Tantras

VII

Midnight used the time it took the assassins to fly back to Scardale wisely. Although she pretended to be asleep much of the time, the mage took advantage of the rough ride on the nightmare to conceal the tiny motions she had been making with her wrists, ankles, and face for almost the entire journey. A small piece of metal on the saddle allowed Midnight to gently saw away at the bonds that held her in place. The journey was long and tedious, and the mage had made some progress on her bonds by the time they reached Scardale.

Just after sunrise, the nightmares were in the right configuration and close enough together that Midnight could catch Adon's attention. She tried to let the cleric know surreptitiously, through subtle hand signals and gestures that she was trying to cut through her bonds. The mage knew that Adon saw her, but if he understood what she was trying to tell him, it didn't register on the cleric's face.

When the port town came into sight, it was clear to the heroes that this was a place they did not want to be. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from various sections of the city. In the harbor, the heroes could even see huge fires greedily consuming some of the larger ships. Worse still, a number of Zhentish slave galleys cruised offshore.

"The city is under siege!" Durrock cried. "Scardale is at war!" He raised his sword high over his head and signaled the other assassins to hurry. The assassins urged increased speed from their mounts, but it was still almost half an hour before they were over the city.

The assassins laughed and cried out in joy as the nightmares raced over the city. Buildings had been set aflame. Corpses lined the street, and in a few places, the fighting was still in full swing. The heroes noted, though, that Bane's symbol had been painted in red on a number of the larger, more important-looking houses and buildings they passed over. Armed troops, wearing the black armor of the Zhentilar, marched through the streets unopposed.

Varro flew close to Durrock. "We should secure the prisoners," the assassin called. "Then perhaps we can aid the Zhentilar in the destruction of the garrisons — if that has not already been accomplished."

Durrock nodded, and the nightmare riders guided their mounts away from the heart of the city and flew toward the garrison of the Zhentilar, at the outskirts of town. A half-dozen buildings enclosed by a hastily constructed wall comprised the unimpressive fort. The warehouse to which Durrock had summoned the nightmare mounts was located just outside the newly constructed walls of the garrison. The few Zhentilar posted outside the garrison walls cheered when they spotted the assassins.

Kelemvor was amazed as the nightmares descended into the street with a grace and a sureness he never would have associated with the massive beasts. Once the assassins were safely on the ground, Durrock quickly dismounted and opened the warehouse doors. The assassins rode into the old wooden building, then dragged their prisoners from their mounts. Varro quickly untied the ropes that secured Kelemvor to the nightmare, but he left those that held his arms and legs in place. As he did so, Varro talked to the horrid beast with a soft, comforting tone.

Midnight remained perfectly still as Durrock approached his nightmare to untie the ropes that held her to the beast. The mage kept her ankles pressed tightly together, and the assassin did not seem to notice that the bonds around her legs were frayed and nearly severed. Midnight glanced at Adon, and the cleric moved his hands apart a little ways to show the magic-user that his bonds were cut through, too. Midnight's spirits rose, and she couldn't suppress a smile.

I'd best make good my escape now, before anyone catches on, Midnight thought as Durrock moved toward the front of the huge, jet-black horse. Entwining her fingers as it she were saying a prayer, Midnight raised her hands in a tight ball and struck the nightmare as hard as she could. The creature snorted in surprise at the blow and reared up, its forelegs hammering into Durrock, knocking the assassin to the ground.

Midnight threw her arms apart, and the bonds at her wrists snapped. The mage fell back and away from the nightmare, landing on the floor at the creature's rear. The raven-haired magic-user quickly untied the ropes around her ankles and tore the gag from her mouth. She was free!

Only seconds after Midnight struck Durrock's mount, Adon tried the same thing on Sejanus's. The second assassin's nightmare reared up wildly, too, and Adon was also thrown free. But Sejanus proved faster than Durrock. The assassin deftly avoided the wrath of his mount by tumbling away from its flaming hooves. Still, the panicked steed stood between him and his captive, so Adon had time to snap the bonds at his wrists and free himself.

Kelemvor was not so lucky.

Just as Adon struck Sejanus's horse, Varro pulled Kelemvor from his mount and knocked the fighter to the floor. Kelemvor's bonds were still secure. Then the third assassin reached for the dagger at his side, but Midnight was already gesturing a spell. Out of instinct, Kelemvor rolled away from Varro's feet. He had no idea what spell Midnight would attempt or if it would succeed or fail.

