Tantras at-2 Page 24

  The watchman sighed.

  In moments, Varden and the heroes had Otto on board the Queen of the Night. Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon hid as Varden called out, "Fair lady, he's getting kind of heavy, and you're the prize he came ashore to find, not I, a humble serving boy!"

  Kelemvor shook his head at the thief's overwrought performance.

  At the walkway, Liane said farewell to the watchman and promised to look him up when she returned from the ship. The woman tried to appear casual and unhurried as she made her way to the boat, although her hands were shaking the entire time.

  The heroes dragged the galley master back through the shadows, then below deck, where the slaves waited. Bjorn the One-Eyed sat at his station, mumbling curses. Suddenly the body of the galley master fell before the slave, and he nearly jumped out of his seat. Kelemvor smiled at the slave and pulled back the flaps of the galley master's coat to reveal a huge set of keys tied to the man's waist.

  "That's a sight I'll wager you hadn't expected to see this night," Kelemvor noted softly as he tore the keys from the groaning galley master and handed them to Bjorn.

  "He was a cruel taskmaster," one of the slaves said from the shadows of the slave hold. "He'd beat us — whip us — for no reason."

  "No one escaped his punishment," another slave cried.

  The tide of condemnations grew, but the shouts abruptly ended with the sharp, metallic click of Bjorn opening his chains. The wildman stood up, a bit shaky on his feet at first, but proud and tall. In fact, the slave towered over the heroes.

  Bjorn grabbed the galley master's hair and pulled the man up to look at him. "Remember the promise I made earlier this evening about what I'd do with your arms and legs?" the wildman growled. The slave grabbed a metal clamp and locked it in place around Otto's throat. "Keep thinking about it." Then the one-eyed man turned to face the heroes. "You've come to liberate us? What for? What do you want in return?"

  The fighter smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "Safe passage to Tantras. Then the ship is yours," Kelemvor said.

  Bjorn studied the fighter with his one good eye. A smile broke over his face, and he threw the set of keys to the next slave. "A fair deal," Bjorn decided and looked to the army of slaves. "What about the rest of you?" There were cheers as the slaves were unchained, one by one. Cries of allegiance to the new captain of the Queen of the Night, Bjorn the One-Eyed, filled the hold.

  "How many of you men want to see the stars once again?" Bjorn asked. The slaves roared in approval.

  Moments later, the sight of the minor skirmish taking place on the Queen of the Night between the freed slaves and the few Zhentish sailors still on the ship did not escape the notice of the grubby watchman. As the Zhentish were pitched overboard, alarms were sounded.

  On the ship, Kelemvor watched as Adon clubbed a Zhentilar with his war hammer. The soldier was still alive, and the cleric was about to strike again when Kelemvor raised his hand. "A few should be kept alive as hostages. Perhaps they'll have information we can use!" Kelemvor ordered as he lowered the cleric's hand.

  "We'd best secure the prisoners in the hold, then," the cleric noted. Looking at the harbor, Adon grimaced. The alarm had been sounded, and a few soldiers raced in their direction.

  "They're more observant than I would have wagered," Kelemvor yelled, then turned to Bjorn. "Do what you have to do. Just get us out of here!"

  The battle with the few Zhentilar that boarded the galley was very short. Despite their training and their superior weapons, the Zhentilar could not compensate for the large numbers of slaves that waited for them onboard the ship.

  When the fighting was over, Bjorn had ordered as many of the slaves as he could spare to take their stations at the oars. The one-eyed man was now the galley master. The rhythmic sound of drums filled the night, and the Queen of the Night soon raised anchor and pulled away from the dock.

  Soon after they had left the harbor, Midnight rushed to Kelemvor's side. "Look there," Midnight cried, pointing back toward Scardale.

  Two of Bane's ships had left the dock in pursuit of the captured galley.

  "Wonderful!" Bjorn cried out as he was informed of the news. "Those dogs have given us no choice. We turn and fight!"

  In moments, the ship was alive with activity, and the Queen of the Night turned to intercept the closer of the Zhentish ships. The catapults on the deck were filled with everything the men could get their hands on, including the Zhentish corpses that had not yet been cast over the side.

