Tantras

XIII

Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, Kelemvor stood face to face with Midnight as the heroes said their farewells. The mage kissed the green-eyed fighter for the fifth and final time then brushed the hair from his face. Kelemvor stared into her dark and beautiful eyes, and felt a chill.

I couldn't stand to lose her again, the fighter thought, then said, "Perhaps we should stay together after all. I don't like the idea of you risking your life — "

The mage placed her fingers to Kelemvor's lips then smiled gently. "We're all at risk. The best chance we have is to get what we came for and move on quickly," she told her lover. "You know that we can cover more ground and accomplish our task faster this way."

Kelemvor reached up and covered Midnight's hand with his own. "Aye," he grumbled as he kissed her fingers. "Be careful."

Midnight made a sarcastic comment and patted the fighter's face. Kelemvor watched as the mage broke from him, said goodbye to the cleric, and walked away.

Kelemvor turned to Adon. "Until we meet again," he said to the scarred cleric, though he was still watching Midnight as she walked down the street. "Adon?"

No response. Kelemvor turned and saw the cleric across the street, already losing himself in the crowd. The fighter shrugged and headed toward the docks. Kelemvor simply studied the area of the waterfront for the first few hours after he left the Lazy Moon Inn and became familiar with a few of the larger merchant ships that were currently docked in Tantras.

If all else fails, we can always join up as crew on a merchant vessel, Kelemvor thought, though the idea repulsed him.

At length, Kelemvor investigated the warehouses, too, but after an hour of doors slamming in his face, the fighter gave up that line of inquiry. Instead, he walked south along the docks, gazing out at the waters of the Dragon Reach. On the horizon, a long patch of purple and blue rose toward the sky and gave way to a field of perfect blue. In all the other cities nearby, the sun was already fading.

"An odd sight isn't it?" a voice asked from behind the fighter. Kelemvor turned and faced a hazel-eyed man in a brightly colored uniform. The man was a few years younger than Kelemvor, and he sported a brownish blond beard that was immaculately trimmed. His eyebrow was a single continuous line that stretched across his face, and he had an odd, crooked smile.

"Odd? Not compared with others that I have seen recently," Kelemvor told the hazel-eyed man. "It's actually quite attractive, in a way."

"Men have been driven mad by the eternal light," the man sighed. "To many, it's worse than the blackest, vilest darkness that night ever visited upon Faerun."

The fighter smiled and thought of the horrors he had faced in the Shadow Gap, on the road to Shadowdale. "When the hills of this city rise up to crush the residents between them, then you have cause to worry."

The man laughed. "You speak with the conviction of a man who's seen such terrible things."

"That and much more," Kelemvor said, a tinge of sadness in his deep voice.

"How incredible." The hazel-eyed man held out his hand to the fighter. "My name is Linal Alprin, harbormaster of Port Tantras."

"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," the fighter answered, and grasped the outstretched hand that had been offered to him.

The harbormaster shook his head and sighed. "I've been stuck in Tantras ever since the gods came to Faerun, but I've seen things in the last few weeks that I wouldn't have believed possible a year ago."

Alprin and Kelemvor stood on the dock for a while, trading stories about the magical chaos and instability in nature each man had witnessed since Arrival. After about an hour, the harbormaster turned to the fighter and asked if he had any plans for eveningfeast.

"Well," Kelemvor told the hazel-eyed man, "I was planning to go back to the inn."

"I'll not hear of it," Alprin snapped brightly. "You're coming home to meet my wife and share a few stories over our meager table." The harbormaster paused and smiled. "That is, if you don't mind, of course."

"That would be nice," Kelemvor said. "I'm grateful."

Alprin looked around at the now-crowded docks. Two guards and a handful of sailors were staring at him. "There are venders along the avenue," he said hurriedly, pointing to the south. "Follow that road until you find a stand that sells fancy hats. Wait for me there. I need to pick up a present for my wife on the way home."

Then Alprin left the fighter and disappeared into the crowd. Kelemvor milled about the docks for ten minutes, then headed down the shop-lined avenue. The only stand that sold fine hats bore a sign that read "Messina's Elegant Boutique." The fighter felt somewhat strange standing outside the rows of beautiful women's clothing, and the occasional stare he received from the women who met in clusters near the shop to gossip made him even more uneasy.

