Tantras (10 page)

When the woman suddenly stood up, Adon gasped and Midnight nearly lost the oars. Cyric drew his dagger and crouched in a defensive stance, but the thief felt the fear and anger drain from his body as he gazed at the golden-haired woman. The dagger slipped from Cyric’s grasp and dropped with a clatter to the bottom of the boat.

The woman, who seemed to stand waist-deep in the water, kept pace with the boat as it floated along on the river. She was clothed in a sheer gold and white gown that clung to her perfectly formed, statuesque figure. Her skin was pale, and she appeared vaguely wraithlike. A hint of the shoreline was visible through her stunning form. A white shawl was slung across her shoulders.

“Who are you?” she said in a remarkably resonant voice. Her words seemed to echo from the surface of the river and fill the cradle of water that was held between the opposing shores of deep green trees.

Midnight stopped flailing with the oars and spoke clearly, “I am Midnight of Deepingdale,” she said. “My companions are Cyric, behind me, and Adon, beside you.”

The woman smiled. “Would you… like to play?”

The surface of the river seemed to bubble as the golden-haired woman spoke. The skiff rocked back and forth unsteadily. “We don’t have time for games,” Midnight declared as she pulled the oars into the boat. “We are on important business.”

The golden-eyed woman laughed, her hand rising to her face, the tips of her fingers brushing her lips. “Oh, that sounds exciting,” she murmured. “But really, I think you should stay with me.”

The air surrounding the boat shimmered with tiny, amber sparks. Adon and Cyric were suddenly transfixed by the pale-skinned woman. Both men stood, blank-faced and staring, as the boat rocked and bobbed.

Midnight glanced at her enraptured companions, then realized what it was she faced: a nereid, a strange creature from the Elemental Plane of Water. And it seemed that the legends the magic-user had heard about the capricious water sprites were also true. All men who gazed upon a nereid were mesmerized on sight.

Before the mage could break the nereid’s spell, she heard a sudden roar behind her, and turned to see a huge tunnel form in the water directly in front of the boat. Fearing that the boat would be dragged to the bottom of the river by the tunnel, Midnight quickly turned back to the golden-haired creature. “If you kill us, we won’t be able to play your games,” Midnight shouted, her mind racing.

“I can play with you alive or dead,” the nereid said, then stroked Adon’s face and giggled. “It makes no difference.”

In desperation, Midnight picked up one of the canvas storage sacks. “We can give you something of great magic. But only we know how to use it.”

Suddenly the tunnel collapsed, just as the skiff was about to enter it. The boat rocked violently, and a fine mist washed over the heroes. Neither Adon nor Cyric moved, nor did either stop staring at the woman.

“Show me,” the nereid murmured. It rose to the top of the water and walked easily on its surface around the outside of the boat, oblivious to the craft’s motion. The creature seemed to glide over the waves, so that its feet never left the Ashaba.

Midnight contemplated the amount of time she would need to cast a single spell, but she decided against it. If only there were something in the bag I could use against this creature! Midnight thought desperately. Or better yet, something I could use to grab that shawl! If the legends were correct, then the nereid’s soul was encased in that piece of cloth. If Midnight could grab it, then she could command it to leave them alone.

“Show me!” the golden-haired creature cried, and the river came to life. Suddenly the water congealed into a dozen sparkling mirror images of the nereid. The water sprite’s doubles rose on either side of the small craft and grabbed the sides of the skiff, halting its motion completely.

As the golden-eyed sprite drew closer, Midnight noticed that it was not made of flesh and blood. Swirling, sparkling water, alive with streaks of lightning that darted back and forth, lay behind the sprite’s delicate features. The bright glow of the sky was trapped within the nereid’s body and shifted lazily as the creature moved. The sight reminded the mage of light passing through a large block of ice. Midnight raised her hands to cast a spell. “Wait!” a voice cried weakly, and Midnight turned in surprise to see Adon reach out toward the nereid. The golden-eyed creature seemed intrigued and held its ground. “You are so beautiful,” Adon murmured softly. Thoughts of Sune Firehair, the Goddess of Beauty, the goddess he once served, floated through the scarred cleric’s mind.

The nereid smiled and reached back, running its hands through its hair. “I am indeed beautiful,” the creature said. Suddenly its features began to run like wax beneath a flame. The youth and vitality drained away from its form, leaving the image of a withered hag in its place. “And now?” the nereid asked.