  From the cries of panic that sounded from the opposing ship as the Queen drew close, Kelemvor realized that the Zhentish were hardly prepared for this type of battle. The majority of their crew was probably on shore leave, celebrating the fall of Scardale with the crew of the Queen of the Night and the rest of Bane's forces.

  "Ramming speed!" Bjorn cried, a maniacal glint in his one good eye.

  The ships collided, and a hole was torn in the side of the pursuing Zhentish ship. The Queen of the Night withdrew, and the second Zhentish ship moved in to pick up survivors as the Queen sailed out into the Dragon Reach. But before the galley could put a hundred yards between it and the other Zhentish ship, there was a cry from the bridge. Kelemvor looked up and saw a horrible shape floating in the air above the galley.

  Kelemvor's mind seemed to freeze as he realized that Bane must have discovered his betrayal. Sejanus had escaped the suits of animated armor and now sat astride his nightmare, ready to attack the galley. The assassin's bolos whirled in the air. The fighter looked to the bow and saw Midnight about to throw a spell.

  "Midnight, get out of the way!" Kelemvor cried, but he was too late. The bolos flew through the air. In seconds, the weapon would wrap around Midnight's torso, and they would knock her over the edge of the ship, into the water. Sejanus would have his prisoner at last.

  Suddenly Varden appeared beside the mage and shoved her to the side. The bolos wrapped around the blond thief's neck, and Midnight heard a sickening snap as her friend's neck broke. Varden fell over the side of the ship, already dead.

  "No!" Midnight wailed in horror. Images of Cyric being swept away in the Ashaba flooded the mage's mind. She raised her hands once more. Her fingers moved like quicksilver, and the incantation flew from her lips so quickly that it sounded like gibberish.

  The assassin reigned in the nightmare and hovered in place for an instant, the extent of his error suddenly becoming clear. A spiral of light leaped from Midnight's hands and struck the water below Sejanus. He was startled to find no ill effects from the spell. Whatever incantation the mage had tried had gone awry. Ordering his mount to descend toward their prey, the assassin charged toward the Queen of the Night.

  But as Sejanus raced down through the air, the nightmare he rode slapping fiery hoofprints into the sky, a group of huge, black tentacles burst from the dark green water next to the galley. Pulling a knife from his boot, the assassin looked down and saw the horrible sight. Dozens of writhing, slimy limbs were rising up toward him, curling around the nightmare's legs.

  This is only an illusion, Sejanus thought. These figments cannot harm me.

  He was wrong.

  The tentacles grabbed the assassin and his mount and carefully, methodically pulled them apart. When the last of the black limbs sank back into the Dragon Reach, Midnight collapsed. The few small pieces of Sejanus's armor that had stayed afloat for a moment after striking the water now sank beneath the bloody waves.

  Several hours passed, and Midnight would not speak. Liane had been told of Varden's death, and she too had kept to herself. At highsun the following day, Midnight joined Kelemvor in the private quarters Bjorn had set aside for his guests.

  The mage was still badly shaken. "How could I have done that?" she asked as she entered the cabin.

  "He deserved death," Kelemvor concluded coldly. "An assassin doesn't feel remorse. He doesn't care about the agony he causes to those left behind. You've done the Realms a favor."

  "That's not what I mean," Mid
night said. "The spell I used. It should have been a fireball spell. That was all I had time to learn when we reached the Sembian's safe house. But something else happened. Something else completely."

  Kelemvor shrugged. "Magic is unstable, remember? We both know that."

  Midnight shook her head, trying to scatter the unwanted questions that had grown there since the incident. "Was that all?" the mage asked.

  Kelemvor sensed the apprehension in his lover's voice. "Aye," he said, reassuring the raven-haired mage. "What else could it be?"

  Midnight shuddered. "No more talk," she said as she drew the fighter close to her. "We've been apart for far too long to talk this day away." Kelemvor kissed her then smiled. "I told you there would be time for us," he reminded her softly.

  It was the following day when the lovers left the cabin. On deck, they noticed Adon talking with Liane. The scarred cleric placed a comforting hand on the woman's back as he gestured out to sea. Liane sniffed the flower she held tightly in her hands, then leaned over the railing and faced east, toward Scardale and the spot where Varden's body had sunk beneath the sea.

