Tantras

III

In the privacy of his own thoughts, Cyric had murdered Adon well over a hundred times. During the trip down the Ashaba, the thief often imagined himself bashing the cleric with an oar and watching as the pathetic, weak-willed man allowed the river's current to swallow him up without a fight. But the sudden, unwelcome intrusion of reality would always shatter Cyric's daydreams. Adon would begin to weep, and Midnight would try to comfort him by stroking his hair and whispering into his ear. At those times, Cyric quivered with anger and thought of even bloodier ways to dispose of Adon.

Still, travel down the river was generally quiet and uneventful. Since they rarely spoke, these lulls gave the heroes far too much time to think. At the moment, highsun was approaching and Cyric's stomach growled as he contemplated a fine banquet. The food they had taken from Shadowdale was filling but far from appetizing, and so the thief didn't relish the thought of eating, even though he was hungry.

Midnight shared Cyric's feelings. As she sat in the bow, trying to study her spellbook, swatting away annoying, bloated mosquitoes, thoughts of fine meals drifted through her head, too.

"A few more hours of this and I'm going to become delirious," Midnight said at last, slamming her spellbook shut. "We need to eat something."

"No one's stopping you," Cyric croaked, his throat dry from the intense heat of the midday sun.

Midnight frowned. She was hungry, but she wanted Cyric to rest for a while and eat, too. The thief hadn't allowed her to take a turn at the oars since they left Shadowdale, and he just snorted and shook his head when Midnight had suggested Adon try to row. "You need to rest, Cyric. Why don't we pull in to shore and all eat something?"

"Because the dalesmen might catch up to us, and I, for one, don't want that to happen," Cyric said. Midnight crossed her arms and leaned back into the bow. The thief scowled and turned away from the raven-haired mage. When he looked over his shoulder, though, Cyric was startled to see Adon holding out a large chunk of bread to him. A warm, foolish smile, like that of a simpleton, flickered across the cleric's face.

"Get away from me!" Cyric growled and slapped the cleric across the face with the back of his hand. Adon fell backward in a heap, and the bread flew from his hand. The boat rocked from side to side as Cyric made a grab for the oar he had released and Adon crawled as far away from the thief as he could manage inside the skiff.

"Damn you!" Midnight cursed. She climbed over Cyric and moved to Adon's side. The cleric was quivering, his knees drawn up to his chest. A strange mixture of fear and anger lingered in his eyes.

"Why did you do that?" Midnight snapped to Cyric as she caressed the cleric's shoulders.

Cyric thought of making a nasty retort, but instead he only narrowed his eyes and remained silent as he watched Midnight brush the hair from the younger man's face. Adon had pulled himself up into a ball, his hands covering his face as he rocked back and forth, humming an unfamiliar song.

"Answer me!" Midnight hissed. She leaned closer and glared at Cyric.

The thief was silent. There was no answer he could give that Midnight would be able to accept. Ever since Arabel, where their journey began, Cyric had viewed Adon as a liability. Very little had happened to change his opinion. The cleric could not call on his deity for spells, so he was useless as a healer. Adon's fighting skills, when they had been employed, were adequate but not exceptional. We can get along perfectly well without him, Cyric thought. That's why I hate him. I just don't need him.

"Tell me about Tantras again," Cyric sighed, anxious to change the subject.

Adon stopped rocking and looked up at Midnight. Any anger in his face had disappeared, and now only fear showed in the cleric's features. Don't tell him, Adon whispered in his mind. He doesn't need to know.

However, Midnight didn't see Adon's expression. The mage stopped caressing the cleric's back and looked down at the bottom of the boat. "One of the Tablets of Fate is hidden there. At least, that's what Elminster told us at the Temple of Lathander before the battle with Bane."

All emotion drained from Cyric's face. "Where is it hidden in Tantras?"

"Elminster didn't know." The mage sighed and looked up at the hawk-nosed thief. "All the sage could tell us… before he died… was that one of the tablets was hidden there."

At mention of Elminster's death, Adon started to rock again and began to whistle a mindless tune. Cyric scowled at the cleric. He probably would have slapped Adon again if Midnight weren't sitting in his way. "So how are we supposed to find it? I'm not even sure I know what the tablets look like."

