Tantras (14 page)

Actually, the occupation of Scardale had been very quiet for several years. It hadn’t been long ago that Lashan Aumersair, a young, aggressive lord of the dale, overran Harrowdale, Featherdale, and Battledale with his armies. But Lashan’s empire hadn’t lasted for long. The Dales, Cormyr, Sembia, Hillsfar, and even Zhentil Keep all banded together to halt Scardale’s expansion. Now each of the kingdoms that had supplied troops to defeat the young lord had a garrison in the city. Like the other garrisons, Zhentil Keep’s contingent of soldiers was limited to twelve men-at-arms. The balance of power among the garrisons in Scardale shifted from one day to the next, but little of consequence ever happened to change the status quo in the occupied city.

“In other words, there has been no progress!” Bane exploded. “I expect you to be doing more in Scardale than playing dice and keeping the peace!”

“Actually, we engaged the Cormyrian soldiers in a small skirmish only last week,” Cadeo mumbled, trying to smile feebly.

“Any casualties?” Bane asked, encouraged.

“Cadeo broke one of their thumbs,” Knopf muttered as he pointed to the young, flaxen-haired soldier. “I’m afraid there really hasn’t been much excitement here recently, Lord Bane.”

“I see,” Bane said slowly. “That sounds like something we can remedy. Where is Jhembryn Durrock?”

“Lord Durrock?” Knopf asked. He shifted his feet nervously for a moment, then ran his hand through his beard.

“If that is the pompous title he has assumed, then, aye, ‘Lord’ Durrock,” the God of Strife growled, his voice hardening. “Find him and bring him to this portal immediately! I will be waiting.”

Bane folded the arms of his avatar as the three soldiers hurried from the small room. Looking away from the magical opening, he cocked his head slightly and glanced at his sorceress. “I suppose every moment this portal remains open increases the risk to you.”

“It is not a problem,” Tarana responded. Her eyes narrowed to mere slits, and a mad smile stretched across her face, marring the illusion of delicate beauty. “I enjoy the danger.”

Moments later, a huge, dark-skinned man appeared before the scrying portal. His flesh had been seared almost black, and severe burns grossly disfigured most of his face. A thick beard and mustache succeeded in hiding only some of the damage. A black-visored helmet, which had been removed in respect for the Black Lord, acted as a mask to further conceal the worst of the assassin’s deformities. In fact, the other garrisons had demanded that Durrock wear the helmet at all times inside the city, since the assassin’s appearance had been known to give nightmares to Scardale’s children.

“I live but to serve you, Lord Bane,” Durrock said, his voice a hoarse whisper. The assassin bowed slightly, but he didn’t allow his eyes to wander from the scrying portal.

“Yes, Durrock. I know that you do,” Bane said in a low voice. “And that knowledge pleases me - especially in light of what I am about to tell you.” The God of Strife smiled an evil grin.

“My spies have informed me that a mage, a raven-haired worshiper of Mystra who opposed me at the Battle of Shadowdale, is heading toward Scardale. She is traveling down the Ashaba.” The God of Strife paused for a moment and let the smile melt from his features. “Capture her… alive. I am coming to Scardale to interrogate her personally.”

A scowl crossed Durrock’s ravaged face, and the assassin bowed again. “As you wish, Lord Bane,” he said flatly. “How will I find her?”

“That is not my concern!” the God of Strife screamed, curling his right hand into a fist. “If you cannot accept this mission, ‘Lord’ Durrock, then tell me now so that I can find someone more suitable.”

“That will not be necessary, Lord Bane,” the assassin replied. “I will find her.”

The Black Lord smiled again. “Good. You will find her on the Ashaba River itself. I understand that a contingent of dalesmen are heading toward Blackfeather Bridge to intercept her flight. You may wish to begin there.” Bane turned to Tarana and waved his hand. “Oh, by the way,” the God of Strife said as the scrying portal started to fade. “She has two others with her. Do with them as you please…”

The portal vanished, and Durrock found himself staring at a circular, polished shield on the wall of the soldiers’ quarters. He scowled again and headed for the door.

As he left the hastily constructed barracks, Durrock allowed the full effects of the sun to play on his ruined face for only a moment. Then he heard footsteps approaching and lowered the visor. Greeting a pale-skinned fighter from Hillsfar with a brief nod, the assassin passed him by silently. As he walked, Durrock surveyed the port town that stretched before him.

