Tantras (23 page)

“Durrock, the mage is getting away!” Sejanus screamed as he parried a sword thrust from one of the suits of rusted plate. Durrock and his nightmare vanished from the jagged hole in the roof just as the heroes emerged into the alley. The sounds of swords crashing against one another echoed from inside the warehouse, mixed with Sejanus’s screams of anger.

As the heroes ran down the alley toward the street, the sound of the nightmare snorting and whinnying drifted down from above their heads. Midnight looked toward the sky and saw Durrock and his mount hovering over the rooftops. “The alley is too narrow for his mount, but on the street we’ll be at his mercy,” the mage cried. “We’re right back where we started!”

“Well, we can’t camp here all day,” Varden exclaimed.

Midnight turned to the thief. “I’m the one the assassins are after,” the raven-haired magic-user stated flatly. “Lead Adon to safety. As long as I’m trapped in this alley, Durrock won’t follow you.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Varden snapped as he grabbed Midnight’s arm and tried to drag her forward. “The next thing I know, you’ll want to try using magic! There’s nothing more infuriating -“

Midnight shifted her weight away from Varden, dug her left leg into the ground between his legs, and shoved the thief over her leg against the wall of the alley. The golden-haired man struck the wall with such impact that he was momentarily stunned.

“Never put your hands on me like that!” Midnight growled, then backed away from the thief. “I know what’s best. Now, go!”

Adon walked to Midnight’s side and put his hand on her shoulder. “No,” the cleric said softly. “We’ve got to trust Varden.” The scarred young man paused for a moment and looked up at the assassin, still hovering over the alley. “We’ve got to stay together.”

Midnight had run out of arguments. She considered their circumstances for a moment, then followed Adon and Varden down the alley. At the edge of the street, the thief paused and turned to the mage.

“I know where to go from here,” Varden whispered. “We need to get to the alley five stores to the east of here.” The thief looked up and saw the nightmare descending into the street. “Run!” he cried and bolted into the street filled with corpses.

“We still have your lover, Midnight!” Durrock shouted as the nightmare landed and started to race down the street after the mage and her allies. “Surrender now or he will pay the price for your foolishness!”

Chancing a look back over her shoulder, Midnight saw that Durrock had picked up a new weapon when he had gone back for his mount. In the assassin’s hands was a black net, large enough to contain a man, with heavy weights secured to its edges. The scarred assassin was no more than twenty feet from Midnight and her companions, holding the net open wide, when Varden suddenly turned into another alley.

In the cramped lane that ran between two dilapidated buildings, Varden charged up a rickety set of stairs and dove into an open window. Midnight and Adon turned down the alley just in time to see the thief disappear. At the same time, Durrock released the net. The metal mesh struck the corner of the building as the heroes raced into the alley and climbed through the window.

Inside the building, Midnight and Adon found themselves in a small room that was covered in paper. The room looked as if a whirlwind had passed through the interior of the building and scattered pieces of parchment everywhere. Varden was lying in the center of the mess, lifting himself up from the floor, when the heroes entered. In the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged, with a large pile of papers in his lap, was a man in his early sixties, with two patches of white hair at the sides of his head and a shining bald pate between them.

Varden saw the older man and let out a cry of greeting. “Gratus!” the thief exclaimed happily, a smile on his face. “Why, it’s my good friend and associate, Gratus!”

The old man looked up. He was wearing clothing similar to Varden’s violet pants and shirt with yellow boots - except that Gratus was missing the cape. An expression of sorrow and pain Clashed across the old man’s lace as he squinted in the direction of the thief. Then Gratus spread his hands wide, and papers flew in every direction.

“Varden, you’re still alive!” Then the old man’s expression changed rapidly to one of anger. “Go away! Every time I see you, it’s nothing but trouble!” Gratus croaked. The old man saw that the papers had scattered from his lap and tried futilely to gather them up again.

Varden’s smile widened. “I can’t really deny that, considering our present circumstances,” the thief said as he flashed a glance back at the open window. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would stop complaining and give us a hand!”

Standing near the window, Adon ducked his head outside to take a look. “I don’t see any sign of Durrock,” Adon noted.

“He’s probably calling the other Zhents, trying to cover all the exits,” Varden said flatly. “He has no way of knowing what direction we’ll take when we leave.”

