Tantras (7 page)

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

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

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

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

“I came back for you!” Cyric hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Kel?” Midnight gasped through sharp breaths as they struggled up the stairs.

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

“Justice!” Midnight spat out in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s right,” Lhaeo said softly. “You must go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The prisoners!” someone shouted from the tower. “They’ve escaped!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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