Eventually, Kelemvor noticed a white-haired minstrel who busied himself at a nearby stand and occasionally glanced in the fighter's direction. Just as the fighter was about to walk to the man and question him, a beautiful, silver-haired woman stumbled into him. She seemed frightened, and a huge red welt covered the right side of her pretty face. Clinging to the fighter, she pleaded, "Help me. He's gone crazy!"

Before Kelemvor could say a word, a young man approached the woman, his hands balled into fists.

"That's my property," the man growled at Kelemvor. "Take your hands off her."

The fighter felt his lips curl back in disgust as he looked carefully at the man. Dressed in a simple brown felt outfit that bore several large stains, the man was small and mean. From his stench and his swagger, Kelemvor knew that he was also very drunk.

"Stand away," Kelemvor said, although in his head a voice screamed, The curse! What if it's not really gone? He grimaced and drove the thoughts out of his mind. Now's as good a time as any to find out, the green-eyed fighter decided.

The grubby little man stood still for a moment, shocked at the fighter's words. "You stand away," the man said. "That's my woman."

"She seems to have other ideas," Kelemvor snarled. He put his arm around the woman's waist and gently maneuvered her to his side. Then he drew his sword. The brightly polished steel blade glinted in the sunlight. "But I'll tell you what. I'll fight you for her."

The man's gaze took in the full measure of Kelemvor's blade, rose to the fighter's cold eyes, then moved to the frightened face of the silver-haired woman. The drunken man lowered his head, turned his back, and walked away. Once the little man was out of view, Kelemvor returned his sword to its sheath and faced the woman.

"I know his type," the fighter muttered. "He's frightened now, but he'll return for you." The fighter pulled out his bag of gold. Taking the woman's soft hand, he spilled a fistful of gold into her palm then gently closed her fingers. "Book passage on the next boat heading for Ravens Bluff. You can send for your things."

A tear fell from the silver-haired woman's eye. She nodded, kissed the fighter then hurried north, vanishing into the crowd. Kelemvor felt a satisfaction that he had not known since he was a young boy, since before the Lyonsbane's curse first took hold of his life. If I am still cursed, the fighter thought, it's dormant… for now, at least.

Suddenly the minstrel was beside Kelemvor, leaning in close. "Young love can be daunting," the minstrel sighed. "Still, that was a good thing you did. Not many would take an interest in the trials of a stranger."

"Good deeds can be their own reward," Kelemvor said quietly and turned to gaze at the minstrel. The old man's face was rimmed by a long, white beard and his eyes were surrounded by a patchwork of endless wrinkles.

"In Waterdeep, they tell a grand tragedy of young love and dark desire," the old man said, looking into Kelemvor's eyes. "Some call the tale's ending terribly sad. Others see the finale as gloriously happy. I could sing it to you, if you like."

The minstrel strummed his harp and opened his mouth to begin his tale. However, before he uttered a single word or played a single note, the old man stopped suddenly and held out his empty hand.

The fighter smiled and put a gold piece into the open hand. "Sing away, minstrel."

"Kelemvor!" a voice sounded, and the fighter looked to his left to see Alprin emerge from the crowd. When Kelemvor turned back to the minstrel, he saw that the old man had vanished.

"You seem troubled," Alprin noted sagely as he walked to Kelemvor's side.

The fighter frowned as he looked for the wandering minstrel in the crowd. "Not troubled, my friend. Just annoyed. I wanted to hear the tale that the old man promised me. Now I never will."

After purchasing a hat for Alprin's wife, Kelemvor and the harbormaster headed east, into the heart of the city, then took a winding road to the north, where the incline of the streets became quite sharp. A moderate one-story house was soon before the riders. Alprin placed the hat, a rose-colored bonnet with pink silk styling, behind his back then entered the dwelling.

"And how is my poor, neglected wife today?" Alprin called out from the front door.

"She'd be a damn shade better if her husband spent some time with her," a voice cried in response. Moments later, the owner of the voice, a plain woman with straight black hair and a dark complexion, came into view. She uttered a little scream of delight when Alprin showed her the hat.

