Tantras

IV

The edge of the forest was over an hour away, and Kelemvor and his men could hardly wait to leave the slow travel and the many obstacles of the woods behind them. The sun had risen, and the last of the magical crystals Lhaeo had supplied the riders with had failed. The light from the crystals had pierced the veil of night and allowed Kelemvor and his charges to keep moving along the river almost constantly. In the days since they had left Shadowdale, the riders had stopped only twice to rest, for a few hours each time.

Kelemvor reached for the small purse tied to his belt and jostled it slightly. The jingle of gold coins against one another rose above the sounds of the dalesmen as they made their way along the rough path. A few men glanced at the mercenary, then quickly looked away when Kelemvor scowled in their direction.

I wonder if Cyric and Midnight received this much money to work against the Dales? Kelemvor thought for the fourth time that day. They probably got paid off when we were in Tilverton.

Letting the purse drop to his side, Kelemvor glanced around at the men Mourngrym had sent on the hunt with him. They were, all in all, a less than remarkable lot. The fighter saw them as typical residents of a farming town: narrow-minded but sincere. The men had done little to impress or surprise the experienced adventurer during the long journey from Shadowdale, but that was fine with him.

The only thing about the party that had surprised Kelemvor was Mourngrym's insistence that Yarbro, the young guardsman who had taken an instant dislike to Kelemvor and his companions when they had first arrived in Shadowdale, join them. But there had been no time to argue about personnel if the hunters wanted to catch the escapees, so Kelemvor had reluctantly agreed.

"A cold heart is needed for this task," Mourngrym had said as Kelemvor prepared to ride after his one-time allies. "Your rage might blind you to justice. I want the criminals returned alive, unless there is absolutely no other choice." The dalelord paused for a moment, then handed the fighter the purse full of gold. "Yarbro will see that reason prevails."

Kelemvor snorted. Placing "Yarbro" and "reason" in the same sentence was almost a joke. It seems far more likely that Mourngrym wants someone to keep an eye on me, the fighter thought. He pulled up on his reins, and his horse jumped over a fallen branch. Kelemvor looked around again and sighed. At least the rest of the men seem relatively trustworthy.

The guide chosen by the dalelord to lead the hunters through the forest was Terrol Uthor, a veteran of several battles against the drow and a scholar steeped in the ancient lore of the elven clans that once claimed the forest around Shadowdale as their own. Uthor was a short, powerfully built, square-shouldered man in his late thirties with blue-gray eyes and thick, black hair that he wore slicked back.

A common bond of hatred for the escapees was the one thing that united the remaining members of Kelemvor's charges. Gurn Bestil, a woodsman in his fifties with a shock of white hair, had lost his twenty-year-old son in the Battle of Shadowdale. Kohren and Lanx were priests of Lathander. Kohren was tall, and all that remained of his dark hair was a widow's peak. Lanx was of moderate build, with thin, curly blond hair and dull brown eyes. Both priests wore the red crest of their order on their clothing.

Bursus, Cabal, and Jorah were soldiers who had watched comrades and friends die in the battle. Of the three, Cabal was the oldest, with a gray beard and thick white eyebrows. Tired, jet-black eyes and deeply tanned skin distinguished Bursus. Jorah was of slender build with wild, auburn hair. All three were archers as well as swordsmen, and they carried spare bows and arrows for the other huntsmen.

Mikkel and Carella owned the fishing skiff that bad been stolen by the escapees. No one knew their last names, but in appearance, they could have been taken for brothers. Their faces were baked red by the sun, and their builds were rugged and well toned. Both their heads had been shaved. They were dressed alike. The only thing that really set them apart was the sparkling prism that dangled from Mikkel's right ear.

Since the trip through the thick woods along the Ashaba had been uneventful so far, Kelemvor had no idea how the men would react in a battle. Not that he was worried about their fighting ability. The battle against Bane's troops had given the adventurer enough proof of the dalesmen's general fighting prowess. Still, the fighter wondered how his pack of huntsmen would work as a team.

"Until we run into a stray band of Zhents or a wild creature that is addled enough to attack a party this size, or those butchers we're chasing, we won't know how the men will fight," Yarbro said snidely when Kelemvor had posed the problem to his second-in-command. "But I wouldn't worry," the soldier added. "We'll all pull together when we catch up to that witch and her friends."

Even now, as he rode through the forest with the troops, Kelemvor was not reassured by Yarbro's confidence. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the soldier was right — that the dalesmen's hatred would pull them together when they finally caught Midnight, Cyric, and Adon — that troubled the fighter the most.

