Tantras (41 page)

Adon let go of the sage’s arm. “Tell me what happened to you in Shadowdale at the Temple of Lathander. I thought you’d died… and that it was my fault,” Adon said. He felt anger bubble over inside of him and he added, “You can’t imagine the hell I’ve been through because of you!”

“I can readily imagine,” Elminster sighed and turned away from the cleric. “Considering where that rift took me.” A voice rang out. “Adon!”

The cleric recognized the voice as Midnight’s, and he turned around to look for the mage. A horrible realization dawned upon the cleric then, and he immediately whirled around and grabbed the old sage’s arm. Adon looked at Elminster. The mage was ready to walk into the crowd that surrounded them.

“You’re not leaving my sight,” Adon said. Elminster simply scowled and crossed his arms.

Midnight arrived, with Kelemvor directly behind her. When she saw Elminster, she wrapped her arms around the sage, nearly crushing him in her embrace. The old mage grumbled in protest and pushed her away.

“I’d never have believed it!” Midnight cried as she stepped back from the sage. “I thought I saw you once, yesterday, but I convinced myself that I was only hoping too hard that you’d survived.” Tears were streaming down the raven-haired mage’s face.

“Never do that again!” Elminster shouted, gesturing with the harp he’d forgotten that he held.

Kelemvor had been surprised to see Elminster, too, but he was now feeling angry, not overjoyed, that the old sage was alive. “Quite a singing voice you have there,” the fighter commented sarcastically. “It’s too bad you use it to cause so much trouble.”

Adon stood a few feet away, staring at the old sage, a barely subdued fury roiling across his features. “You weren’t even going to tell us that you were alive. You cruel old buzzard. We’re here, risking our lives on your damn quest -“

“Lady Mystra set ye on thy quest,” Elminster reminded the cleric. “I simply helped ye along the way.”

“We’re wanted criminals,” Midnight told the mage softly. “Adon and I were nearly executed in Shadowdale for your death.”

“That charge has been dropped,” Elminster mumbled as he rubbed his neck and motioned for the heroes to follow him. Passersby were beginning to stare, and the heroes agreed that it was probably best to move along.

“I’ve been to Shadowdale,” the sage added. “Ye are no longer suspects in my killing. But there is still the matter of six guards that were murdered during your escape. That ye will still have to answer for.”

“You were spying on us,” Kelemvor noted flatly. “That’s what you were doing here. Checking up on us.”

“What else could I do?” Elminster grumbled. “If the charges against ye are true, then ye’re hardly fit to serve as champions of Mystra and all of Faerun.”

Kelemvor explained that it had been Cyric who’d committed the murders, without Midnight or Adon’s knowledge or assistance. The fighter noted, too, that Cyric was now in the employ of the Black Lord.

“You don’t know that for sure!” Midnight snapped, shooting the fighter an angry glance. “When you arrived at the safe house in Scarsdale, you were pretending to work for Bane just to get free of him. Cyric might have been forced into a similar position.” The mage turned to Elminster. “I never saw him commit any of the murders of which he’s been accused, and Shadowdale has a history of convicting innocent people, as far as I’m concerned.”

Adon folded his arms over his chest, and his eyes grew wide with surprise, but the surprise was tinged with fear, “Cyric’s alive! He’ll come after us next, Midnight.”

The raven-haired mage shook her head. “Adon, we have no proof -“

The cleric stopped in the middle of the street. “Cyric is dangerous, Midnight. And not just to us. After the trip down the Ashaba, you should understand that!”

“Let’s keep moving,” Elminster whispered, scanning the crowd for guards or priests of Torm. “I have a sanctuary nearby where the two of ye can continue thy discussion.”

Adon walked to Kelemvor’s side, but Midnight put her hand on Elminster’s arm. “We’ll go, but first, tell us what happened in the Temple of Lathander,” the mage ordered “Adon and I were convinced you’d died. How did you survive the rift?”

Elminster glared at the heroes. “Must we do this now?”

“Aye,” Adon said. “Right now.”

The sage rolled his eyes and motioned for the heroes to follow him into a nearby alley. “My attempt to raise the Eye of Eternity went afoul because of the instability in the magic weave that surrounds and envelops all things. When I examined the rift, I saw that the spell had opened a gate to Gehenna, a terrible place filled with awful, nightmarish creatures.”