The Scar, the steep ravine for which the town was named, lay to the north. Port Ashaba, the town’s busy harbor, was to the south, at the other end of town. In between the two landmarks, a host of buildings ran the gamut from functional houses where hardworking residents of Scardale raised their families, to abandoned shacks and workhouses that had fallen into various stages of disrepair since the war. There were also gigantic warehouses, where supplies for ships preparing to cross the Dragon Reach were plentiful. One such warehouse was Durrock’s present destination.

The guards who stood watch before the warehouse moved aside quickly when the assassin approached. “Lord Durrock,” one said humbly, opening the large wooden door for the forbidding, black-robed figure.

“I ride in an hour with my lieutenants. Inform the necessary parties,” Durrock snapped to the guards before he dismissed them and entered the warehouse alone.

The warehouse was almost empty. A rickety, rotted wooden staircase led to an open trap door at the top of the stairs. A single shaft of light shone through the opening, bathing three suits of armor that lay in the lower room’s center in an intense, macabre brilliance that almost made them seem attractive. On closer examination, though, the armor’s appearance proved more ghastly than attractive - night black, covered with rows of razor-sharp spikes. Durrock and two of his most trusted men would don that armor soon.

Next to the armor lay three fine leather saddles. They were magnificently crafted, but far too large for any normal steed. As Durrock waited for his fellow assassins, he busied himself with checking the armor and tack.

Within five minutes, two more assassins quietly entered the empty, cavernous warehouse. Durrock nodded a silent greeting to the two men and moved toward the armor. The other assassins followed. Soon all three were fully clad in the frightening, deadly mail.

“Summon your mounts,” Durrock said flatly as he placed a thick metal chain around his neck. A glowing black pendant hung on the end of the chain, in the shape of a small horse with glowing red eyes.

In unison, all three assassins held up identical pendants and slowly repeated a series of powerful commands. Bolts of red and black lightning flashed across the room. A swirling blue cloud appeared in the center of the room, high in the air, accompanied by a wave of noxious-smelling mist.

Three sets of glowing red eyes appeared in a rift in the cloud, and the assassins could hear the sound of heavy, thunderous hoofbeats. Their mounts were approaching.

First one, then another, then a third gigantic black horse leaped through the swirling rift and landed heavily on the floor of the warehouse. Fire flashed from the horses’ hooves, and the creatures’ nostrils flared orange. The huge ebon steeds reared and bared a set of perfectly white fangs.

“You are ours to command!” Durrock cried, holding the pendant out toward one of the nightmares. “Lord Bane has given us the tools to call you from the Planes to do our bidding!” The nightmare mounts reared again, breathing clouds of smoke from their nostrils.

The nightmares whinnied nervously as the assassins moved toward them, but the horses could do nothing to prevent the humans from saddling them. The special magical pendants Bane had provided for Durrock and his men gave them complete control over the strange otherworldly beasts.

Durrock wheeled his nightmare around and spurred it toward the huge double doors at the front of the warehouse. The nightmare reared up and gave the doors a mighty kick with its flaming hooves. The doors burst open, and the three assassins raced out into the street. At the sight, the nearby villagers gasped and shrieked. Several fainted dead away.

Durrock laughed and pulled up on his nightmare’s reigns, and the creature leaped into the air. Within a few minutes the scarred assassin and his lieutenants were racing across the sky, the nightmares’ hooves pounding flaring gouts of fire into the air as they flew toward Blackfeather Bridge.

Earlier in the day, Cyric had made the decision to portage the skiff around the dangerous rapids that lay ahead, where the horseshoe curve of the Ashaba led southwest and sprouted two tributaries before finishing its arc and traveling northeast. Midnight gazed at the violently churning water and felt relieved that they weren’t going to attempt the passage. Fallen trees groped over the shoreline, their branches half buried in the water. The trees looked like gnarled gray hands with thousands of skeletal fingers. Large, craggy rocks rose up out of the water in the distance. Clouds of froth gathered before the rocks, calling attention to areas where the flow of the river was temporarily slowed by the stones.

Heavy woods stood sentinel on either side of the Ashaba, but there were occasional clearing on the shore, left, perhaps, by fishermen or other travelers. Cyric guided the skiff toward the eastern bank, where a small clearing was visible. As the heroes approached shore, the thief barked out orders for his companions to get out of the boat and guide it toward land.