Kelemvor shook the thoughts from his head. I'm doing the right thing, he growled to himself. They betrayed me. They murdered innocent people. They killed Elminster.

The fighter spurred his horse and raced down the path. His men pushed their horses on as well, and soon the company was out of the forest and on the edge of the open fields of Mistledale. So far, they had seen no sign of the skiff or the escapees. Unless they got lucky or did something drastic soon, the huntsmen were in danger of losing their quarry.

"Halt!" Kelemvor called as he held up his hand to signal the troops. When all the men got close enough to hear, the fighter added, "We need to decide where to go from here."

"We follow the river," Yarbro snapped. "What else can we do? In fact, we're wasting time even talking about it. We should be charging across Mistledale as fast as we can. It's open land, and — "

"The road to the Standing Stone," Kelemvor interrupted flatly. The fighter dismounted and stretched. "We can ride even faster on the road than we can across open fields."

Gurn ran his hand through his white hair. "But the road angles to the north and east, away from the river."

Kelemvor fished a piece of dried meat from his saddlebag. "And then it turns to the south, all the way to Blackfeather Bridge. We know they're going to Scardale, following the river. They have to pass the bridge eventually."

Yarbro cursed. "How will we know they haven't already passed the bridge when we get there?" A few of the other men mumbled in agreement.

"We won't," the green-eyed fighter said as he stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth and mounted his horse again.

"Kel's right," Terrol Uthor said over the mumbled curses of the two fishermen. "We'll never catch up with them if we continue along the river. Once we've crossed the dale, the woods between here and Battledale are very thick. At times we wouldn't even be able to ride."

Kelemvor smiled and turned his horse to the east. "That's it, then. Our guide has spoken." The fighter kicked his horse into a gallop and headed east, toward the road. A few of the men looked at Yarbro, who cursed again, then spurred his horse and raced off after Kelemvor. The rest of the men followed.

It wasn't long before the huntsmen reached the wide, well-traveled road that led from Hillsfar in the north to Tilverton, Arabel, and eventually even the great city of Suzail in the south. To Kelemvor, the open road seemed to carry the sweet scent of freedom and release. Even the mood of Kelemvor's fellow hunters seemed to improve.

By midafternoon, however, the dry heat of the sun had managed to burn off whatever good cheer the dalesmen had felt. As was becoming common on the journey, the men vented their ill humor by suggesting new and inventive means of dealing with the escaped criminals once they were caught. Yarbro's fertile imagination accounted for fully half of these.

Kelemvor's anger grew as the day went on. If Mourngrym thinks that these men will support his justice, the fighter thought, he's a fool! They're a bloodthirsty lynch mob, no more or less vicious than the wild-eyed fanatics in Tilverton who tried to kill Midnight, Cyric, Adon, and me because they thought the God of Blacksmiths wanted us dead.

Kelemvor knew that he should remind the men of Mourngrym's orders that the prisoners were to be returned to Shadowdale alive, but he couldn't. Instead, he brooded silently, and his refusal to contradict the hunters' angry threats and boasts was taken as unspoken consent. The tales became wilder and more cruel as the day went on.

As the fighter looked around at the leering, cursing men he commanded, he remembered Cyric's tirade against the "justice" the dalesmen would provide to Midnight and Adon, and for the first time since Lhaeo had burst into Mourngrym's chamber, Kelemvor wondered if he was doing the right thing.

The fighter turned the idea over and over in his mind all day, until finally the sun became a low, blinding orb at the hunters' backs, and the road ahead was blanketed by the first hints of nightfall. The food reserves had not been replenished in the last few days, and Kelemvor gave silent thanks for a task that would take the dalesmen's minds off their murderous imaginings.

The fighter signaled the company to come to a halt. "We'll need to forage here," the fighter snapped as he dismounted. "Perhaps the earth has not yet turned sour from the chaos in this part of the Realms, and we will find healthy game."

Dividing the hunters into three groups, Kelemvor led Bursus, Jorah, and Terrol into the south woods while Mikkel, Carella, and Gurn went to the north. Yarbro, the priests of Lathander, and the remaining soldier, Cabal, stayed behind to guard the camp.

Half an hour later, as night was beginning to fall in earnest and a dark blue veil hung over the woods, Kelemvor and his group emerged from the forest. They were carrying the carcass of a deer that had been felled by one of Jorah's arrows.

A few minutes after that, Mikkel and his men exited from the thick, dark woods north of the road. The fisherman carried the still form of a jackrabbit in his hands. His look of triumph faded quickly as he saw the meal Kelemvor had secured. The hunters laughed at the sight of Mikkel, standing alone and dejected with his prize, then welcomed him and his party to join in the meal. The hunters feasted on the fresh deer meat, then lingered around the fire at the edge of the woods.