Midnight shivered. When Mystra, the Goddess of Magic, had been destroyed in her attempt to enter the Planes without the Tablets of Fate, she had granted Midnight a vision of the artifacts. Now the tablets and the death of her god were irrevocably linked in the magic-user's mind. "They look like simple clay tablets," Midnight said with a sigh. She closed her eyes, and an image of the Tablets of Fate formed in her mind. "They're a little less than two feet high. Runes naming all of the gods and their duties are etched upon the stones. The runes are magical. They glow with a blue-white light."

Cyric tried to picture the tablets. However, each time he tried to form an image of them in his mind, thoughts of what he could do with the Tablets of Fate, or, more precisely, the power they could give him, charged into his consciousness. The thief saw himself as a powerful ruler, with armies strong enough to trample the mighty forces of King Azoun of Cormyr into the dirt. The tablets will give me the power to do what I want, the thief thought. At last I will be free to run my own life!

"Cyric?" Midnight said and leaned over to tap the thief on the shoulder. "I said, let's forget about the tablets for now. All right?"

Cyric frowned. "Yes, yes. Whatever you say." The thief paused for a moment, then attempted to smile warmly. "We should eat something. We need to keep our strength up if we're ever going to reach Tantras." Adon whimpered softly.

Midnight relaxed a bit and nodded. "I'm glad you agree. We need to start acting like friends again."

Cyric guided the skiff toward the shore. Thick forest flanked the river, and when they got close to the bank, Cyric leaped into the shallow water. The thief guided the craft close to the shade of a large, gnarled tree. Securing the boat to the base of the tree, Cyric reached out to help Midnight climb to shore.

When she got a firm footing on the boggy shore, Midnight turned back to the skiff and held out her hand. "Come on, Adon."

The cleric did not move.

"Adon, get out of there and join us!" Midnight snapped and put her hands on her hips. The cleric trembled, then rose to his feet.

"And bring us some food while you're at it!" Cyric yelled as he searched the shore for a likely campsite.

Adon reached down and picked up the smaller of the canvas bags that lay near his feet. He handed the sack to Midnight, then grabbed the mage's other hand and climbed from the boat.

"We're a good little dog, aren't we?" Cyric said in a high-pitched, taunting tone. The cleric's shoulders sagged.

"That's enough!" Midnight snapped. "Why do you keep badgering him?"

The thief shrugged. "When he acts like a man, I'll treat him like one. Not before." Cyric dusted off a small rock and sat down.

"There's no need to be so cruel," Midnight said. "When you were wounded in the Stonelands, Adon stayed with you. He did all he could to help you. The least you could do is return the favor." The mage threw the bag of food to the ground.

Instead of responding, Cyric leaned forward, grabbed the sack, and started to rummage through it. In the rough canvas bag, the thief found carefully wrapped preserved meats and flasks filled with mead. "At least you could see my wounds, when we were ambushed in the Stonelands. Adon's are merely in his head."

"That doesn't make them any less real," Midnight said coldly. "You could at least make an effort to be pleasant… if our friendship means anything to you. A little compassion won't kill you."

Cyric looked up and saw Adon leaning against the tree their boat was secured to, one arm around the warped and knotted trunk. The cleric's eyes were filled with apprehension, and he was standing on his toes as if he were prepared to jump out of the way instantly if anything threatened him.

Digging into the canvas sack, Cyric found a chunk of bread and brought it to the cleric. Adon wiped his hands on his tunic. His entire body quaked as he cautiously reached out and took the bread from the thief. Staring at the offering in amazement, the cleric looked as if he were going to burst into tears. "Thank you," Adon said in a small, broken voice. "You are kind."

"Aye," Cyric mumbled as he exchanged glances with Midnight. "I am far too kind."

They ate quickly and in silence. When they were done, Cyric went to the boat and withdrew the oars. He found a tree stump and set the oars down, then searched until he found a fallen branch the width of his thigh and chopped the log into two even pieces. These he sunk into the earth on either side of the stump. The thief sat down and positioned the oars, using the stumps as the oarlocks in their boat.

"You've trained with a staff," Cyric said as he led Midnight to the stump, "so the basic movements of rowing should be easy for you to master."

"Just a minute, Cyric," Midnight snapped as she brushed his hand away from her arm. "I've rowed a boat before. You don't need to teach me."

"But do you know the best way to row, the most efficient technique?" When Midnight didn't respond, Cyric grabbed her arm again and almost pushed her down onto the stump. "If you row the wrong way, you'll only tire yourself out, and you won't be of much use to anyone then. Sit down and pick up the oars."