"For you, my love," the harbormaster laughed as he rested the hat on his wife's head then kissed her.

"Who's this?" the woman said suspiciously, pointing to Kelemvor.

Alprin cleared his throat nervously. "A dinner guest, dear," the harbormaster said innocently.

"I might have known," she huffed. Then a smile crossed her face and she reached out to take Kelemvor's hand. "I'm Moira. You're welcome if you're a friend of my husband."

An hour later, over the finest meal the fighter had tasted since he left Arabel, Kelemvor spoke of the many strange sights he had seen in his recent travels, although he was careful to leave out many of the reasons for his journeys through Faerun.

"Such madness you've witnessed," Alprin gasped delightedly and turned to his wife. "To think, Moira, you and I could be free to travel, to see such amazing sights."

"Why don't you just leave the city when you want?" the fighter asked with his mouth half-full of bread.

Moira immediately stood and started to clear the table. Alprin's expression grew serious. "Kelemvor," he said somberly, "if I can secure safe passage for you and your companions, will you leave Tantras as quickly as you can?"

"That's my intention… eventually," the fighter told his friend. "But why are you so anxious to see me go?"

"People have been vanishing," Alprin whispered flatly. "Good people."

Moira dropped a metal goblet, and it clattered noisily to the floor. Alprin bent to help his wife clean up the spilled water and she whispered, "He might be one of them! Watch what you say!"

"What sort of people have been vanishing?" Kelemvor asked, not letting on that he had overheard Moira's hushed comments. "Strangers, like myself?"

Alprin shook his head as he deposited a damp cloth on a plate. Moira fixed him with an angry glare, then took the plate and went into the kitchen. "I wouldn't blame you if you thought I were mad once you've heard my story," the harbormaster murmured.

"I don't think that at all," Kelemvor said, surprise evident in his voice.

"A friend of mine, Manacom, disappeared," Alprin began. "One day he was here, the next day he was gone. No one in the guards or the city government would talk about him. All of his records disappeared from the city's books.

I tried to find out what happened to him. Within a few hours, I was caught by a band of robbers and beaten within an inch of my life. I tried to fight back, but there were too many of them." Alprin paused and looked into the kitchen, where his wife was cleaning plates. "Moira had some healing potions that someone had given to us as a wedding present. I might have died if not for them."

"Couldn't the clerics of Torm heal you? If their god is nearby, they should have the power to heal," Kelemvor said.

"The power, but not the desire," Moira grumbled as she entered the room once more, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Who do you think took your friend?" Kelemvor asked quietly.

Alprin shook his head. "I don't know. But I have my suspicions. It's best that I don't involve you."

Kelemvor laughed. "You've already involved me just by telling me anything about this. You might as well finish what you started. At least you can tell me what you think is going on, even if you won't tell me who's doing it."

Alprin sighed and nodded. "I think that someone has been quietly pushing all those who believe in gods other than Torm out of the city. I've heard rumors that a few clerics, like Manacom, refused to leave, and so they were killed," the harbormaster guessed. "And whoever took Manacom must believe that I know too much, that I'll snoop around until I uncover their plot."

The fighter shook his head. "Then why not just kidnap you now?"

"Because that would arouse too much suspicion," Moira whispered. "Alprin's well known around here. His disappearance would cause quite a stir. And that's the last thing they want right now."

Alprin shook his head. "But if you and your friends go nosing around after religious artifacts, as you've said you were going to, you're sure to draw their attention." The harbormaster paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I couldn't save my friend. Maybe I can save you, Kelemvor."

Kelemvor started to get up from the table, but Moira put her hand on his arm. "Stay," Moira told the fighter firmly. "We may have put you in danger just by talking to you. The least we can do is put you up for the night."

Alprin smiled. "Anyway, I can't tell you how long it's been since Moira and I have been able to tell stories with guests until late into the night. And if you do stay, I can give you the names of some men who will likely take the lot of you away from Tantras. I know personally most of the captains who stop in this port."

"And perhaps you can talk my husband into booking passage for the two of us as well," Moira whispered as she leaned close to the fighter.