“Excuse me,” Gratus said. “But did you say ‘Durrock,’ as in Bane’s unholy servant? Black, spiked armor? Rides a horrid, monstrous horse with flaming hooves?”

Midnight drew a deep breath. “Yes. That’s who’s following us.” The mage moved to Adon’s side and glanced nervously at the window.

“Come now,” Varden said cheerily, turning to Midnight. “Don’t look so glum. We’ve already defeated Durrock’s friend hack in the festhall.”

Gratus held his wrinkled hand in front of his face. “Fine!” he snapped and held up a single finger. “You defeated one.” The old man paused and held up another bony digit. “Durrock’s undoubtedly circling somewhere overhead, so that makes two.” Gratus held up a third finger slowly and said, “But where is the third assassin? Durrock is always in the company of two others.”

Midnight turned away from the window and fixed the old man with a cold stare. “I cast a spell at him when we escaped. He’s probably still pinned to the side of the warehouse near the Zhentish garrison.”

“A mage!” the old man cried as he lifted himself from the ground. “So this is what you bring me, Varden. Another mage!”

“What does he mean, ‘another mage?” Adon asked.

Varden tried to dismiss the question with a smile. “It’s nothing,” the golden-haired thief said. “Gratus’s mind wanders sometimes, that’s all.”

The old man stood up straight. “Goon, Varden! Tell them!” Gratus put his hands on his hips. “I’m not lifting a finger to help until you do.”

Varden sighed and hung his head. “A… former acquaintance of mine was a magic-user.” All traces of the thief’s good humor disappeared as he spoke.

Gratus nodded emphatically. “Note the word ‘was,’” the old man cackled, wagging his finger at the younger man.

The thief spun to face the older man. “It’s not my fault that Dowie tried to light that torch using his magic! It was a very stupid thing to do.”

Gratus chuckled. “Did either of you happen to notice a pillar of flame that rose to the heavens a week ago?” the old man asked.

“We’re new in town,” Adon said.

Gratus nodded and continued. “You should have seen the look on Dowie’s face right before -“

“The two of you can trade stories all you want later,” Midnight growled. The mage trembled with barely controlled anger. “Right now, we need help. Durrock will be back any second now with those Zhentilar that passed us a while back.”

Varden held up his hand to calm Midnight clown. “Gratus, I think we should go to the garrison.” The thief turned to Midnight and Adon. “We’re merchants here in Scardale, but it recent days, we have found it expedient to seek the protection of the Sembian garrison here,” Varden explained, “the outfits are the garb of our illustrious employer.”

The old man nodded. “That’s fine with me.” Gratus paused and idly kicked a pile of paper aside. “Unless the fair lady of magic wants to use her great power against the assassins and turn Scardale into a smoking pit in the process. I heard about a mage who reduced an area outside of Arabel to -“

“How do we get there? To the Sembian garrison?” Adon growled. “And please make it quick, before the Zhentish decide to storm the building.”

Gratus looked at Varden. “Impatient, isn’t he?” the old man sighed. “Do you expect us to simply dance out of here into the streets and stroll to the garrison? The Zhents would be on us in an instant.”

Even Varden was growing impatient now. “So how are we going to get out of here?” he snapped.

Gratus smiled a crooked smile, exposing his yellowed crooked teeth. “I’ve been holed up in this place, sifting through papers, because I’d heard rumors that the old government installed a number of secret tunnels beneath the city.”

Midnight could not contain a sarcastic laugh. “And you expect the plans for them to be lying around here, waiting to be found by any old cutpurse who can find his way into the building?”

Gratus continued to smile. “Why not hide them in plain sight?” the old man said. “That’s what I would do.”

“And that’s why you aren’t ruling this city,” Varden growled. “This is a terrible time to be relying on rumor, Gratus.”

The old man ignored Varden and continued, the crooked smile still on his face. “I have made some rather interesting discoveries.” Gratus withdrew a set of documents from his waistband and gestured with them. “Like these plans for a proposed sewage system that -“

Moving forward, Midnight reached for the stained, crumpled parchments. “Give them to me!” the mage growled. After studying the plans, Midnight shook her head, then returned Gratus’s smile. “According to these, there should be an entrance to the sewer right beneath this building.”