  "I forgive you," she said quietly and cast the flower upon the waters of the Dragon Reach.

  XI

  Tantras

  Bane was furious. News of the seizure of the Queen of the Night and Midnight's escape from Scardale had driven the Black Lord into such a state that he had refused to speak to anyone the entire day. Now, sitting alone in his chambers in Scardale, the fallen God of Strife muttered and cursed.

  Suddenly the doors to his chamber opened and the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, entered. The blond madwoman was practically drooling with excitement.

  "Why do you disturb me when I left strict orders that I wished solitude?" Bane snarled, curling his hands into fists.

  The sorceress took a deep breath. "There is a man who wishes to see you, Lord Bane. He waits just outside this chamber."

  "A man?" Bane asked irascibly. "Not a god?"

  The blond sorceress looked at the Black Lord in confusion. "A god, Lord Bane?"

  The God of Strife closed his eyes, trying to control his anger. "The presence of another god would have been sufficient cause for you to interrupt my meditation. Not the supplications of a mortal."

  "I think you will see this mortal," Tarana purred, rocking back and forth on her heels.

  Gripping the arms of his throne, Bane grimaced as he growled, "I do not trust you, mage, but show him in anyway."

  Tarana Lyr sprinted across the length of the chamber and threw the door open wide. "He will see you now," she cooed from the door.

  A lean, dark-haired man entered the chamber, and the sorceress quietly closed the door behind him.

  Bane leaped from his throne, suddenly, frighteningly aware that Fzoul had reclaimed his body.

  "You!" the priest shouted in anger, and images of Cyric firing an arrow into the red-haired man at the Ashaba Bridge coursed through the mind he shared with the God of Strife. The priest's anger pushed the Black Lord's consciousness down into his mind's dark recesses. Fzoul reached out to the sorceress. "Give me your dagger!"

  Cyric stood motionless, a thin film of sweat on his brow. "Lord Bane, you must listen — "

  Fzoul grabbed the weapon from Tarana and advanced on the thief. "Not Bane, you imbecile! It is Fzoul Chembryl who will taste your blood this day."

  The hawk-nosed thief backed away from the red-haired priest. The last thing Cyric expected was to confront Fzoul. He was certain that Bane would have crushed Fzoul's mind completely when he took the priest as an avatar.

  Fzoul lunged with the knife and Cyric sidestepped as best he could. But maneuverability was limited in the chamber, and a single misstep could mean death. Cyric couldn't risk drawing a weapon. If he killed the avatar of Bane, the explosion might level the entire port town of Scardale — or the fallen god might choose his body to inhabit next. Worse still, the giggling blond sorceress was chanting and seemed prepared to release a spell.

  The red-haired priest feinted to the left then drove his body to the right, crashing into Cyric. Both men tumbled to the ground. The thief's head struck the floor with a sharp crack, and Fzoul drove the dagger toward Cyric's right eye, then stopped. The priest's eyes turned crimson, and Bane smiled as he stared into Cyric's wide, panic-filled eyes.

  "Fzoul's anger surprises me sometimes," the Black Lord said casually as he climbed off the thief and handed the dagger back to the sorceress. "He has a capacity for hate greater than most gods. Excepting myself, of course."

  "No need, Lord Bane," Cyric said as he struggled to his feet.

  Bane turned his back on Cyric and climbed to his throne. "I hadn't expected to see you, thief," the God of Strife noted.

  "Reports from my assassins told me that you were dead. Of course, my assassins have hardly been reliable these days."

  Cyric shook his head, and confusion crossed his face. "Wait a minute. What happened to Fzoul?" the thief asked numbly.

  Settling back in his throne, the god laughed and tapped his forehead. "The priest struggles for freedom… in here. We have a deal, you see. He does certain things for me. I allow him to rail at his fate and curse the world. Sometimes he gets out of control." The Black Lord paused for a moment then smiled. "He'll be punished later," he said, seemingly to himself.

  Looking off at the wall for a moment, Bane listened to Fzoul's cries for vengeance. The smile dropped from the god's face as he turned back to the thief. "I see you wear my colors, Cyric."