Kelemvor sighed and sat back in his chair. "Very well. I'll stay."

Kelemvor slept in a room that had been meant as a nursery, until Moira learned that she was unable to bear children. He had a fitful sleep, and a few hours later, the fighter woke to find that Alprin had already left for the harbor. Moira fixed a late morningfeast for the fighter, and the two talked for a little while. Soon, though, Kelemvor returned to the Lazy Moon Inn. There he found a letter from Midnight. His lover related her limited successes of the previous day. She also told Kelemvor of the strange goings-on at the temples throughout the city.

Kelemvor read the letter through to the end then left the inn without writing a reply. Midnight's comments on the temples in Tantras seemed to concur with the harbormaster's fears of conspiracy. The fighter wanted to investigate a little before he alarmed Midnight needlessly, though, so he went in search of information, the final words of Midnight's letter echoing in his mind.

"The Dark Harvest is dangerous. Avoid it at all costs. Will explain later…"

At the harbor, Kelemvor found Alprin and learned that tentative arrangements had been made for him and his companions to leave Tantras on a small galley from Calaunt. The captain was a superstitious fellow, but trustworthy, and the ship would be in port for at least a few more days. Alprin made sure, for security's sake, that no member of the ship's crew would be apprised of the additional passengers until just before they left the port.

Satisfied with the arrangements, Kelemvor asked Alprin about the criminal underground of Tantras and the Dark Harvest.

"Those two things are one and the same," Alprin spat, looking around the docks nervously. "The city leaves that particular festhall alone because some of their spies get their information there. It's the slimiest hole in the city, a stinking pool of depravity and foul worship."

It was suddenly obvious to the fighter that Midnight's fear of the Dark Harvest was understandable. Still, Kelemvor thought of himself as an experienced professional, a seasoned adventurer. He knew that the best way to uncover information on dark dealings was to dig through the filth with the criminals, even if it meant getting dirty along the way.

"And who would be the best person to contact there for information?" Kelemvor whispered, "Someone who has knowledge of the entire underworld of this city?"

Alprin scanned the faces of the dozen or so people that were within a hundred-foot radius. No one appeared to be watching. "Why do you ask?" Alprin said suspiciously, running a hand across his weatherbeaten face.

"My friends and I came here for a purpose that I can't discuss," Kelemvor told the harbormaster. "I've got to ask you to trust me on this." The fighter picked at a wooden railing for a moment, then leaned on it.

Alprin sighed and shook his head. "Now you do sound like Manacom." He turned away from the fighter. "Look, I thought we had this discussion last night. Besides, we shouldn't be speaking of such things in the open. The danger is too great. Wait until tonight."

"I can't wait until tonight," Kelemvor snapped, his anger rising, the volume of his voice attracting unwanted stares. His hands had balled into fists, but the fighter forced his body to relax. "My apologies," he whispered. "But tonight could be too late for what I need to do."

The harbormaster turned back to the fighter then leaned on the railing next to him. "I don't like it," Alprin grumbled sourly. "But if you're determined to go to the Dark Harvest, the one you want to ask for is Sabinus. He's a smuggler with ties to the city government and the Tormites, too. Now go. I've told you too much already. If anyone suspects I've told you — "

"They'll never know." Kelemvor smiled as he patted the harbormaster on the back. "You've been a true friend, and you have my gratitude. I owe you for this."

"Then repay your debt by getting out of this city in one piece," Alprin grumbled and walked away, scanning the crowd as he went.

Kelemvor nodded, and walked from the harbor. The fighter moved along the streets quickly, and stopped only long enough to receive directions to the Dark Harvest Festhall when he got lost.

An hour later, the fighter stood before the one-story, ebon and scarlet building, shaking his head. He could understand why the sight filled Midnight with trepidation. The festhall even looked corrupt. Kelemvor suppressed a shudder and walked inside.

"Are you expected?" an ugly, obese man asked sharply as the fighter entered the Dark Harvest.

"Good news is never expected," Kelemvor growled. "Just tell Sabinus that the owner of the Ring of Winter is here anxious to relieve himself of some excess baggage."

