster will be if the first thing he learns upon returning home is that you've been executed for his murder?"

"But we saw Elminster die, Lhaeo," Midnight said, hanging her head. "He was drawn into that horrible rift." Adon winced slightly, but the cleric didn't speak. He just stared at the boat, slowly bobbing in the water.

Lhaeo rubbed his chin. "I don't believe it," the scribe said as he opened his sack. "Elminster's disappeared before — many times, in fact. I would know… somehow… if he were truly gone."

"If you're not going to stop us, then what do you want?" Cyric growled quietly. He continued to point his knife toward the scribe. "If you haven't noticed, we're in a bit of a hurry."

Lhaeo frowned and pushed Cyric's dagger aside as he approached Midnight. "I'm here to help you. It's the least I can do after the trial."

The scribe gestured for Midnight to look into the sack. "Your spellbook is here, along with some provisions for your journey." Lhaeo reached into the bag and withdrew a beautiful orb that glowed with an amber light. Strange runes had been wrought in the surface of the glass, and a golden base, marked with intricate designs that were covered with fine, sparkling diamond dust, had been added since the last time Midnight had seen the orb in Elminster's study.

"Do you remember this?" Lhaeo said as he held the sphere toward Midnight. A slight smile played across the scribe's face.

"Aye," Midnight said as she reached out to stroke the glowing sphere. "The globe was made to shatter if any powerful magical object comes within its range."

"This should help you find the Tablets of Fate," Lhaeo said quietly and put the globe back into the bag.

Midnight and Cyric looked shocked, but Lhaeo continued to smile. "There is little Elminster keeps hidden from me. He even told me that the first tablet is in Tantras."

"We have to go," Cyric hissed to Midnight. "You can go through your bag of gifts later." The thief grabbed Adon and moved toward the boat.

"One last thing," the scribe whispered as he removed another, smaller bag from his shoulder and handed it to the magic-user. She opened it and saw a metal vial.

"The mists of rapture," Lhaeo said. "Perfect for disabling a large group of guardsmen without causing lasting harm." Cyric pushed Adon into the boat and started to untie the skiff's moorings.

"You were going to try to rescue us yourself!" Midnight gasped. Adon looked up from the boat, and for an instant, his gaze seemed to focus on the scribe.

"Oh, perish the thought!" Lhaeo whispered and turned away with mock indignation.

Midnight grabbed Lhaeo by the shoulder and spun him around. The scribe's expression was serious, almost hard, as he gazed into the mage's eyes. "Why?" she said. "The townspeople would kill you if they found out."

Lhaeo stood up straight, and his voice deepened slightly."I could not allow you to be injured. I could not condone such a travesty of justice, milady." The scribe took Midnight's hand and kissed it. "Elminster trusted you to help him at the temple. You must be worthy of that trust."

Cyric looked up sharply. "Midnight, I might just leave you here with him to face Mourngrym if you don't hurry!"

"He's right," Lhaeo said softly. "You must go."

Midnight climbed into the boat. Lhaeo helped Cyric release the boat from its remaining moorings, and the scribe pushed the craft away from the dock. Then Lhaeo stood on the pier and waved once before disappearing into the darkness.

Cyric manned the oars at the center of the boat, his back turned to Midnight. As he rowed, the thief was forced to stare into the vacant eyes of the scarred cleric, who always seemed to avoid Cyric's angry stares. Utilizing the hand-over-hand method of rowing he had been taught during his years of traveling, Cyric started the boat moving, but, much to his surprise, not very quickly.

"What's going on here?" the thief cursed as he looked into the water. "Are we caught on something?" As he dropped his hand into the cold water of the Ashaba, Cyric realized what was wrong. The current was traveling in the wrong direction, forcing him to paddle against the flow of the river, even though they were moving downstream, away from Shadowdale.

Cyric cursed and slapped an oar against the water. A small wave sloshed into the boat, soaking Adon and Midnight. The mage cried out in surprise, but the cleric just sat there, letting his wet tunic hang on his slouched shoulders.

Cyric looked at Adon and cursed again. "This lump is only so much ballast," he sneered and flicked water into Adon's eyes. "All he'll be good for on this trip is making the rowing harder."

The hawk-nosed thief started to row again, and Midnight used a cloak to dab some of the water from Adon's face. "I know you can hear me, Adon," the mage whispered. "I still care. I won't let you get hurt."

When Adon failed to respond, Midnight frowned and wiped more water away from the cleric's face. She didn't notice the salty tears mixed with the cold drops from the Ashaba.