For the next fifteen minutes, Cyric taught Midnight the proper rowing technique for their skiff. The mage learned quickly, and soon Cyric leaned back and let her practice on her own.

As he lounged against a rock, twirling his dagger, Cyric noticed Adon staring at the oars. "You'll learn next, cleric. I want the boat in motion as much as possible."

Adon nodded slowly and a half-smile crept across his face. Cyric continued to look at the cleric for several seconds, but the thief turned away quickly when he realized that he had balled his hands into fists. "Midnight can teach you later, when we stop for eveningfeast."

The heroes packed up quickly after that, and Cyric was careful to hide any evidence of their presence on the shore. Midnight took a turn at the oars for several hours that afternoon, and the thief seemed to relax a bit when he saw that Midnight had learned to row properly. In fact, Adon and Midnight were more comfortable, too. The cleric even laughed once when Cyric stretched after a long yawn and nearly fell out of the skiff.

While Midnight was rowing, the boat passed into a section of the river where there seemed to be no current at all. That made rowing quite a bit easier for a while, but the current picked up again suddenly — still in the wrong direction, of course. Though this was disheartening for the heroes, they tried to be cheerful. That was difficult, though, and tempers were flaring again by the time Cyric headed toward shore for eveningfeast.

When they docked, Midnight let Cyric start a small fire while she waded into the river to cool off after a long afternoon of rowing. Adon sat on the mossy bank, dangling a long stick in the water as he daydreamed. But as the mage stood in the chilly water of the Ashaba, a sharp pain bore into her leg. She let out a sharp cry and nearly fell over.

Cyric rushed into the waist-deep water and steadied Midnight as she tried to regain her footing. "What's wrong?" the thief asked as he helped the raven-haired mage toward shore.

"I don't know," she gasped through clenched teeth. "I think something bit me." Midnight felt another spike of pain shoot through her leg. When she looked down, the mage could see a pair of shimmering, crimson lights darting back and forth beneath the surface of the water. Cyric cried out then, too, and a third blood-red glow blinked to life in the Ashaba.

On shore, Adon paced back and forth, holding out his hands. "Get out," he said softly, over and over again.

The water churned as Cyric and Midnight rushed to shore. The tiny, lancing pains came more frequently, and more than a dozen of the strange blood-red lights were visible in the river now. The number had doubled before the heroes reached the bank and Adon helped them to shore.

The cleric stood by, smiling contentedly as Midnight swabbed a myriad of tiny cuts on her legs. Cyric crouched over the edge of the water, his right hand poised to snatch something from the river. The thief plunged his hand into the water once, then stepped back from the bank. When he opened his hand, a small, wriggling fish dropped to the ground. The glowing creature's razor-sharp teeth accounted for half the length of its body, and its tiny body seemed to have been set afire with the blood it had stolen.

"The river!" Midnight gasped as she pointed to the Ashaba. There was a large concentration of the glowing parasites, and the water roiled where the creatures attacked one another. More than a hundred had entered the bloody frenzy. Even as the heroes watched, the patch of red luminescence from their gorged bodies continued to spread.

"There must be thousands of them," Cyric said as he moved back to the bank. "I can see them swarming." The thief paused for a second, then turned back to Midnight, a sardonic grin on his face. "Rather reminds me of the dalesmen after your trial in Shadowdale."

"I can't see a thing other than the glow," Midnight replied, turning away from the thief.

"I have very good vision, even at night," Cyric said as he stared at the fish tearing each other apart.

Midnight didn't look at the thief. "Just like Kelemvor," she said absently as she started to break up the camp.

"You're still thinking about him?" Cyric's voice was suddenly as cold as the river's icy water. "What's wrong with you?"

"Cyric, I'm grateful for all that you've done for me, and even for Adon," Midnight sighed. "I'd be dead right now if it weren't for you. I know that. But I felt something for Kelemvor that I can't even explain." The mage shook her head and carefully placed her spellbook into a pack.

Cyric was very quiet. His attention seemed to be riveted on the glowing parasites. The blood pool was widening steadily.

"Even in Shadowdale, before the battle, Kel refused to stand with me," Midnight said flatly. "Then at the trial, I was certain I was going to die, and — "

"Say, Adon, why don't you take a dip!" Cyric yelled, gesturing for the cleric to come closer.