The fat man snorted. "You don't have a name?"

"Sabinus doesn't need my name. He only needs to know what I possess," Kelemvor snarled.

"Wait here," the guard said as he eyed the fighter suspiciously. Then the fat man passed through a set of double doors. The sounds of gaming and laughter flooded into the lobby the instant the doors were open then disappeared as they shut again.

A few minutes later, the guard returned and motioned for Kelemvor to follow. They entered the festhall, and the sights and sounds of unbridled decadence rushed at the fighter. There were five bars with men and women two-deep. Dancers from far-off lands gyrated on the bars, and some leaped from table to table, taunting the men and taking their money.

Gamblers wagered with stakes that were sometimes their own lives, but more often the lives of others. A beautiful woman lay on a table between two old men who rolled a set of dice to see who would possess her for the evening. At another table, the scene was reversed: a handsome, muscle-bound man with golden hair lay smiling between two women gamblers.

The whole room smelled of spilled liquor and decaying rubbish. Strange beasts ran along the crowded floor. Fur brushed Kelemvor's leg, and he saw a lump of matted hair and fangs speed away, swallowing anything that happened to be loose on the floor. He had no idea what the strange creature was.

Soon, though, the fighter was led to Sabinus's table, and he was surprised to see how young the notorious man really was. The smuggler could not have been more than seventeen winters old. His red hair was cropped short, and his complexion was almost as red as his hair. And though he looked young, there was a feeling of dark wisdom about Sabinus — the same air that surrounded old, musty secrets and ancient, decaying cursed artifacts. The smuggler motioned for Kelemvor to sit. The fighter did so and rested his hands above the table, empty palms facing up, in a standard gesture of trust.

"You have aroused my interest," Sabinus hissed. "But do not think to waste my time. The Dragon Reach is filled with louts like you whose reach exceeds their grasp."

"I would never consider wasting your valuable time," Kelemvor lied. "I bring something of great value."

The smuggler squirmed in his seat slightly. "So I'm told. The Ring of Winter is not an item to be taken lightly. I thought it was lost for all time."

"That which has been lost can always be found. Now let's stop fencing and get to business," Kelemvor told the boy flatly, moving his hands beneath the table.

A dark, toothy grin passed over Sabinus's face. "Good. To the point. I like that." The red-haired smuggler rocked in his chair, almost giddy with anticipation. "If you have the ring, produce it."

"You think I would have it with me? What kind of fool do you take me for?" Kelemvor asked bitterly.

"That depends on what kind of fool you are," the boy snapped. "Are you the kind of fool that would dare lie to me about such an important matter? The Ring of Winter is power. With it, a new ice age could be brought down upon the Realms. Only the strongest, or those prepared for the disaster, could hope to survive." Sabinus ran his hands through his hair.

Kelemvor narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the smuggler. Two guards nearby stiffened and reached for daggers, but Sabinus waved them away. "I can give you the precise location of where the ring is hidden. I can tell you the dangers involved in retrieving it and how to get around them," Kelemvor told the boy.

"What do you want in return?" Sabinus asked warily.

I want you to tell me where the Tablet of Fate is, the fighter thought sarcastically, but I'll settle for some clues as to its whereabouts. What he said was, "Information. I need to know why the followers of Sune, Ilmater, and any god other than Torm have been driven out of the city… and by whose order."

"Perhaps I could tell you that," Sabinus murmured. "Tell me more about the Ring of Winter. Your words may loosen my tongue and jog my memory." The boy leaned forward.

Kelemvor frowned. He thought of the ice creature that guarded the ring when last he saw the artifact and of all the people the creature had slaughtered. Then the green-eyed fighter told Sabinus all that he knew.

Across the festhall, in a shadowy corner of the window-less building, two men sat and watched Sabinus and Kelemvor. One of the men wore a black visor with slits for eyes. The other man was lean and dark, and felt very odd as he watched the fighter fall neatly into his trap.

"Sabinus plays his part well," Cyric said casually as he leaned back into the shadows.

"I don't like this," Durrock growled. "No more than I liked being shipped across the Dragon Reach in a crate that was more like a coffin."