As Midnight cast a sleep spell, a pattern of blue-white light formed around her hands, wavered for an instant, and disappeared. Seconds later, just as Varro drew his dagger and prepared to throw the weapon, a sound like thunder ripped through the confines of the darkened warehouse as an invisible force struck the assassin squarely in the chest and drove him backward fifty feet. Varro hit the back wall of the warehouse with such force that the spikes of his armor were driven into the wall, pinning the assassin in place.

Midnight and Adon moved toward Kelemvor, but Durrock and Sejanus were already on their feet, rushing to head off the heroes.

"Run!" Kelemvor called, gritting his teeth as he struggled with his bonds. "I'll be all right!"

"I doubt that very much," Durrock hissed as he stood over the green-eyed fighter. The scarred assassin drew his sword.

Midnight hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should attempt another incantation. The spell she had cast against Varro had gone awry, but nevertheless it had worked in her favor. However, Midnight doubted she would be so fortunate if she were to cast a second spell against the remaining assassins.

"Forget the fighter, Durrock!" Sejanus shouted as he raised his bolos over his head. "He's not going anywhere. Get the witch! She's the one we were sent for!"

"Run, damn you!" Kelemvor screamed, glaring at his companions. Durrock kicked Kelemvor in the side of the head with his heavy boot. The fighter was struck speechless by the blow, and his head swam in a sea of pain.

Adon grabbed Midnight's hand and pulled her toward the open door at the front of the warehouse. "You can't help him now!" Adon explained quickly. "We'll have to come back for him!"

A look of desperation crossed Midnight's features, and she allowed Adon to pull her forward. The bright sunlight from the doorway, no more than six feet away now, was nearly blinding as the mage and the cleric turned and ran for it. Then Midnight and Adon heard the sharp hiss of Sejanus's bolos slicing through the air as the assassin prepared to hurl them.

"Down!" Midnight screamed as she shoved Adon to the floor. The bolos whistled through the air just above the heroes' heads and went spinning down the street outside the warehouse.

Grabbing Adon's hand, Midnight jumped to her feet and yanked the cleric from the floor. Quickly they crossed the half dozen feet to the doorway, but the heavy footsteps of Bane's assassins sounded close behind the heroes as they leaped from the warehouse out into the light.

The Zhentish garrison was to her left when Midnight burst from the warehouse, so she quickly ruled out running in that direction and headed to the right. The dry dirt street that the mage and the cleric found themselves on seemed to lead into the center of town. As they ran deeper into Scardale, they heard the sounds of fighting grow louder and louder, although the closest skirmish they could see was a number of blocks away, off to their right. Behind them, the heroes could hear the cries of the assassins and the Zhentilar from the garrison.

The heroes raced through the narrow, twisting streets, looking for someplace to hide from their pursuers. They ran until the road they were following met another street to form a T. Midnight and Adon could hear the voices of the Zhentilar behind them, so there was no doubling back. The street to her left was lined with bodies and rubble from burned-out buildings. To her right, a huge, overturned wagon blocked the street, and a raging fire consumed a short, squat building. Thick smoke covered the road obscuring everything that lay beyond the wagon.

"The Zhentilar are following us!" Adon wheezed between breaths. "Where can we hide?"

"How close are they?" a voice hissed from Midnight's left. Midnight looked sharply and saw one of the corpses raise his head. The corpse frowned. "From your expressions, I would guess they're right on your heels."

The "dead man" rose to his feet and dusted himself off. His violet clothing was trimmed with gold mesh, and bloodstains that had turned a deep brown covered him from head to toe. His yellow boots were almost brown with dirt, and he wore a cape with a crimson lining. The man's fine, golden hair was matted and tangled, but Midnight could see that it was very long, curling about his shoulders. He was armed with a short sword and a dagger. On his forehead was a large, ugly purple welt.

"Come on, then," the man said cheerfully as he gestured for Midnight and Adon to follow him. "Don't just stand there. You've already called enough attention to me. We might as well make a run for it."

Midnight looked back and saw Sejanus, Durrock, and a few Zhentilar approaching. Although the assassins were trying to run, their armor did not allow them much more than a brisk walk. The Zhentilar, on the other hand, broke into a sprint when they saw the mage and the cleric. When Durrock saw the heroes break into a run after the golden-haired man, he stopped and headed back toward the garrison.