"Don't start in again, Cyric," Midnight snapped wearily as she tied the drawstring on the pack she was filling. "Why do you even talk to me at all if you don't care to hear what I have to say?"

"You know what I care about?" Cyric growled as he crouched beside the river, the blood-red glow from the fish reflecting in his eyes. "Getting to Tantras alive. Those tablets are important, and together we can find them." He turned to look at Midnight, but the red glow seemed to linger in his eyes even after he'd turned away from the river.

Adon had wandered over to Midnight and now sat huddled at her feet. The cleric was staring at Cyric as if the thief were some horrible creature that had crawled from the forest. Midnight stopped fidgeting with the pack and stood shaking her head. "Even with Elminster's help, we barely managed to defeat Bane. The three of us are going to be hard-pressed to succeed on this quest."

Cyric smiled. "On the journey to Shadowdale, you performed some pretty impressive acts of magic. Spells you had never studied were suddenly at your fingertips. Incantations far beyond your training seemed to trip off your tongue with ease." The thief stood up and spread his arms. "You have all the power we need — if we stay away from the gods. Even then…"

"The power was in Mystra's pendant," Midnight mumbled. "And the pendant was destroyed in the Temple of Lathander. The power you speak of is gone."

"Have you attempted any spells since then?" Cyric asked as he walked toward the mage. "Who can tell what powers that trinket may have left you?"

"I have no desire to court disaster," the raven-haired mage snapped. "Magic is still unstable. I don't care to attempt a spell unless I need to."

"Is that your only reason for holding back?" Cyric asked. "Or is it that you're just afraid?"

"I'm not on trial anymore." Midnight hefted the pack and tossed it into the boat, but before she could walk back to Adon's side, Cyric grabbed her by the arm.

"Just answer one question," Cyric began slowly. "How did you survive the destruction of the temple? I stood in the ruins and examined the very spot where you and Adon were found. There was wreckage all around, yet you escaped without a scratch."

"Tymora's luck," Midnight mumbled as she pulled away from the thief's grasp.

Suddenly Adon stood up and walked to Cyric's side. "Tymora is dead," he whispered. "All the gods are dead." Both Midnight and Cyric stared at the cleric as he walked to the boat and climbed in.

"Only magic can account for what happened at the temple, Midnight," Cyric said at last. "Your magic. I don't know how, but you gained some kind of power from that pendant. And we need that power to recover the Tablets of Fate."

"Why are you so anxious to find the tablets?" Midnight asked as she picked up a sack of food and tossed it to Adon in the boat.

"Because others will want them. Many others. That makes them valuable." Cyric looked back toward the river. The blood-red pool had dissipated. "Perhaps even priceless."

"What about Mystra's warning?" the mage asked. "She said the tablets must be returned to the Planes, to Lord Ao, before the gods can go back to their homes and the Realms can return to normal."

"If Lord Ao has the price I seek, then I will gladly deliver them to him. But until then, there is the simple matter of survival." Cyric put out the small fire, and the camp was thrown into darkness.

"That's madness!" Midnight hissed.

Cyric stood close to Midnight. "No… not even close. We've battled the gods, Midnight. We've seen them die. They don't frighten me any longer." Cyric paused for a moment, then smiled and whispered, "The gods really are no different from you… or me." Even in the darkness, Midnight could see the sparkle in the thief's eyes as he spoke.

Less than a quarter of an hour passed before the heroes were on the river once more, the bright moon lighting their way. Midnight spent most of the night sitting in the bow or taking an occasional turn at the oars, all the while pondering what Cyric had said about the gods and about her powers.

Midnight slept little that night. However, the next two days passed quietly, so the mage had a number of chances to doze. Adon gradually became more responsive. When it came time for Midnight's next turn to row, the cleric held her spellbook open so that she could study, turning pages and searching out specific references at the mage's request.

Cyric grew tired of the preserved meats and cheeses they had brought along for rations, so he decided to fish from the bow of the skiff. Although he didn't have a bow and arrow, the thief tied their mooring line to the hilt of his dagger and successfully speared three large flounders on his first three attempts. Rather than enjoying the spoils of his skill, Cyric seemed disappointed, as if there were no true challenge in the sport.

With the exception of another skiff traveling upriver an hour after Cyric, Midnight, and Adon had passed out of Mistledale, they saw no other craft during those two days. As evening approached and the sky turned to a rich amber, Adon noticed a patch of golden angel seaweed trailing alongside their skiff, as if it had been caught on the underside of the craft.