The sage paused and glanced up and down the alley. “I knew that the only way to seal the rift was to do it from the other side, where the effects of the magical chaos were very slight and my spells were almost certain to succeed. I let the rift pull me into Gehenna, and once I was through, I cast the spells that sealed the gateway. There was only one point of difficulty.”

“You were trapped outside of the Realms?” Midnight gasped, her eyes wide with wonder.

“Escape from the Plane of Gehenna, where Loviatar, Mistress of Pain, made her home before the gods were cast down, was not a simple matter. I was forced to fight my way through imps, mephits, and every form of unholy creature imaginable.” Elminster shuddered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “Eventually I found an area even the monsters feared to tread. Mystra had blessed a patch of ground on that terrible plane centuries ago during a dispute with Loviatar.”

A cleric of Torm appeared in the crowd at the end of the alley, and Elminster started to make his way farther up the passage. “When I returned to Shadowdale,” he said over his shoulder, “there was little to do but pick up the pieces. And now I am here, wasting time jabbering with ye three even as the damned palace guard makes preparations to hunt us down.”

As the heroes walked through the alleys to Elminster’s lair, they discussed what they’d discovered. Kelemvor couldn’t believe that Adon and the sage had Tenwealth in their grasps and let him walk away. But when the cleric explained Tenwealth’s status in Torm’s temple, Kelemvor put the final pieces of the puzzle together.

“Torm’s high priests are running all those who are faithful to other gods out of the city,” the fighter whispered. “Then they take the abandoned temples and add the property to their own.”

“That must be why the Sunites burned their temple to the ground, along with everything they couldn’t carry away,” Midnight added. “They didn’t want the Tormites to get it!”

Adon frowned and ran a hand through his dirty, tangled hair. “So most of the sacred artifacts that have been confiscated from the city must be hidden in the Temple of Torm.”

“Right!” Kelemvor snapped. “And if Bane disguised the tablet, as we suspect, and hid it in a temple, the Tormites probably don’t even know what they’ve got! Tenwealth probably believed it to be just another trinket when he saw it.”

“This is just as I suspected,” Elminster noted as he narrowed his eyes and looked at the heroes closely. “And it’s the reason why I was at the temple this morning, too.”

“Then you agree?” Midnight whispered in surprise.

“Yes, Midnight. I believe ye’re right,” the white-haired mage said. “The Tablet of Fate is hidden in the Temple of Torm…”

The port of Scarsdale had seen more activity during the past five days than it had in the previous five months. The theft of the Queen of the Night had brought about serious ramifications for the city. Bane’s headquarters had been moved from the Zhentish garrison to the port itself, and every ship in the harbor had been placed under the direct control of the Black Lord’s troops.

A chamber inside the largest building in the port had been converted into a war room. The room was filled with maps and charts, all of which were lined with marks indicating past and future troop movements. Now, Bane sat at the head of a large, polished table covered with such maps. And as the God of Strife listened to his generals’ schemes and complaints, the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, stood behind him.

The soldier closest to the fallen god, a man named Hepton, rubbed at his temples, then folded his hands and dropped them to the table. “Lord Bane, you must address the rumors that have been circulating throughout the ranks concerning Tantras. Do you intend to mobilize our forces again so soon after taking Scardale?”

“To do so would be a grave error,” Windling, a general from the Citadel of the Raven, interjected. There were murmurs of agreement from the other Zhentish leaders.

“Enough!” Bane shouted, slamming his fist on top of the thick wooden table. The sound of the table splintering silenced the men. Tarana’s quiet giggling was the only sound in the room for a minute or more.

“The Battle of Shadowdale was a disaster,” Bane noted casually, his eyes narrowed in anger. “The loss was, of course, unexpected, and the casualties much higher than anyone could have anticipated.” The god paused and looked at the silent generals. “And while we managed an almost bloodless coup in the taking of Scardale, it is only a matter of time before the armies of Sembia and the Dales attempt to retake the city.”

The generals nodded their agreement. Bane uncurled his fist and stood up. “If we use our forces to attack Tantras, then our victory here will have amounted to nothing. It is clear to me that a majority of the occupation force must remain in Scardale.” The God of Strife smiled and ran a hand through his red hair. “But I am a god. And gods have options not open to mortals.”