  The thief looked down at the Zhentilar garb he had taken from the Company of the Scorpions. "I suppose I do," Cyric answered absently.

  "Why have you come here, thief?" Bane asked gravely. "You should have known that a slow, painful death is the most you can hope for at my hands. You are, after all, allied with forces that seek my destruction and the fall of my empire."

  "No longer, Lord Bane," Cyric stated flatly. "I entered Scardale with a troop of Zhentilar two hundred men strong, and all loyal to my command."

  "Oh, I see," Bane snickered. "You seek to usurp my power. Shall I abdicate now, Lord Cyric?"

  The hawk-nosed thief remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his hands open, palms to the god. The sorceress approached Cyric, squinting as she stared into his face. Next she circled the man, examining him from every vantage.

  "I have no intention of challenging you," Cyric said, ignoring the giggling madwoman who still circled around him. "I wish to offer my services to your cause."

  A single laugh escaped the lips of the Black Lord. In his mind, Fzoul was screaming.

  You cannot trust him, the red-haired priest cried to the Black Lord. He will betray us. The thief will destroy us both!

  Bane sent a horde of gibbering, imaginary terrors to chase away Fzoul's consciousness. For your impudence, I may just make him your commander when I'm done, Fzoul, the fallen god taunted to his avatar's mind as it retreated.

  The god looked to the mortal who stood before him. "Tell me why I should believe you," Bane growled, the smile suddenly gone from his face. "Your cursed friend, Kelemvor, played this game with me. He made a pact then reneged on his agreement at the first opportunity. What guarantee do I have that you would not do the same?"

  Cyric started at the mention of the fighter's name. Perhaps his former allies were still alive after all. He quickly pushed all thoughts of Midnight and Kelemvor aside, though, and returned to the Black Lord's question. The answer was rather obvious. "None," the thief said firmly.

  Bane raised a single eyebrow. "You're honest, anyway." The God of Strife paused then stood. "Give me some proof that you favor my causes. Tell me about the mage."

  Cyric told the Black Lord more than he ever intended to relate. He informed Bane of almost all that had occurred from the time he first met Midnight in the walled city of Arabel, to the time they were separated on the Ashaba.

  "I'm intrigued," Bane said as he paced back and forth in front of his throne. "For some reason, I actually think you're tell
ing me the truth."

  "I am," Cyric told the god. "I've kept myself alive through much to offer my services to your cause." The thief smiled and then explained the intricate series of deceptions that had kept him alive from the time Yarbro and Mikkel found him on the Ashaba's banks to the present. Tarana stood by the thief with her arms folded across her breasts. The mad mage hugged herself tightly as the bloodshed and violence was exposed by Cyric's casual narrative.

  Bane shook his head as Cyric concluded his gory tale. "In the last few weeks, you've betrayed everything you once held dear. What do I offer that you want so badly?"

  "Power," Cyric snapped, a little too emphatically. "The power to shake empires one day."

  The Black Lord's lips trembled in amusement. "You sound more like a rival than an ally, thief."

  Cyric took a step toward Bane's throne. "The Realms are very large, Black Lord. When you have conquered them all, you will certainly be able to spare a small kingdom for me. After all, a true god cannot bother himself with the petty day-to-day operations of an entire world." The thief paused and took another step toward the God of Strife. "Give me a kingdom to run."

  The Black Lord was stunned. "You have a gifted tongue, Cyric. Perhaps I should not waste such skills by slaughtering you where you stand, though that would be amusing." Bane gestured for the sorceress to draw near. She had backed herself into a corner, near the door. "Have Durrock released from his torments and brought before me. We are going to give the thief a chance to hang himself."

  Tarana bowed and raced from the chamber.

  When she was gone, Bane walked to the thief's side. "Now that my insane assistant has scampered away, is there anything about the mage you have not told me?"

  A name flashed into Cyric's mind. Midnight's true name. The words were poised on the end of his tongue, but he drew them back. With that information, the Black Lord could lay claim to the soul of the mage in an instant, and Cyric wasn't sure that that would be at all acceptable. Not yet, anyway.