Well fed if not well rested, the hunters buried the deer's remains and took to the road once again. For a short time, Kelemvor sensed a camaraderie that he had never before associated with the grim, disparate band of hunters. Stories of past adventures, real or imagined, were traded as they traveled through the moonlit night on their way to the Standing Stone.

As always, however, the topic of Midnight and her accomplices soon became the central focus of conversation, and the veneer of civilized behavior disappeared, to be replaced by the bitterness and savagery of the hunters' threats and curses. Kelemvor realized that, no matter how much he might hope otherwise, it was the common hatred of the three criminals, whom most of the hunters had never even met, that truly bonded the men.

The moon was high when the hunters reached the Standing Stone, where the road split, one branch continuing northeast to Hillsfar, while the other ran south, past the town of Essembra, to Blackfeather Bridge. The stone itself was a huge, glossy gray square that rose twenty feet into the air. At its base, elvish runes were inscribed in a series of bands that wound around all four sides of the stone.

There was a clearing behind the stone, a perfect crescent of brownish black earth where nothing grew. The trees farther back behind the Standing Stone were unlike any others the hunters had seen this side of the Great Desert, which lay far to the west. The bases of the trees were wildly knotted, with their roots twisted forward and dug into the ground like an old miser's fingers in a pile of gold. The trees' branches grew away from the stone, curving strangely midway along their lengths so that they remained generally parallel to the earth instead of growing straight and proud. The trees were a dull orange, while their occasional leaves appeared yellow and sickly.

Some of the men were obviously nervous about being so close to the Standing Stone, which was known to hold extraordinary reserves of magic, especially now that the art was unstable. Others did not care to remain so close to the ruins of Myth Drannor, which lay to the north. Indeed, stories of the creatures that stalked the land around the ruined city made most of the men jumpy. Still, the hunters were exhausted, and when the issue was put to a vote, the dalesmen chose to make camp beside the stone, despite their fears. Kelemvor and Yarbro took the first watch along with Bursus, one of the archers from the dale. Although Yarbro's open hostility toward Kelemvor had ceased, the fighter still didn't trust the young guard. Bursus sat beside the fighter, and they gazed at the mystical stone before them as it reflected the soft moonlight and the flickering flames of their fire.

"There's something I've never understood," Bursus sighed as he turned to face the fighter.

"What's that?" Kelemvor asked, absently tossing a stick into the fire and watching as a tiny explosion of sparks floated into the air.

"The murderers we're chasing were once your friends. You fought at their side." The archer paused for a moment. "Isn't this difficult for you?"

The fighter's eyes were fixed on the fire. "They betrayed me," Kelemvor growled. "They lied to me right from the beginning." He turned to look at Yarbro and found the guard staring at him.

"I shouldn't have doubted you," Bursus said, nodding. "You have as much cause for revenge as any of us. Perhaps more."

Revenge? Kelemvor thought. Is that all the motivation I have for this quest? Perhaps that's not reason enough. Midnight certainly wasn't given a proper chance to defend herself at the trial. Justice wasn't served… and these dalesmen certainly aren't going to see that Midnight, Cyric, and Adon are treated fairly.

Kelemvor cursed silently and shook his head. When he looked up again, the fighter saw that Yarbro was still watching him, except that now the guard had a curious, sly look on his face.

"Yes, Bursus," Yarbro murmured, never taking his eyes off Kelemvor. "He should have more incentive for hunting down that witch than the rest of us put together." A grin slowly worked its way across the guard's face.

Looking into Yarbro's eyes, Kelemvor decided that he would prevent the dalesmen from harming Midnight and her allies… if that proved possible. He couldn't hinder the hunters or help his former friends directly. That would activate the curse. But he could try to hold the dalesmen to Lord Mourngrym's instructions. After all, that's what he was being paid to do.

Suddenly there was a sharp snapping sound from the twisted trees behind the hunters. It didn't take Kelemvor's enhanced senses to detect the sound. Each of the sentries had heard the noise and was looking to Kelemvor for orders.

The fighter paused for a moment, then, from the woods at their backs, heard the sound of branches snapping and leaves rustling underfoot.

"Wake the others," Kelemvor whispered. "Let's hope its nothing more than some harmless beast that got curious about the fire." The fighter stood up slowly and drew his sword.