"You didn't even have to get into the crate until we were in sight of land," Cyric snapped. "Are you that superstitious? Do you really believe that lying in a coffin one day means you'll draw your final breath the next? If that's true, Durrock, perhaps we should go before you've had your contest."

"No," the scarred assassin grumbled and slid his hand toward his knife. "I've failed my god. I must make amends. But I don't want to see that crate again." And I'd like to see you dead, thief, he added silently.

Cyric shook his head and laughed. "How many times must I explain this? With your face, we never would have gotten into the city. You have a reputation, Durrock. You are famous, as assassins go. The crate and Sabinus's connections at the docks were the only way to get you into Tantras without sounding alarms."

Durrock looked away. Even with the interference of the visor, Cyric could tell the man was brooding.

"Look there. Sabinus is leading him away," Cyric noted as he picked up his flagon and took a drink of dark, bitter ale. "They're heading downstairs, to the arena. You'd best hurry. The instant Kelemvor thinks he's been betrayed, he'll try to escape." The thief put down his ale and smiled. "And Bane would be very unhappy with you if that happened again, wouldn't he?"

"With both of us," Durrock reminded the hawk-nosed thief and stood up.

"May fortune shine upon you," Cyric told the assassin as he watched him follow Kelemvor and Sabinus to the south end of the festhall. There, the fighter and the smuggler passed through a private doorway and walked down a winding set of stairs. The stairs, in turn, led into a darkened room, a lightless hole that seemed to hungrily absorb the flickers of light from Sabinus's lantern. They reached the landing then moved into the darkness.

The fighter was tense, his senses alert. "You have records stored down here?" Kelemvor growled impatiently as he tried to focus on any distinct object in the dark room.

"Where else could I keep them?" the smuggler laughed. "In fact, I have one document nearby that contains a seal and a signature you might find interesting. It is a warrant of execution."

The edge of a large, white platform loomed out of the darkness before Kelemvor and the smuggler, and suddenly a dozen torches were lit, revealing the trap Kelemvor had foolishly stumbled into. At that moment, the fighter realized the festhall's basement was some type of arena, with a platform in its center and balconies where spectators could view the proceedings from above. The fighter could see that almost a hundred people had gathered there already.

"The warrant is for your execution, of course!" Sabinus cried as he dashed toward a doorway near a row of seals on the ground level. Before Kelemvor could move after him, a bright flash of light caught his eye. He looked up and saw a huge man wearing a black visor standing upon the staircase. Torchlight reflected off the surface of the visor.

"Durrock," Kelemvor hissed. But the fighter quickly put aside his surprise and got into a defensive stance, drawing his sword with a liquid grace. The scarred assassin silently descended the staircase, his night-black sword, marked with crimson runes, gripped in his hand.

The assassin was dressed in dark leather, with metal bands at his ankles, thighs, waist, and biceps. As Durrock reached the arena's floor, he raised his hands and crossed his arms. When his wrists touched, there was a sharp sound, and the metal bands flipped up and became razor-sharp ridges. Durrock then ripped the visor from his face and threw it to the ground.

Kelemvor backed away, shocked at the deformities of the assassin's face. The crowd, silent until now, erupted into chaos, and cries and jeers rained down on the two men in the arena. The fighter leaped onto the white square, thirty feet at each side, and stared at Durrock's face as the assassin jumped onto the platform, too. There were few hints of humanity left on the killer's twisted visage.

Suddenly Durrock raced forward, his black sword spiraling through the air. The assassin moved like lightning, dancing around Kelemvor and slashing at the fighter. The scarred man backed away before Kelemvor had a chance to return the attack.

By all the gods! the fighter thought. Where was Durrock trained? Kelemvor's own talent labeled him as more than a fair swordsman, but the assassin was a master.

The assassin backed up a step, then spun and kicked Kelemvor in the stomach with his full weight. The fighter recoiled from the blow, his hair flying forward, over his face. Durrock spun once more, this time slicing down with his blade, too.

A handful of black hair lined with grayish streaks sailed forward. Durrock snatched it from the air with quicksilver reflexes.

"This could have been your neck, scum," the assassin said to Kelemvor as he held out the tuft of hair. "You might as well surrender now!"