The cleric's hand was steady as he reached over the side and dipped his fingers beneath the surface of the water to the seaweed. Its texture was like that of delicate human hair, affected by the strong current, but not snarled or matted. Memories of the sweet kisses and caresses he had been awarded by a host of beautiful women in his short time in the Realms engulfed the cleric, and a warm, knowing smile stretched across his face.

"What is he doing?" Cyric called from the bow.

Midnight looked up from her rowing. "He's not harming anyone," the mage said softly. When she noticed that Adon was smiling, she smiled, too. "It's nice to see him happy."

An almost imperceptible nod came from the cleric as he stared at the surface of the water, his hands tracing delicate forms upon the angel hair. But Adon tensed as he suddenly felt something solid beneath his hand. The cleric squinted into the golden, sparkling water and saw a lovely young woman floating underwater alongside the boat, her body translucent. The golden angel seaweed was in actuality her hair. As Adon watched, a pair of bright yellow eyes opened beneath the surface of the water, and the woman, as beautiful as any goddess, smiled up at the cleric and covered his hand with hers.

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.

"Are as nothing to a god. You can be healed, and you can live out the glory you dreamed about all your life," Myrkul sighed as he turned to look at the high priest. Concern flashed across the features of the priest. Myrkul shook his head, and a stray, fleshy strip flapped against his cheekbone. "Spare me your denials. Your self-serving machinations are well known."

"Why doesn't Bane just take me?" Fzoul said. The high priest tried to sit up again, but he couldn't. "Obviously I could do nothing to stop him."

"If Lord Bane simply possessed you, your identity and memories would be compromised. The Black Lord wishes to assimilate your being into his, but he cannot do so without your cooperation," Myrkul said, yawning.

The pain in Fzoul's chest was terrible now, and the priest was panting hard. "Why — why didn't he come himself?" he gasped between breaths.

"He did," Myrkul said softly, chuckling. "Look around you."

The blood-red haze that Fzoul had taken for the sky now flowed into the hut through the opening in the ceiling and slowly drifted toward the high priest.

"Death or life?" the skeletal man asked. "The choice is yours."

Fzoul watched as the red mass grew brighter, then started to pulse in time to the rhythm of his own heart. A black flame emerged from the center of the red cloud.

"I want to live!" Fzoul screamed as the flame shot through the air. The black energy entered his body through the wound in his chest.

"Alas, I knew you would," the God of the Dead sighed as he stepped back and watched Fzoul's body writhe. Streamers of black and red light burst from the high priest's eyes, nose, and mouth.

The high priest felt his flesh become numb as Bane's dark essence coursed through his body. The flow of Fzoul's blood slowed, then stopped for a moment as it was overwhelmed by the presence of the evil god. Then the priest's internal organs were violated as the spark of godhood merged with humanity. Fzoul felt the tide of Bane's evil rise within him, and he welcomed the sensation.

The pleasant feeling was short-lived, however. A sudden agony pierced Fzoul's consciousness as his memories and desires were laid bare to the Black Lord. Then the pain subsided, and Bane's voice eased into the high priest's mind.

Have no doubts concerning who is in control, the God of Strife growled. The god's mind stretched and shifted as it tried to grow accustomed to its new home. Your tasks will be simple. Fail me, or act in rebellion even once, and I will destroy you.

Muffled sensation returned, and Fzoul vaguely felt the chill of the night air as it drifted in from above. How long has this taken? he wondered, and he attempted to put voice to his query. Fzoul was only mildly surprised when the words did not come.

The high priest watched from somewhere deep inside his own mind as his hand rose up before his eyes. The hand clenched and became a fist, then opened and passed over the priest's bloody, wounded chest. Instantly the wound was gone, and Fzoul realized that he was sitting up.

"Myrkul," the Black Lord said with the voice of the high priest. He sat upon the rough straw mattress and stretched. "Attend me."

"There is no longer a need, Lord Bane," Myrkul said calmly as he bowed. "Once I have delivered you to Zhentil Keep, you will need to attend to your own needs. It is best you start now."

The Black Lord snarled. "You go too far, Myrkul! I will not stand for this insubordination!" As the God of the Dead bowed once more and spread his arms wide, Lord Bane considered striking the skeletal god. Or perhaps, he thought, I should cast a spell. Nothing too powerful, of course, but something strong enough to show Myrkul who is in command.