The doors to the chamber flew open, and Cyric rushed in. Bane looked up and scowled slightly. Inside the Black Lord’s mind, Fzoul screeched in anger at the sight of the hawk-nosed thief.

Cyric looked around the room and realized the mistake he’d made in interrupting the session. The thief quickly lowered his head and backed away. “Lord Bane, I didn’t mean to disturb -“

“Nonsense!” the God of Strife snapped. “You aren’t interrupting anything important.” The generals looked at each other then slowly began to stand. “I didn’t say our meeting was over,” Bane growled, and the Zhentish leaders quickly salt down again.

“Lord Bane, I can come back later,” Cyric said quickly, noting the anger in the generals’ eyes. These were certainly men he didn’t want to anger.

“Give me your report,” Bane cried, his voice impatient. “Prove to my generals that the Tantras situation is well under control.”

Cyric cleared his throat. “I can’t do that.”

Bane leaned forward, putting his fists on the table. The cracked wood creaked under the god’s weight. “What happened?”

“Durrock is dead. Kelemvor killed him,” Cyric told the Black Lord, his head still bowed. “The assassin put up a spectacular fight, but the fighter tricked him.”

“Why didn’t you kill Kelemvor?” Bane asked.

“After Durrock failed, my duty was clear. I had to return to you and inform you that Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon are in Tantras.” The thief swallowed once and hoped that the other information he had for the God of Strife would appease him - for the moment, at least. “And you should know, Lord Bane, that Tantras appears to be preparing for war,”

A wave of surprised whispers rolled through the room. Bane looked at the worried faces of his generals.

“Prepare the ships and man them with as few of our Zhentilar as possible!”

“No!” Hepton cried. “This is a grave mistake!”

“Silence!” Bane shouted. “News of our victory in Scardale has obviously spread to Tantras. The city is preparing its defenses, and it is certain to call upon its neighbors for help if we give them time to do so.” The Black Lord leaned toward Hepton and snarled, “I want my banner to fly over Tantras within the week. I want it. Do you understand?”

Hepton nodded weakly, and the generals rose from the table and began to file out of the room. Cyric breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave, too.

“Not you, Cyric!” Bane snapped. The Black Lord gestured for Cyric to come closer. Tarana gripped the back of the Black Lord’s chair.

“Shall I kill him for you, Lord Bane?” Tarana asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy glaze.

“No,” Bane said casually then waited until the last of the generals had left before he spoke again. As the door closed, Bane whispered, “The Company of the Scorpions is still under your command - is that correct, Cyric?”

The hawk-nosed thief nodded and smiled slightly. It was clear that the news of Tantras’s preparation for war had turned the fallen god’s thoughts away from murder.

“I wish you and your troops to become my new personal guard. But know this,” Bane snarled and placed his hand on Cyric’s shoulder. “If any harm comes to Fzoul’s body, it will be your flesh I will inhabit next. And I will not be as generous as I was with Fzoul. Your mind will be utterly destroyed. Is that understood?” The God of Strife squeezed the thief’s shoulder until the bones felt as if they were about to break.

Wincing in pain, Cyric nodded then hurried from the war room.

The Black Lord turned to his sorceress and pointed toward the door. “Make sure the door is locked then summon Lord Myrkul for me,” Bane commanded and sat down.

The sorceress checked the door then cast an incantation. There was a brief shimmering of the air, and the amber skull of the God of the Dead floated in the air before the Black Lord.

“Congratulations on your victory in Scardale,” Myrkul told Bane, and the disembodied head bowed slightly.

“That is unimportant,” Bane grumbled. “I need to take care of a problem in Tantras. I’ll be taking some of my fleet and-“

The God of the Dead smiled a rictus grin, showing a row of rotting teeth. “And I am to have a part to play in the battle,” he noted flatly.

“I need the power you gave me in Shadowdale, the soul energies of the dead,” Bane said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Can you do it?”

“I need a large number of people to die at once in order to empower that spell,” Myrkul said suspiciously, rubbing his chin. “You sacrificed your troops in Shadowdale. Who will pay this time for the increased power I can give you?”

The God of Strife sat still for a moment, silently turning the problem over and over in his mind. He certainly couldn’t use his soldiers and priests for Myrkul’s spell again, yet the souls would have to he aligned to his cause or it might prove difficult to control them. Then the Black Lord realized whom he would make the victims of Myrkul’s spell.