Midnight glanced over her shoulder as she ran and saw the scarred assassin quit the chase. "He's going to get his mount!" the mage gasped. She tightened her hold on Adon's hand as they ran through the street lined with corpses.

After several hundred yards, the man ducked around a corner and led the heroes into an alley between two large buildings. As the shadows of the alley engulfed them, Midnight and Adon realized that they faced a dead end. Midnight was about to speak when the man turned, smiled, and said, "If we're going to die together, I'd like to know who I'm dying with."

"I'm Midnight of Deepingdale. This is Adon, a cleric of — "

"Adon," the cleric hissed and ran his hand over his scar. "Just Adon."

"Fair enough," the man answered, running his hand through his long, golden hair. "My name is Varden." The man turned toward the end of the alley, but Adon grabbed his arm.

"Why are you helping us?" the voting cleric asked.

Varden turned back to face the heroes, the slight smile gone from his face. "You're being hunted by the Zhents, right?"

Midnight and Adon nodded. A handful of Zhentilar ran past the alley. The three fugitives held their breath and pulled farther back into the shadows. Luckily none of the soldiers stopped to investigate the alley.

The man nodded toward the street where the soldiers had just passed. "That's reason enough," Varden growled. Adon took his hand from the man's arm. Varden turned back down the alley. "Now let's get rid of your slow-witted pursuers so we can talk in less… stressful circumstances."

Adon and Midnight followed Varden deeper into the shadows. Soon the golden-haired man uncovered a side door to a building flanking them on the right. He yanked at the door and found that it was locked.

Just then, Sejanus appeared at the entrance to the alley, bolos in hand.

"I hate working under pressure," Varden hissed as he pulled a small set of tools from a hand at his wrist.

"You're a thief?" Midnight gasped, her eyes growing wide with disbelief.

"I assure you, I am fully licensed and accredited by the Thieves' Guild," Varden said as he fitted a skeleton key into the lock. He did not take his attentions from his work. "I suppose that lummox is still coming."

Midnight looked back toward the head of the alley and saw Sejanus approaching, the bolos whirling over his head. The assassin was less than seventy-five feet away. "Come, little mage!" Sejanus rumbled. "I have no wish to bring damaged merchandise back to Lord Bane. Make this easy on me, and I promise to return the favor later on."

Shuddering, Midnight looked back to the thief. "Hurry!" she urged.

"There! That should do it!" Varden cried. A series of tumblers fell inside the lock, and the thief grabbed the door's handle. Varden pushed Midnight and Adon into the darkened hall, then slammed the door closed behind him. Sejanus screamed in frustration and threw his bolos. The weapon crashed into the door.

In the semidarkness of the cluttered festhall, Varden struggled to find the locking mechanism on the inside of the door. It took him a moment to find the proper levers and lock the heavy oaken door. "That should hold him for a moment or two," the thief chuckled as he turned to survey the musty, deserted hall. "What have we here?"

A dull yellow light shone in the main room of the festhall, its source a rather large hole in the ceiling that had been partially covered with rotting timber. The light revealed a long room with a decrepit wooden staircase and a crumbling balcony that ran around the edges of the entire building. The ground floor of the hall was dominated by a large oaken table. The table was warped and decaying in places, and it ran for almost the entire length of the building.

Though the edges of the room on the first floor were hidden in deep shadows, Varden could see that at least twenty suits of armor lined the walls. All were rusted, half were incomplete. Above each suit, a few weapons, many twisted or broken, hung on display. Midnight thought she heard the hushed whispers of a dozen or more voices, but she devised that it must be the wind through the hole in the roof.

"Seems like we've stumbled across some old meeting hall." Varden said as he walked toward a shield on the wall. Any coat of arms the shield had once held had been erased in time and rust. "From the armor and weapons, I'd guess it belonged to some order of knights — maybe even paladins," the thief added.

There was a loud crash at the door through which the heroes bad entered, and Midnight heard Sejanus curse loudly. Midnight and Adon quickly scanned the room for another exit. When she saw none, the mage turned to the thief, panic in her eyes. "Where can we hide?"

Varden laughed. "We need to escape, not hide. Any minute now, the Zhents who ran past the alley will come running back, looking for their leader." The thief paused and looked around the room. "If we hide here, we're as good as dead."

Sejanus crashed against the door again. "You cannot escape me, mage!" the assassin bellowed.