Looking out through eyes that were no longer his to control, Fzoul tried to scream. Bane would destroy them both if he attempted a spell and it backfired!

"Remember your place," Bane snapped. Myrkul nodded, and Fzoul found himself tumbling back into the recesses of his own mind.

"My apologies, Lord Bane," the God of the Dead murmured. "This has been a very difficult and tiring time for me. Are you ready to return to the Dark Temple in Zhentil Keep?"

Bane ran his hands over the body of his avatar. He had altered his previous incarnation into something more than a man, a horrible creature with sharp talons and hard, charred skin that only the sharpest of instruments could penetrate. The pale, vulnerable flesh of the high priest made the Dark God uneasy. Myrkul had argued in favor of Bane's new appearance, reasoning that humans would trust the god more readily if he appeared to be one of them. Bane had reluctantly agreed. After all, his previous tactics — trying to frighten his forces into submission — had been a rather decided failure. After the defeat at Shadowdale, he would need to regain the confidence of his followers.

The God of Strife shivered as he realized that his power in the Realms was nothing more than the sum of all his worshipers. The thought was revolting. "Yes," the Black Lord sighed after a moment. "Take me to my temple in Zhentil Keep."

Creating a mystical gate, Myrkul stood aside and beckoned to Bane to come forward. Through the opening, the Black Lord saw the seemingly deserted streets of Zhentil Keep. Bane stepped through the opening. In a moment, the Black Lord was standing in a dark, rat-infested alley. A cut-purse let out a yell as Bane's avatar suddenly appeared nearby. The grimy thief scurried out of the alley and ran down the street in panic.

"So it begins anew, Myrkul," Bane said as he gazed at the partially constructed spires of his temple in the distance. When he received no response, the Black Lord turned to find that the gate had vanished and the God of the Dead was nowhere to be seen.

It hardly matters, Bane thought as he left the alley. Myrkul has served his function for now.

Bane traveled through the city, shunning the poor and homeless people he passed. Sounds that might have come from thieves or slavers falling upon new victims drifted from nearly every shadow and caused Bane to quicken his step, until finally he was running through the streets, the spires of his temple fixed in his eyes. As he turned one last corner and approached the temple, Bane spotted the figures of several temple guards ahead.

"Guards!" the Black Lord shouted with Fzoul's voice, then stood motionless as one of the watchmen stepped forward, his weapon drawn.

"You'll get no free meals here!" the guard growled, looking out at the tattered clothes of the avatar from under a black hand on a red field — Bane's own symbol. "Off with you now!"

"Don't you recognize me, Dier Ashlin?" Bane asked, running his hand through the tangle of red hair on his head.

The guard squinted as he examined the tired, grimy man who stood before him, wearing the tattered remains of an officer's uniform. Blood spattered the redheaded man's shirt, and his face was covered with sweat and dirt. But even the grime and blood could not hide Fzoul Chembryl from the guard for long. "L–Lord Fzoul!" Ashlin shouted and lowered his sword.

"Indeed," the God of Strife grumbled. "Get me inside. I have traveled all the way from the Dales since the battle."

"The slaughter, you mean," Ashlin mumbled as he turned and headed for the front of the temple.

The Black Lord longed to kill the guard without another word, but something inside him — Fzoul, perhaps — told him that now was not the time for bloodshed. Now was the time for the God of Strife to rebuild his kingdom.

As they entered the partially finished Dark Temple, Lord Bane was impressed with the amount of work that had been accomplished since he had last been there. Unfortunately, the Battle of Shadowdale had diverted many of his men from the task of rebuilding his temple. In fact, now, with the exception of the guards, the wounded who had survived the journey from Shadowdale, and a handful of devout worshipers, the temple was deserted.

"Who is in charge, now that Bane has disappeared? I assumed Sememmon had taken the reigns of leadership," Bane said as he stopped and looked out a window.

Ashlin shrugged. "Sememmon was wounded on the field of battle in the Dales. Some of our men said they saw him dragged off, and that was the last anyone saw of him."

A chill ran up the avatar's spine. "Then the city is once again in the hands of incompetents!" the God of Strife growled. Balling his hands into fists, Bane turned to the guard. "Lord Chess?"

"Aye," Ashlin muttered. "With Bane gone, you and Sememmon missing, and Manshoon off in hiding somewhere, Lord Chess could see little reason to continue work on the temple, and so it sits. Rumor has it that Chess, the filthy orc, wants to turn it into a brothel!"