Kelemvor had stood in the windy courtyard much of the night. Sleep had been out of the question. Besides, the fighter had not been alone. Guards had been stationed to watch over the courtyard of Midnight and Adon's executions, and a small crowd of rowdy gawkers had decided to keep an all-night vigil. Watching the dalesmen laugh and make disgusting jokes about the event scheduled to occur at first light made Kelemvor sick at heart. The festive atmosphere that pervaded the killing grounds was horribly out of place.

The fires of Kelemvor's anger were fanned into a blaze of rage as workmen arrived at the courtyard and began to assemble a complex stage for the executions. The spectators had evidently been taken into prime consideration in the design of the stage. It was composed of two circular platforms that moved like opposing gears, constructed to display the victims for all who cared to see them. Columns jutted from the center of the platforms, with crude, metal hooks where wrists and ankles would be bound. There was a circular opening, not unlike the knot of a tree, midway down each column. Kelemvor realized with a shiver that the executioner's spikes would be driven through the holes, and into the bodies of the condemned — his former allies. It would be a slow, horrible death.

Kelemvor wasn't sure what he planned to do when the time for the execution actually arrived. He felt that he had to atone somehow for his failure to help Midnight at the trial. Still, the evidence given against Midnight and Adon at the trial had been so conclusive that the fighter was not even convinced that his friends were really innocent. It certainly was possible that Midnight had lost control of the powerful magic she wielded and accidentally caused Elminster's death. Kelemvor simply couldn't decide.

The first hint of dawn played across the horizon as a band of reddish gray light appeared in the distance. Kelemvor found himself standing beside a pair of guardsmen who struggled to hold back their yawns.

Suddenly a series of alarm gongs sounded from the Twisted Tower, and the guards shook themselves to battle readiness in a matter of seconds.

"The prisoners!" someone shouted from the tower. "They've escaped!"

"Kelemvor, come on!" one of the guards, an obese young man, shouted as he headed for the Twisted Tower. "We need every man we can get!"

The dalesmen still think of me as one of them, Kelemvor realized as he followed the guards to the main entrance of the tower and was admitted without a second glance, even though the irate villagers were held back. The door leading to the dungeon stood open, and Kelemvor and the overweight guard raced to the landing. From there, they saw a congregation of dalesmen in the cavernous chamber. Forcing his way through the crowd, Kelemvor stopped abruptly as he saw the solemn faces of Lord Mourngrym and Thurbal.

The reason for their distress sat propped upon a small stool at the head of the corridor leading to the holding cells. Kelemvor studied the wide-eyed expression of total bliss that graced the dead man's features, then looked down to see the hilt of the man's short sword protruding from his neck. The blade had been driven through the man with such force that the tip had pierced the mortar of the wall behind him, pinning the dead guard in place.

"Who killed him?" Kelemvor growled. His words broke the silence on the landing, and everyone turned to him.

"He killed himself," a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "When I came to relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that was big, about Forester's size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent."

The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story. "He said this man came down the back stairway and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym." The redheaded guard paused for a second, then started rocking again. "When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own throat, right where the mark was! That's just how it happened. I swear!"

The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than the rest.

"I saw it!" a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. "I saw it all!"

Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.

"Cover him," Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon's-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close behind.

"What did you see?" Mourngrym said.

"Not so fast!" the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. "What's in it for me?"

Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner's hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted iron bars. Mourngrym's sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man's wrist.

"You get to keep your hand," Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner's other hand before he could gouge Mourngrym's face. "Speak quickly, or I'll take you apart, starting with this hand!"

The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous night.

"Cyric," Kelemvor said, hanging his head. "It must have been Cyric!"

There was a hoarse shout from the top of the stairs. "More bodies up here! Forester is dead!"

"Come with me," Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he expected trouble at any second. The guard's pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym's coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the bottom of the red curtain. Forester's body had been left in the space directly behind Mourngrym's throne.

"Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain," the bald guard mumbled softly.

The dalelord shook with anger. "Search the tower." Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. "I want to know who else is… missing."

Within the hour, Cyric's movements had been mapped out, and the missing boat was discovered. Mourngrym was suspicious of the guardsman at the bridge. The bodies of Segert and Marcreg had been discovered near his post. The guard was led away to the dungeon for interrogation.

"Does this look like the work of your friend?" Mourngrym said as he crouched over Segert's body. He exposed the wound on the corpse's neck for emphasis.

"He was not a friend," Kelemvor said as he surveyed the corpse's wounds. "And, yes, it looks like Cyric's work."