Cyric jumped out of the boat, too, and together the three heroes dragged the skiff to shore. Beyond the small clearing lay a path that followed the bank of the river. Obviously they weren’t the first to choose not to brave the rapids downstream.

“We’ll have to carry the boat awhile,” Cyric grumbled as he pulled his pack from the skiff. “That path should take us to the edge of the woods. We can follow the Ashaba for a little ways, then cut overland through Battledale and get the boat back into the water beyond the bend.” The thief paused to wipe sweat from his eves. “Is that simple enough for everyone to follow?”

Midnight flinched. “You don’t have to treat us like children, Cyric. Your meaning is quite clear.” The raven-haired mage grabbed the sack containing her spellbook and slung it over her shoulder.

“Is it?” Cyric said, then turned his back on the mage and shrugged. “Perhaps…”

Placing her hand on Cyric’s upper arm, Midnight gave a gentle squeeze, then rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Cyric, I’m your friend. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me about it if you need to talk.”

The thief pulled away from Midnight’s comforting touch with obvious repulsion, as if her fingers were the legs of a spider. He refused to look at her. “I don’t need to talk to anyone,” he snapped. “Besides, you wouldn’t like what I had to say.”

Behind Midnight and Cyric, Adon trembled and climbed into the boat. The cleric pulled his knees up to his face and closed his eyes. Midnight took a step back toward the skiff, then stopped as she saw the thief’s back tense, as if he were preparing to attack Adon. Instinctively, the mage stepped in front of the thief, blocking the quivering cleric from view.

“Cyric, you can say anything you want to me,” Midnight pleaded. “Don’t you know that by now? When you were wounded, on the ride to Tilverton, you told me so much about yourself, so much about the pain and the heartache that’s driven you. I know your secrets, and I -“

“Don’t badger me!” Cyric hissed as he moved closer to Midnight in a rage. The hawk-nosed man pointed at Midnight with his right hand, his fingers thrust forward like daggers. The mage backed away slowly.

“I-I wasn’t,” Midnight whispered. She looked into Cyric’s eyes and shuddered. There was something in the thief’s eyes that frightened her, something she had never noticed before.

“I know your secrets, too,” Cyric growled. He stood only a few inches from the mage. “Don’t forget that, Ariel!”

The mage stood perfectly still. Cyric had learned her true name on the journey to Shadowdale. With that information, in league with a powerful mage, the thief could, if he chose, hold dominion over her soul. Midnight knew she should have been afraid, but she was simply angry.

“You know nothing about me!” Midnight cried and turned to the boat. Adon stood up and held his hand out toward the mage.

“I know you,” the cleric said softly and moved to Midnight’s side. He pointed to Cyric, who was still glaring at the dark-haired magic-user. “I know you, too, Cyric.”

The thief narrowed his eyes, then looked away and walked to the clearing. “We have a long journey. We should go now if we’re going at all.” After a moment, the thief cleared his throat and spoke again. “Are we going, Midnight?” he asked.

The mage trembled. “We’re going. Let’s go, Adon.”

Smiling at the mage, Adon gathered the remaining gear and got out of the skiff. Both he and Midnight turned to Cyric, who was still standing a few yards away. The thief muttered something, walked to the skiff, and grabbed the bow. Midnight and Adon took hold of the stern, and together the travelers flipped the surprisingly light craft upside down and held it over their heads. They followed the path through the woods, parallel to the river, for nearly an hour, speaking only when necessary.

As the thief had suggested, the heroes soon broke from the woods to take the more direct route past the rapids. Soon, they were in view of the low, rolling hills of Battledale. For hours they were surrounded by lush green rises as they carried the boat over the soft ground. The hills in the distance seemed to melt, losing form until they became a hazy, greenish white wall on the horizon. A soft wind whispered over the dale, and occasionally a sound from the river made it to their ears.

The heroes found a path that lay between a series of hills and followed it. On either side of the travelers, the rising earth was marked by ridges that angled up to the top of the hills, then blended into the soft, brownish green of the landscape. As they progressed through the dale, the hills that were closest came into sharp focus, while those in the far distance lost their form and melted into the sky. Slow-moving, puffy clouds drifted past.