The crowd roared. "Twenty gold pieces on the misshapen freak!" one of the spectators cried.

"Fifty gold pieces on the ugly brute with a scar for a face!" a woman screamed, and laughter erupted in the shadowy balconies.

Angered by the taunts, Durrock shouted and brought his sword down upon the fighter with a crude, overhand swing. Kelemvor blocked the blow with his own blade, and a rain of sparks pierced the shadows surrounding the arena. Still, the attack drove Kelemvor to his knees.

"Draw some blood, you freak!" a spectator shrieked.

"Draw some blood or we'll chain you to the festhall's front door to frighten the little children away!"

"I'll kill you, then I'll find your little mage," Durrock hissed as he turned and drove the hilt of his sword into Kelemvor's forehead. The fighter fell back, and the assassin delivered a kick that tore open a bloody wound on Kelemvor's chest.

Kelemvor thought of running, but he knew that the only way he would ever leave the Dark Harvest alive would be to kill Durrock first. The green-eyed fighter ignored the burning pain in his chest and threw his sword high into the air, then scrambled toward the assassin. Durrock's gaze followed the sword for just an instant, but that was long enough for Kelemvor to kick him in the side then grab his sword as it fell to the ground.

There was a sickening sound as the fighter's sword bit through the assassin's knee and leg. The tip of the blade had only passed through an inch of Durrock's knee, but it was more than enough to cripple him. Durrock shifted his weight to his uninjured leg, sprang away from the fighter, and fell to the floor.

The crowd watched with breathless excitement as Kelemvor leaped over the downed assassin. The fighter's blade swept through the air, and Durrock rolled and struck with his black sword. As the fighter leaned into his attack, a splatter of blood flew from his shoulder. Fearful that Durrock's well-aimed slash had severed an artery, the fighter ducked into a crouch, one hand instinctively clamping over the cut.

Losing the use of one leg had barely slowed Durrock. The assassin drove his blade into the floor, pushed off with his good leg, and vaulted toward Kelemvor, twisting in midair to position his strong leg outward. In the split second before the assassin met his enemy, Kelemvor rolled away from the razor at Durrock's ankle, which was aimed to rip open the fighter's throat.

Kelemvor raised his sword as Durrock landed over him. The flat of the assassin's blade struck the fighter full in the face, but the green-eyed man focused all his strength on a single forward sweep of his sword. Then Kelemvor felt his weapon pierce flesh and crack bones as it struck the assassin's chest. The fighter collapsed onto the white canvas as Durrock fell upon him.

The razor on the assassin's left arm grazed Kelemvor's forehead as he tried to move. The fighter's sword was trapped beneath Durrock's weight, stuck in the scarred man's body. Panic raced through Kelemvor as he tried to free his arms and saw the razor beside his face move a few inches. He looked up and saw Durrock's twisted, scarred face only a few inches from his own. Blood was leaking from the assassin's mouth as he tried, but failed, to speak. Durrock's face fell forward, and Kelemvor knew that the assassin was dead.

There was commotion in the balcony, and the fighter heard the sounds of men racing onto the surface of the arena. The corpse was dragged from Kelemvor, and the fighter threw his head back in exhaustion. When he opened his eyes, Kelemvor focused on the balcony in front of him. He simply wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Cyric stood just beneath a flickering torch, staring down at the bloodied fighter in shock. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and a wicked grin crossed the face of the hawk-nosed man. Someone passed in front of Kelemvor at that moment, blocking his view. When the fighter looked into the balcony again, the thief was gone.

A short, almost completely bald dwarf helped the fighter to his feet. Rising unsteadily, Kelemvor knew that he would have to try to catch Cyric. But the fighter also knew that the thief, and Sabinus, too, would be long gone. "A true champion!" the bald dwarf called out, then turned to face Kelemvor. "What would you like? Gold, women, power, secrets? Tell me, and it is yours. We haven't had such an upset in this arena for years."

"Secrets," Kelemvor hissed wearily.

"Come with me, then," the dwarf bellowed. "We will bind your wounds and tell you all you wish to know."