The shoulders of the avatar tightened. "I would like to see Lord Chess," snapped the Black Lord. "Tonight." The God of Strife turned back to the window and looked out on the dirty, rubble-strewn streets around the Dark Temple.

"Yes, Lord Chembryl," Ashlin said, and he turned to leave.

"Wait! I haven't dismissed you yet!" the Black Lord shouted without turning from the window. The guard froze in his tracks. "There are others who I wish you to summon…"

For the next several hours, Bane retired to his private chambers, hidden behind the throne room, and prepared himself for the meeting he had called. The ceremonial robes Fzoul had left in his quarters before the battle were brought to the Black Lord. He bathed, then dressed as his guests began to arrive.

When the noise from the outer chamber became a roar, Bane opened a small secret panel to the room and listened to the crowd. The members of the Zhentarim — Bane's Black Network, some called them — were silent. Lord Chess's men, the high-ranking city officials and the heads of the militia, were not.

"Lord Bane has forsaken us!" they cried. "Lord Chess should rule the city now!"

"Bane betrayed us!" another voice shouted. "Our forces were led into a deathtrap in Shadowdale! Then he abandoned us to be tortured by the dalesmen!"

A roar of approval went up from a group of militia standing close to Bane's listening post. It's time I made my entrance, the God of Strife thought. Now that they've worn themselves down, it shouldn't be too hard to manipulate them.

As Bane's avatar emerged from behind the large black throne that dominated the room, some of the cries were silenced. Still, a loud hum of conversation hung over the room, punctuated occasionally by a curse or threat. The Black Lord raised Fzoul's hands, and the hum died away, too. "I am here to unify Zhentil Keep once again!" the avatar cried.

Slowly Bane walked to the black throne. He turned to the crowd, which was now almost completely silent, and flashed a wide, malicious grin. Then he sat down upon the throne.

The room erupted in a wave of gasps and cries of outrage. "This is an insult!" a dark-haired priest called out. "Have we been summoned from our homes in the dead of night to witness sacrilege? How do you explain this, Fzoul?"

"With blood," the red-haired priest said as he raised his hands again. "I answer your call with blood. For I am not Fzoul Chembryl, although his flesh hosts my essence. I am your lord and master, and you will bow before me!"

The dark-haired priest screamed, clutched at his eyes, then fell to the ground. Visions of a world controlled by the God of Strife filled the priest's mind. The rivers of Faerun ran with blood, and the land itself shook under the tread of Bane's mighty armies. And there, in the middle of the carnage and ruin, the priest saw himself, covered with the blood and jewels of the defeated.

Rising to his knees, the priest removed his hands and revealed glowing, blood-red eyes. "Bane has returned!" the priest screamed. "Our god has returned to deliver us!"

"All my children will know my glory," Bane said, and in moments the entire chamber was filled with the screams of his followers as they reveled in Bane's vision of conquest and power. Looking out through a blood-red haze as a reminder of their true allegiance, Bane's faithful stood before their lord, awaiting his orders.

"We must first discover the strength of our enemies. Recall our spies from Shadowdale," Bane cried, pointing to a greasy-haired city official who cowered near the throne. "I wish to learn the fate of those who stood against me in the Temple of Lathander. If Elminster or that raven-haired lackey of Mystra still live, I want them brought before me!"

The minister of defense bowed before the Black Lord, then hastened from the throne room. "Of course, Lord Bane," the minister whispered over and over as he fled from the chamber.

"And now we must address the state of Zhentil Keep," the God of Strife growled and turned to once again face the crowded throne room. "The discontent, fear, and confusion of our people must be put to rest before we may achieve the greatness that is our preordained future.

"We will proceed through the streets of the city this very night, spreading the news of my return. The flames of hope that light your eyes will be fanned into an inferno. Together we shall sweep away the people's doubts and begin a new age!" The audience chamber was filled with cries of thanks and shouts of support for the Black Lord. Bane allowed a slight smile to work its way across his face. Once again, he held his followers in an iron grip.

When the frenzy reached a peak, the God of Strife held his fist aloft and spoke again. "Together we shall triumph where gods alone would fail!"

Bane's worshipers parted as their god rose from his throne and walked to the center of the room. The God of Strife stood among his screaming followers for a moment, then led the multitude out of the temple and into the night.