Yarbro stood beside Kelemvor. "Put out the fire," the green-eyed fighter said calmly. The young guard complied without question, which surprised Kelemvor. More sounds came from the forest as Yarbro extinguished the flames. Standing out in the open, bathed by firelight, the hunters would have made easy targets. If the watchers in the woods had hostile intentions, they had just lost part of their advantage. Still, the cover of the woods would be in the hidden creatures' favor. Kelemvor urged the hunters to pack their belongings as quickly as possible.

"If we keep our wits about us, we may be able to get to the horses and outdistance whoever is out there," Kelemvor said, slinging his pack onto his horse with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other.

Suddenly there was a piggish grunt from the forest, and one of the horses whinnied in terror. The horse rose up on its hind legs and threw its rider, Jorah, to the ground. Then the frantic horse raced onto the Mistledale road and vanished into the night. There was a hiss, like the whisper of a sudden gust of wind, and Gurn, the white-haired woodsman, grunted and fell forward.

One of the fishermen, Carella, was near Gurn, close to the Mistledale side of the crescent-shaped clearing. He leaped from his mount and rushed to the woodsman's aid. Gurn lay on his chest, writhing in agony. A three-inch dart protruded from the back of his neck. The fisherman reached down, grabbed the woodsman's arms, and tried to drag the white-haired man to a horse.

"Kelemvor!" Carella shouted between puffs of breath. "They're using some kind of darts. They could be poisoned. They — "

The fisherman's words were cut short as a dart pierced the side of his face, passed through his cheek, and impaled itself into his tongue. Despite his absolute horror, Carella was quickly satisfied that the darts were not poisoned. He felt no sensation other than intense pain. The fisherman lost his grip on Gurn and fell to the ground, clutching at his face. As Carella quickly struggled to his feet, another dart pierced his throat, and the fisherman fell backward, his body quivering as death claimed him.

Rough, snorting laughter erupted from the forest. For the first time, Kelemvor saw something — a few faces — in amongst the trees. The creatures had large, watery eyes, set irregularly over a piggish snout. The fighter knew immediately what the hunters faced — orcs. Probably a dozen, at least.

"To the road!" Kelemvor shouted and wheeled his horse around. Several darts and two or three black-fletched arrows flashed from the trees. Cabal pulled Jorah onto the back of his horse, and the other two archers raced after Kelemvor.

Near the center of the clearing, Mikkel screamed as he saw Carella fall. They had been childhood friends and inseparable for most of their lives. Mikkel started to move quickly to help his friend, but Yarbro grabbed the red-skinned fisherman from behind and dragged him back toward the horses. Arrows flew all around them as they mounted and made for the south road.

No one was there to stop Terrol Uthor from rushing to Carella's side. However, as the guide crouched over the fallen fisherman, an arrow flew out of the darkness and pierced Terrol's chest. The guide gasped once, then fell onto his face in the dirt.

Five orcs, wearing dirty, rusted armor and carrying swords, burst into the clearing near the Standing Stone. Two immediately ran toward the bodies of the dalesmen, but the other three rushed toward Kohren and Lanx, the two clerics of Lathander, who were still fumbling with their saddlebags.

"Forget your books!" Bursus screamed as he spurred his horse down the south road. "Hurry! We — " A black arrow pierced the fighter's leg, pinning it to his horse. Bursus careened down the road after Kelemvor, gritting his teeth in pain. Five more orcs, most carrying bows, leaped from cover. A few stray arrows and a larger number of curses screamed in Orcish followed the dalesman down the road.

Kelemvor reined in his horse and stopped around a bend in the road. Cabal and Jorah, riding the same horse, quickly joined the green-eyed fighter, as did Yarbro and Mikkel. The hunters sat silently for a moment, listening to the orcs cursing in the distance. Only Kelemvor could understand what the orcs were saying, but all of the riders shivered. The meaning of the threats were clear enough, despite the difference in language.

In another second, Bursus's mount cantered into sight. The black-haired dalesman was lolling in the saddle from the pain of his wounded leg, but his horse had continued down the road. Jorah jumped down from Cabal's mount and stopped Bursus's horse from continuing past them.

"The Lathanderites…," Bursus mumbled. "Save them!" The archer tried to raise his hand, probably to point back at the Standing Stone, but couldn't. Cabal dismounted and examined the arrow wound in Bursus's left leg.

Kelemvor turned his horse away from the Standing Stone. "Let's go," he muttered. "The clerics are lost. There's no way they can escape those orcs."

Yarbro drew his sword and looked at Kelemvor. "Sometimes orcs let their victims live… for a while." The young guard paused for a moment. Mikkel drew his sword and Cabal remounted. "We're going back for them." Kelemvor closed his eyes. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he could go back for the clerics. It simply wasn't in his best interest to endanger his life for them. "Do what you want, Yarbro. I'm not going to help you." The fighter got off his horse and walked toward the trees. "I'll wait here until you get back."