"That's just what you'd expect him to say," Varden chuckled. "Those Zhents have absolutely no imagination!"

"That's a clever observation," Adon snapped. "So use your imagination to find the other exits."

Varden leaned against the wall and shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea where they might be."

"What do you mean, you don't know!? Then why did you bring us here?" Midnight cried.

"So we wouldn't have to face your friend out there," Varden growled, pointing at the door. "Believe me, I'm as much in the dark about this place as you are. Start searching the edges of the room for another door."

The crash at the door came again. This time the wooden door splintered slightly and bent inward on its hinges. As Midnight approached the edge of the hall, near one of the suits of armor, she heard whispering again. It seemed to come from the rusted suit of plate mail. In other parts of the hall, Varden and Adon heard the voices, too.

"Conflict," a battered suit of armor whispered. "We lived and died for conflict."

To Adon's right, a set of antique plate mail with a large hole in its ornate breastplate turned to face the cleric "For law and the cause of good, we gave our lives. Fought rust and wear to save our masters. In Anauroch, my lord was slain. They bore me back, a monument to his greatness."

Varden started and began to back away, but a rusted mail hauberk coiled its chain sleeve around his arm. "At the foot of the Glacier of the White Worm I fell, unable to prevent a giant's club from bashing in my lord's skull." The thief tried to pull away from the ghostly armor, but it held him tight. "We serve the force of good," a voice whispered from the hauberk. "Whom do you serve?"

All around the room, creaking suits of plate mail stepped off pedestals and grabbed rusting halberds and swords. Chain mail hauberks tilled out, as if worn by invisible knights, and stepped to the center of the room. "Yes, whom do you serve?" a dozen phantom voices rasped.

"We — we work for the good of the Realms," Midnight cried. The suits of armor paused for a moment, and for that moment there was silence in the festhall. The hauberk released Varden, and the thief hurried to Midnight's side. Adon walked slowly across the room, shaking his head.

"The whole world has gone mad!" the young cleric sighed. Before anyone could respond, though, the door to the alley splintered into a dozen pieces, and Sejanus burst into the room.

"In the name of Bane, what's going on here?" The assassin gasped as he looked around the room at the ten full suits of armor holding weapons, standing as it poised for battle. In the shadows at the edges of the room, incomplete or badly damaged suits waved their battered, rusting arms and turned toward Sejanus.

"Your armor gives you away, servant of darkness!" the suit of plate with the gash in the breastplate rasped and raised its bent sword.

Sejanus began to laugh nervously. "Little mage, is this your doing?" Midnight didn't answer, but she and her companions moved behind the advancing armor.

"Born in fire!" a set of armor whispered as it grabbed a halberd and pointed the poleax at the assassin. Sejanus glanced to his left and saw a second suit of armor approaching him.

"This is madness!" Sejanus growled and tossed his bolos at the suit of plate wielding the halberd. The armor easily deflected the bolos with its halberd and continued to advance on the assassin. Sejanus drew his sword. "I grow tired of your display, mage. Stop this at once or you will pay for your impudence later!"

As they backed toward the far end of the hall, Varden leaned close to Midnight and whispered, "Are you responsible for this?"

Midnight frowned and shook her head vigorously. "No. This is just another of nature's tricks or some ancient magic that was set here long before we stumbled across it."

Adon grabbed Varden's sleeve and pointed into the darkness at the end of the room. A small wooden door lay in the shadows, but a series of boards were nailed across it, holding it tightly closed. "We can escape through here while the armor keeps the assassin occupied," Adon said and turned toward the door.

Suddenly there was an explosion of wood from above. Sunlight flooded the warehouse as huge chunks of rotting wood fell to the floor. The heroes dove under the long table. Sejanus and the animated suits of armor stopped moving. All eyes turned to the roof of the festhall.

There, hung in the air above the hole in the ceiling, was Durrock, riding his nightmare. The horrible creature was shattering the boards that covered the hole with its flaming hooves. Obviously Durrock desperately wanted to get inside the warehouse. He wanted Midnight.

"We're leaving now!" Varden yelled as he grabbed Midnight's hand. "Cover your head."

Taking advantage of the confusion caused by Durrock's appearance, Varden, Midnight, and Adon broke from the cover of the table and rushed between two living suits of armor toward the door that led out into the alley. Sejanus was howling with rage as the ring of animated suits of armor tightened around him.