Twenty minutes later, Kelemvor had discovered that Durrock's blade had not hurt him badly, and he was already recovering from the loss of blood when he left the festhall. He stopped at a nearby stable and bought a horse, for he was far too weak to walk to the harbor and then to the inn.

As the fighter rode to the docks, he tried not to let his anger get in the way of the task he had to perform. In the Dark Harvest, Kelemvor had learned that a city official by the name of Dunn Tenwealth had been linked with the disappearances Alprin had mentioned. Tenwealth had also been placed in charge of the salvage of all religious artifacts that had been not been taken away or placed in storage by the various abandoned temples in the city. Many of these items had been locked in a vault that was located "beneath the hand of Torm."

If the Tablet of Fate had been hidden in one of the temples in Tantras, it was possible that Tenwealth had unwittingly acquired the item then locked it away, ignorant of its power. The man would have to be questioned and his vault would have to be searched. But there was something else Kelemvor wanted to deal with first: Cyric.

The thief must have aligned himself with the Black Lord, the fighter concluded. But Kelemvor wasn't going to let the thief escape to his master. Cyric would now be returning in a hurry to whatever ship he had come to Tantras in. Yes, the fighter decided bitterly, I'm going to find that vessel, catch up to Cyric, and beat the Black Lord's plans out of him before hacking off his head.

At the harbor, Kelemvor tried to find Alprin to help him search for the Zhentish spy ship, but the harbormaster was nowhere in sight. The fighter made a few inquiries, and learned that Alprin had received a message that so filled him with fear that he ran from his station as if a fire giant were running at his heels.

The fighter walked away in silence, wondering what could have gone wrong to panic the harbormaster so. "Alprin," he said aloud as he realized what must have happened. "Not his wife!"

Kelemvor ran from the harbor, collected his mount, and raced to Alprin's home. The building was in flames when Kelemvor arrived, but he could still get close enough to peer through an open window. Alprin lay on the floor, a bloody smear behind his head. Moira lay beside him. The dead man's hand had been placed around his wife's body in a mockery of the tenderness they had shared in life. A message had been written on the wall behind his body.

I was unfaithful. This is my penance.

A frightened crowd was gathering in the street, calling for the bucket brigade to put the fire out before it spread to their houses and shops. Kelemvor clamped his hands over his mouth and stumbled away from the burning building. All thoughts of finding Cyric were lost in the fighter's grief for the moment.

Horribly shaken, the teary-eyed fighter returned to the Lazy Moon Inn, and scribbled a three-word note to Midnight. By now, the fighter realized that he had little hope of finding the Zhentish spy ship. Cyric had escaped. For now, so the fighter turned his thoughts to the name he'd been given in the Dark Harvest, and set out to find Dunn Tenwealth, a lust to revenge the harbormaster's death burning in his mind.

For many hours, Kelemvor reconnoitered the Citadel of Tantras and the adjacent buildings. The trail had led first to the citadel, the center of Tantras's government. Then it took Kelemvor to the Temple of Torm. There the trail ended, and Kelemvor knew that he did not dare try to barge into the well-guarded place of worship, searching for a murderer.

When Kelemvor finally returned to the Lazy Moon Inn, he found Midnight waiting in their room. The mage was frantic with worry.

"I spent half the night on the docks trying to find you," Midnight cried as she embraced the fighter and they kissed.

"What did you mean by that note?" Midnight whispered as she pulled away from the fighter and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Exactly what it said. Cyric is alive, and he tried to kill me. I've seen him, and I have no doubt he will make other attempts on my life… or your life," Kelemvor growled and stomped across the room. "Is Adon in his room? We should leave the inn and hide for a while. There's a slum near the docks where we can maintain a much lower profile."

"Adon hasn't returned yet," Midnight said.

Kelemvor's face turned white. "He's still at the temple?"

"Yes. Why?" the raven-haired mage asked in a low tone.

Reaching for the door, Kelemvor gestured for Midnight to follow. "We'll have to find him. Adon's in terrible danger from the Tormites. I'll explain on the way!"

Midnight nodded and followed the fighter out of the room, stopping only long enough to grab the canvas sack containing her spellbook.