There were shouts from the kitchen, and Kelemvor accompanied the dalelord back into the tower, to the kitchen. They found the cook pointing at the stairs that led to the storage room. The body of the young guard-in-training had been placed on a hook and dangled beside a number of butchered slabs of meat. Smears of chocolate and cherry still covered the lad's ashen face.

"Come with me," Mourngrym said, but Kelemvor remained standing at the door, staring at the young man's corpse. The dalelord gently put his hand on the fighter's shoulder and turned him away from the body. "We need to talk," Mourngrym said softly as he led Kelemvor to his private audience chamber.

The two men climbed a set of stairs. At the first landing, the dalelord unlocked a large oaken door and ushered Kelemvor into the room. Mourngrym's audience chamber was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of dark wooden furniture scattered about the room and brightly colored tapestries on the walls. A single, small opening admitted the weak morning sunlight from outside the tower.

The dalelord collapsed into a chair and started to wring his hands. "I need someone to find them, Kelemvor. Someone who is loyal to the causes of the Dales — freedom, justice, honor — and someone who knows how to find the butchers who did this to my men." Mourngrym stopped speaking, but he continued to wring his hands.

Kelemvor was too distraught to answer. Midnight, Cyric, and Adon had played him for a fool all along. That was the only thing that could explain their leaving the dale without him. Perhaps they were murderers after all.

"Your service in the cause of the Dales was exemplary," Mourngrym said after a moment. "You are a good man, Kel. I believe you have been deceived." The dalelord stopped wringing his hands and stood up.

"Aye," Kelemvor said as he ran his hands through his hair. The fighter sat down in a large, high-backed chair across from the dalelord. "That may be so."

"You spent time with them," Mourngrym said as he moved to the fighter's side. "You know how they think. You may have some idea where they've gone."

"I may," Kelemvor mumbled.

Mourngrym paused for a moment, then put his hand on Kelemvor's shoulder. "I want you to track down the criminals and return them to Shadowdale. I will give you a dozen men, including a guide who knows the forest."

"The forest? But they left by boat," Kelemvor said, confusion showing on his face.

"They have a considerable head start. The only way to overcome their lead is by land," Mourngrym said with a sigh. "Will you do it?"

Kelemvor roughly brushed the dalelord's hand from his shoulder and stood up. But before the fighter could speak, the door to the chamber suddenly burst open and Lhaeo stumbled into the room. "Lord Mourngrym, your forgiveness!" the scribe said and fell to his knees before the ruler of the dale. "I did not know! I believed in their innocence! But they have spilled innocent blood and soaked my hands in it!"

"Slow down," Mourngrym said as he reached down and grabbed Lhaeo's shoulders. "Tell us everything."

Elminster's faithful scribe sighed and looked up into Mourngrym's eyes. "As I said at the trial, I thought Elminster was alive. I–I went to the tower, thinking to help the magic-user and the cleric escape before they were executed… But Cyric had already done that." Lhaeo bowed his head again and covered his face with his hands. "I let them get away — No. I helped them get away. I gave Midnight her spellbook… and some other things."

Mourngrym frowned and turned to Kelemvor. The fighter stood silently over the scribe, his face devoid of all emotion.

"I should have realized that the guard inside the tower was dead," Lhaeo snapped, suddenly angry. "Someone should have seen us and sounded the alarm. I never thought that they…" The scribe shuddered and looked up at Kelemvor. "I can never forgive myself for what has occurred!"

Mourngrym tried to remain calm, but anger marched across his features like a rampaging army. "The killings occurred before you arrived, Lhaeo. You must not blame yourself."

Lhaeo swallowed and bowed his head again. "You must place me under arrest."

Mourngrym stepped back from the scribe. "Consider yourself under house arrest," Mourngrym said flatly. "Do not leave Elminster's Tower unless it is to procure food and drink for yourself. That is my final word."

The scribe lifted himself from the floor, bowed before his liege, and turned to leave. "One other thing," Mourngrym snapped before Lhaeo could leave. "Do you know where the criminals were headed when they left?"

The scribe turned. Kelemvor could see that his face was white, and anger clouded his eyes. "Yes," Lhaeo said through partially clenched teeth. "They are going to Tantras."

Mourngrym nodded, but Kelemvor held up his hand. "Wait, Lhaeo. You just said that you thought Elminster was alive. Don't you believe that anymore? Do you think that Midnight and Adon… murdered him?"

Shoulders drawn tight, the scribe stood up straight. His voice was barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. "After what they did in the tower, I believe they are cold-blooded killers. Worse still, they have fooled good men-like Elminster. Like you, Kelemvor. They must be brought to justice!"