"Durrock, the mage is getting away!" Sejanus screamed as he parried a sword thrust from one of the suits of rusted plate. Durrock and his nightmare vanished from the jagged hole in the roof just as the heroes emerged into the alley. The sounds of swords crashing against one another echoed from inside the warehouse, mixed with Sejanus's screams of anger.

As the heroes ran down the alley toward the street, the sound of the nightmare snorting and whinnying drifted down from above their heads. Midnight looked toward the sky and saw Durrock and his mount hovering over the rooftops. "The alley is too narrow for his mount, but on the street we'll be at his mercy," the mage cried. "We're right back where we started!"

"Well, we can't camp here all day," Varden exclaimed.

Midnight turned to the thief. "I'm the one the assassins are after," the raven-haired magic-user stated flatly. "Lead Adon to safety. As long as I'm trapped in this alley, Durrock won't follow you."

"Don't be absurd!" Varden snapped as he grabbed Midnight's arm and tried to drag her forward. "The next thing I know, you'll want to try using magic! There's nothing more infuriating — "

Midnight shifted her weight away from Varden, dug her left leg into the ground between his legs, and shoved the thief over her leg against the wall of the alley. The golden-haired man struck the wall with such impact that he was momentarily stunned.

"Never put your hands on me like that!" Midnight growled, then backed away from the thief. "I know what's best. Now, go!"

Adon walked to Midnight's side and put his hand on her shoulder. "No," the cleric said softly. "We've got to trust Varden." The scarred young man paused for a moment and looked up at the assassin, still hovering over the alley. "We've got to stay together."

Midnight had run out of arguments. She considered their circumstances for a moment, then followed Adon and Varden down the alley. At the edge of the street, the thief paused and turned to the mage.

"I know where to go from here," Varden whispered. "We need to get to the alley five stores to the east of here." The thief looked up and saw the nightmare descending into the street. "Run!" he cried and bolted into the street filled with corpses.

"We still have your lover, Midnight!" Durrock shouted as the nightmare landed and started to race down the street after the mage and her allies. "Surrender now or he will pay the price for your foolishness!"

Chancing a look back over her shoulder, Midnight saw that Durrock had picked up a new weapon when he had gone back for his mount. In the assassin's hands was a black net, large enough to contain a man, with heavy weights secured to its edges. The scarred assassin was no more than twenty feet from Midnight and her companions, holding the net open wide, when Varden suddenly turned into another alley.

In the cramped lane that ran between two dilapidated buildings, Varden charged up a rickety set of stairs and dove into an open window. Midnight and Adon turned down the alley just in time to see the thief disappear. At the same time, Durrock released the net. The metal mesh struck the corner of the building as the heroes raced into the alley and climbed through the window.

Inside the building, Midnight and Adon found themselves in a small room that was covered in paper. The room looked as if a whirlwind had passed through the interior of the building and scattered pieces of parchment everywhere. Varden was lying in the center of the mess, lifting himself up from the floor, when the heroes entered. In the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged, with a large pile of papers in his lap, was a man in his early sixties, with two patches of white hair at the sides of his head and a shining bald pate between them.

Varden saw the older man and let out a cry of greeting. "Gratus!" the thief exclaimed happily, a smile on his face. "Why, it's my good friend and associate, Gratus!"

The old man looked up. He was wearing clothing similar to Varden's violet pants and shirt with yellow boots — except that Gratus was missing the cape. An expression of sorrow and pain lashed across the old man's lace as he squinted in the direction of the thief. Then Gratus spread his hands wide, and papers flew in every direction.

"Varden, you're still alive!" Then the old man's expression changed rapidly to one of anger. "Go away! Every time I see you, it's nothing but trouble!" Gratus croaked. The old man saw that the papers had scattered from his lap and tried futilely to gather them up again.

Varden's smile widened. "I can't really deny that, considering our present circumstances," the thief said as he flashed a glance back at the open window. "But I would very much appreciate it if you would stop complaining and give us a hand!"

Standing near the window, Adon ducked his head outside to take a look. "I don't see any sign of Durrock," Adon noted.

"He's probably calling the other Zhents, trying to cover all the exits," Varden said flatly. "He has no way of knowing what direction we'll take when we leave."

"Excuse me," Gratus said. "But did you say 'Durrock,' as in Bane's unholy servant? Black, spiked armor? Rides a horrid, monstrous horse with flaming hooves?"