Adon seemed to straighten, and the amber sunlight fell upon his features, filling in the depression of the scar that lined his face. “There’s no difference,” he said. “None whatsoever”

Again the nereid’s form turned waxen until it returned to the shape of a beautiful young woman. “You’re in love with me,” it stated matter-of-factly. “You would do anything I say.”

Once, when Adon, Midnight, Kelemvor, and Cyric had entered the ruins of Castle Kilgrave on a mission to rescue the Goddess of Magic, the God of Strife had assaulted the heroes with visions of their fondest desires. Adon had seen Sune Firehair - and he had nearly succumbed to the illusion. Only the intervention of his friends had saved him.

Now, as Adon stared at the nereid’s beautiful, mesmerizing eyes, something deep inside his mind recalled the memory of that illusion back to him. The cleric felt his lower lip tremble. “No…,” he growled. “No, I don’t think I would.” Adon sprang into lightning motion and quickly tore the shawl from the nereid’s shoulders.

“No!” the creature screamed as it tried to snatch the shawl back. As it did, the watery doubles of the nereid lifted the boat from the surface of the river.

Adon tumbled into Midnight, and they both fell to the bottom of the skiff in a tangle of arms and legs. Cyric, on the other hand, still stood in the stern. He, too, was reaching for the nereid’s shawl. Seeing the thief’s dagger within reach, Midnight grabbed the weapon, then snatched the shawl from Adon.

“Put us down!” Midnight cried as she folded the shawl over the sharp blade.

All at once, the water creatures dropped the boat to the river. Cyric fell backward, bumped his head, and stopped moving. The nereid cried out in pain. “Please!” the sprite screeched piteously. “Leave my shawl alone!”

“I thought you wanted to play,” Midnight said, her voice low and cold.

For a moment, the only sound Adon and Midnight could hear was the steady gurgling of the river. Then suddenly a fine mist struck the back of their necks. The cleric turned to see the nearest of the nereid’s doubles contort its face into a terrible visage and hiss threateningly.

“Dispel your servants!” Midnight demanded, pressing the dagger against the shawl. “Let us go in peace!”

A series of strangled gasps escaped from the watery constructs as they dispersed with a muffled splash. The golden eyes of the nereid narrowed, and suddenly the skiff was in motion once again. The creatures flanking the boat had returned to their original watery state.

“Adon, take the oars!” Midnight shouted as the flow of the river spun the boat around and dragged it upstream. The cleric grabbed the oars and tried to control the craft.

Cyric groaned and sat up in the stern of the skiff. Suddenly the nereid was beside the thief, clutching at his arms, trying to pull him out of the boat. Before the creature could claim its hostage, however, Adon locked both his hands tightly around Cyric’s right ankle.

At that moment, Midnight drove the dagger through the shawl.

The nereid froze in place momentarily, holding on to the groggy thief’s arms. Then violent, painful shudders wracked the creature’s body. Finally the sprite let out a high-pitched, whining sigh and collapsed into the water.

Adon dragged Cyric back into the skiff. The thief was badly shaken. The cleric stood over him, smiling, as Cyric rubbed his bruised head and looked around, trying to remember what had happened to him after the nereid had appeared.

The beautiful white shawl in Midnight’s hands gradually grew black, then started to crumble. The mage looked into the water, but the nereid was gone, returned to the Elemental Plane of Water. Shaking her head, Midnight dropped the decaying shawl into the Ashaba and watched it float away upstream.

Fzoul Chembryl lay, close to death, upon a rough straw mattress, staring up at the fading amber light of the afternoon sky through the shattered ceiling of a deserted farmhouse in Zhentilar-occupied Daggerdale. Despite the casualties to Bane’s armies in the Battle of Shadowdale, the dalesmen had not tried to drive the Zhentilar from their neighboring settlement to the west. For the moment, Fzoul felt safe.

What an ignoble place to call my tomb, the wounded man thought. I, a powerful priest of the God of Strife, leader of the Zhentarim, second only to Manshoon, am to die in a stinking, burned-out hovel in a captured territory. For a moment, Fzoul wondered if the Zhentarim, a massive, largely secret organization loyal to the God of Strife, would send someone to search for him. The priest smiled grimly and dismissed the idea, certain that most of the Zhentarim would be happy to see him dead.