“That is correct,” Gratus said smugly. “If the government installed the secret tunnels, then it would make sense that there are entrances to all public buildings. This building used to be a sort of hall of records.”

“Your luck seems to be holding out, old man,” Varden said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Luck!” Gratus exclaimed, balling his hands into fists. “Suddenly I no longer feel guilty about leaving you for dead in the street after that band of Zhentilar attacked us.”

I wasn’t going to mention that,” the thief stated flatly. “Besides, you couldn’t have known that I wasn’t dead. After all, I was unconscious for a while.” Here Varden rubbed the bruise on his forehead. “Anyway, I was perfectly safe as long as the Zhents thought I was dead.”

Gratus stiffened at Varden’s words, then turned to leave the room. “You didn’t know?” the old man mumbled as he moved into the hallway. The sounds of Durrock barking orders to the Zhentilar drifted in through the open window. “Come on, the lot of you! We’ve got to get out of here!”

Midnight and Adon followed Varden and Gratus down two flights of warped wooden stairs into the basement of the building. The old man took the map from Midnight once they reached the musty basement and looked at it again. “The entrance to the tunnels should be right here,” Gratus said, pointing to a large, empty bookcase.

The heroes pushed the oaken bookcase a few feet to the side and found a thin sheet of wood covering a small, dark doorway.

For several moments, Varden had been mulling over the comment Gratus had made before they left the room upstairs. “I didn’t know what?” the thief finally asked as the heroes peered into the darkened tunnel.

Gratus frowned, but he didn’t turn to look at the thief. “Normally the Zhents chop the heads off their victims just to be sure no one’s faking,” the old man explained. “When you fell, I had to assume you were dead… or soon would be.”

Varden turned white, and Midnight couldn’t suppress a shudder. The realities of war, she reminded herself. She turned away from the tunnel as there was a loud crash upstairs, and Adon heard Durrock barking orders to his men.

“I may be wrong, you understand,” Gratus noted calmly as he reached for a torch that hung inside the door. He quickly pulled out his flint and steel and lit the old wooden torch. “But if I’m right, I think we can make the Sembian garrison by nightfall.”

Varden took the torch from Gratus and stepped into the tunnel. Midnight and Adon glanced at each other for a moment, then followed the Sembians into the darkness.

Shaking his head to toss his thick, matted hair from his eyes, Kelemvor surveyed his cell. It was a barren little room, really little more than an eight-foot cube, with a wall at his back, bars at his front, and bars to either side of him. Beyond the bars in front of the fighter, there was a poorly lit hallway where two guards were stationed before the cell. Chains bound the fighter’s hands and feet, allowing him less than two feet of unimpeded movement from the back wall of the cell.

Heavy footsteps sounded from down the hallway, as if a procession had entered the lower level of the Zhentilar headquarters and was now approaching through the narrow stone walkway. Kelemvor watched as a red-haired man wearing ebon armor entered the corridor and stopped before his cell. The fighter recognized the ornate armor as identical to that worn by the God of Strife in the dungeons of Castle Kilgrave. A beautiful blond woman, wearing an elegant black robe with a brilliant red sash, stood beside the red-haired man, a wicked smile playing across her features.

“Kelemvor Lyonsbane,” Lord Bane murmured. “I trust you remember me.” The god drew a finely crafted sword from a scabbard at his waist.

“Your dogs address you as ‘Lord Bane,’ but if that’s true, you’ve changed,” the fighter said calmly. “You’re not quite as ugly as you were when Mystra defeated you in Cormyr.”

The sword shook in the Black Lord’s hand. “Do not try to goad me into granting you a quick death!” Bane roared.

Kelemvor winced. Even if this wasn’t Bane, Kelemvor realized, his impersonator had control of the situation. Perhaps it wasn’t best to provoke him. “What do you want with me?” the fighter asked softly.

“I have come to make you an offer. Choose wisely, for your life may depend on your response,” Bane purred, clanging his sword across the bars of the fighter’s cell.

“I would expect that kind of offer from someone who threatened a chained, unarmed man with a sword,” Kelemvor said, smiling. The fighter looked at Bane and saw shards of crimson dancing in his eves.