"I'll look after Bursus," Jorah said flatly. "I'll try to get that arrow out and bind his leg." The slender, auburn-haired archer turned to Kelemvor and spat, then turned back to the others. "If that's what you want me to do, that is, Yarbro."

The young guard narrowed his eyes and stared at Kelemvor for a moment. "Yes… it is up to me now, isn't it?" Yarbro said slowly. "Fine, Jorah." The guard spurred his horse and headed back toward the Standing Stone. "But I'd keep Kelemvor in front of you at all times." Yarbro, Cabal, and Mikkel raced back down the road, whooping and yelling. Kelemvor heard a few squeals and cries in Orcish as the fighters rounded the bend, then nothing but the sound of something running through the woods. This is the end, Kelemvor thought as he sat under a tree and watched Jorah pull the arrow from Bursus's leg, then dress the wound and even tend to Bursus's wounded horse. There's no way I'll ever be able to stop these men from killing Midnight, Cyric, and Adon.

The fighter kicked a stone into a rut in the rough dirt road. It would all be so simple if it weren't for my damned curse! I could do what was right. I could give up this hunt. But that wasn't possible, and Kelemvor knew it. The moment he sided with Midnight, Adon, and Cyric, he broke his pledge to Lord Mourngrym and would lose the reward the dalelord had promised him as incentive to finish the quest. He would have endangered his life on the hunt for no reward — an act that would surely cause the curse to go into effect. Then Kelemvor would transform into a panther until he killed someone.

Jorah turned to Kelemvor and scowled. Kelemvor saw the hatred in the archer's eyes. For a moment, he felt afraid. It's far more likely they'll kill me, too, Kelemvor suddenly realized. I'm no better or worse to these men than Midnight.

Before Kelemvor could think about that too long, he heard the rumble of hooves on the road. The fighter jumped to his feet and moved behind his horse. If the orcs had taken the dalesmen's mounts, they'd likely try to shoot a volley of arrows at him as they rode past.

But it wasn't the orcs coming down the road — it was Yarbro and the two other archers. They had one other riderless horse in tow. All three men were sweating profusely, and Cabal had a nasty slash across his upper arm, but they were alive. Jorah helped them to dismount, and Yarbro immediately went to check on Bursus.

As soon as Jorah and Cabal had placed Bursus onto a horse, Yarbro walked over to face Kelemvor, his sword drawn. "The orcs ran, you coward. Just like you did!" The young guard held his sword up to Kelemvor's face. "I ought to kill you right now, but we'll need you as a shield in case we're attacked again. You ride in front, alone, from now on."

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

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

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

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

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

Occasionally Yarbro would catch up to Kelemvor and toll him the latest cruel imaginings, just to taunt him. The fighter always remained silent, but it never stopped the young guard from telling him over and over again how the dalesmen were going to kill the magic-user and her allies. Eventually the hunters arrived at Blackfeather Bridge, where they secured their mounts in the forest on the north bank of the Ashaba, then took up positions on the bridge. As the dalesmen set up a rough camp, Kelemvor stood at the northern end of the bridge and cleared his throat loudly. "Yarbro is now your leader," the fighter began, "and rightly so. However, I have something to say to you all." A low rumble of mutters ran through the camp. Yarbro eyed Kelemvor suspiciously, then nodded to his men, letting them know that they had his permission to listen to the fighter.

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

The cold stares of the hunters seemed to bore through the fighter. His words were stated calmly and without passion.

Kelemvor knew they would have no effect, but he could not stop trying. When he was done speaking, the fighter slowly walked back to his horse and unpacked his gear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see that you have been 'busy,'" Bane snapped, gesturing toward the table.

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

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

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

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

"Any casualties?" Bane asked, encouraged.

"Cadeo broke one of their thumbs," Knopf muttered as he pointed to the young, flaxen-haired soldier. "I'm afraid there really hasn't been much excitement here recently, Lord Bane."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mage trembled. "We're going. Let's go, Adon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midnight stood and walked toward the thief. "We're just as worthy to make this trip as you. In fact, I don't know who put you in command of this little expedition in the first place." Cyric started to speak, but Midnight cut him off.

"The point is, Cyric, I'm not going to be treated as your baggage anymore. Neither is Adon. If you want to continue alone, then I won't stop you. I'm sorry that I couldn't be whatever it is you wanted me to be. I tried to be your friend, but that doesn't seem to be enough for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pool of Yeven had become a huge whirlpool!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it, Adon?" Midnight screamed. "What is it you see?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hesitation proved costly.

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

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