“Our overconfidence cost us everything!” the red-haired priest muttered aloud, although he was alone. “And your greed, Bane. Your madness and your greed…”

Fzoul attempted to move, but he could not. The pain in his chest was not unlike a huge, vicious watchdog that pounced on him whenever he was foolish enough to forget the wound he had suffered in the attack on Shadowdale.

The high priest of Bane slipped into delirium, as he had done frequently in the last few days, and events of the recent past played through his mind. Fzoul suddenly remembered discovering that Tempus Blackthorne, Bane’s chosen assistant and emissary, had died, a victim of the omnipresent instability in magic. Bane then had chosen to split Blackthorne’s duties between Fzoul and his sometime rival, Sememmon of Darkhold.

Filled with plans of how he could exploit his new position and solidify his own power base, Fzoul had accepted the post with an enthusiasm he had not felt in years. But that enthusiasm faded quickly as he learned the secrets of the god-made-flesh. The Black Lord was forced to eat, drink, and sleep, like any other man. Wound the god, and he would bleed like any other man. Fzoul, much to his disgust, was forced to tend to his master’s human needs and protect the Black Lord’s secrets at all costs.

Fzoul’s mind raced ahead. Suddenly the preparations for the Battle of Shadowdale were underway, and Sememmon was chosen to ride with Lord Bane through Voonlar. Fzoul was assigned the task of leading a five-hundred-man contingent across the Ashaba bridge to take the town from behind and capture the Twisted Tower.

The defenders of Shadowdale had destroyed the bridge rather than allow Fzoul’s forces the easy victory that had been expected. Worse still, the priest had been trapped on the west side of the bridge when it fell, away from most of his troops. Then the lean, hawk-nosed, dark-haired leader of the dalesmen at the bridge fired an arrow into Fzoul’s chest. The high priest fell from the bridge to the roiling water below, where the unnatural tide swept him upstream, along with a handful of other survivors. The small band of soldiers struggled together to stay alive until they got to shore and found a squad of Zhentilar that had been posted to watch the supply route.

The wounds of the red-haired high priest had made travel back to Zhentil Keep impossible; Fzoul knew that he’d never survive the journey. The farmhouse was the closest shelter the Zhentish soldiers could find.

“I have spilled my own blood in your name, and you desert me!” Fzoul railed. “Damn you, Bane!”

Now, forced to place his life in the hands of his subordinates, Fzoul lay upon the dirty heap of straw and tried to force his thoughts away from the near certainty of his approaching demise. As he stared at the amber sky through the ruined ceiling, the high priest realized that the light was growing brighter and more intense. Finally the color of the sky deepened to blood red, and streaks of light pierced the darkness of the farmhouse as if the boarded-up windows had been torn open.

“Attend me!” Fzoul shouted as he tried to rise, despite the pain in his chest. A skeletal hand fell upon Fzoul’s chest, gently forcing him back down. The high priest found himself staring into a face that belonged more to a corpse left on a field of battle than to a living creature.

“Zhentilar! To my side!” Fzoul yelled as he tried to back away from the horrible, rotting thing that stood before him, its hand on his chest. The priest’s chest convulsed in pain after the effort of shouting.

The skeletal figure smiled a rictus grin. “Alas, Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of Bane, the Zhentilar who were camped outside this hut are… gone.” He removed his hand from the priest’s chest. “I trust you know who I am?”

“You’ve come for me at last, then,” Fzoul whispered and closed his eyes.

“No need to be so melodramatic,” Myrkul said. “All men know my touch sooner or later. But this need not be your time to enter my kingdom.”

Fzoul tried to hide his fear. “What do you propose?” The God of the Dead raised his bony hand and drummed the tips of his fingers against his bleached white chin. The sound was high-pitched and sharp. “It is not my proposition you must entertain,” Myrkul sighed. “I’m here as, let us say, an agent of your lord and god, the immortal God of Strife.”

A short laugh escaped from the high priest. “Look at me,” Fzoul said. “What could Lord Bane want with me? I can hardly breathe anymore.”

“Lord Bane’s avatar was destroyed in the Battle of Shadowdale, in the Temple of Lathander,” Myrkul stated flatly. “You have been chosen for the high honor of being host for Lord Bane’s essence.” The God of the Dead looked around the ruined hut and grinned again. “But my wounds -,” Fzoul began.