Midnight drew a deep breath. "Yes. That's who's following us." The mage moved to Adon's side and glanced nervously at the window.

"Come now," Varden said cheerily, turning to Midnight. "Don't look so glum. We've already defeated Durrock's friend hack in the festhall."

Gratus held his wrinkled hand in front of his face. "Fine!" he snapped and held up a single finger. "You defeated one." The old man paused and held up another bony digit. "Durrock's undoubtedly circling somewhere overhead, so that makes two." Gratus held up a third finger slowly and said, "But where is the third assassin? Durrock is always in the company of two others."

Midnight turned away from the window and fixed the old man with a cold stare. "I cast a spell at him when we escaped. He's probably still pinned to the side of the warehouse near the Zhentish garrison."

"A mage!" the old man cried as he lifted himself from the ground. "So this is what you bring me, Varden. Another mage!"

"What does he mean, 'another mage?'" Adon asked.

Varden tried to dismiss the question with a smile. "It's nothing," the golden-haired thief said. "Gratus's mind wanders sometimes, that's all."

The old man stood up straight. "Goon, Varden! Tell them!" Gratus put his hands on his hips. "I'm not lifting a finger to help until you do."

Varden sighed and hung his head. "A… former acquaintance of mine was a magic-user." All traces of the thief's good humor disappeared as he spoke.

Gratus nodded emphatically. "Note the word 'was,'" the old man cackled, wagging his finger at the younger man.

The thief spun to face the older man. "It's not my fault that Dowie tried to light that torch using his magic! It was a very stupid thing to do."

Gratus chuckled. "Did either of you happen to notice a pillar of flame that rose to the heavens a week ago?" the old man asked.

"We're new in town," Adon said.

Gratus nodded and continued. "You should have seen the look on Dowie's face right before — "

"The two of you can trade stories all you want later," Midnight growled. The mage trembled with barely controlled anger. "Right now, we need help. Durrock will be back any second now with those Zhentilar that passed us a while back."

Varden held up his hand to calm Midnight down. "Gratus, I think we should go to the garrison." The thief turned to Midnight and Adon. "We're merchants here in Scardale, but it recent days, we have found it expedient to seek the protection of the Sembian garrison here," Varden explained, "the outfits are the garb of our illustrious employer."

The old man nodded. "That's fine with me." Gratus paused and idly kicked a pile of paper aside. "Unless the fair lady of magic wants to use her great power against the assassins and turn Scardale into a smoking pit in the process. I heard about a mage who reduced an area outside of Arabel to — "

"How do we get there? To the Sembian garrison?" Adon growled. "And please make it quick, before the Zhentish decide to storm the building."

Gratus looked at Varden. "Impatient, isn't he?" the old man sighed. "Do you expect us to simply dance out of here into the streets and stroll to the garrison? The Zhents would be on us in an instant."

Even Varden was growing impatient now. "So how are we going to get out of here?" he snapped.

Gratus smiled a crooked smile, exposing his yellowed crooked teeth. "I've been holed up in this place, sifting through papers, because I'd heard rumors that the old government installed a number of secret tunnels beneath the city."

Midnight could not contain a sarcastic laugh. "And you expect the plans for them to be lying around here, waiting to be found by any old cutpurse who can find his way into the building?"

Gratus continued to smile. "Why not hide them in plain sight?" the old man said. "That's what I would do."

"And that's why you aren't ruling this city," Varden growled. "This is a terrible time to be relying on rumor, Gratus."

The old man ignored Varden and continued, the crooked smile still on his face. "I have made some rather interesting discoveries." Gratus withdrew a set of documents from his waistband and gestured with them. "Like these plans for a proposed sewage system that — "

Moving forward, Midnight reached for the stained, crumpled parchments. "Give them to me!" the mage growled. After studying the plans, Midnight shook her head, then returned Gratus's smile. "According to these, there should be an entrance to the sewer right beneath this building."

"That is correct," Gratus said smugly. "If the government installed the secret tunnels, then it would make sense that there are entrances to all public buildings. This building used to be a sort of hall of records."

"Your luck seems to be holding out, old man," Varden said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Luck!" Gratus exclaimed, balling his hands into fists. "Suddenly I no longer feel guilty about leaving you for dead in the street after that band of Zhentilar attacked us."

"I wasn't going to mention that," the thief stated flatly. "Besides, you couldn't have known that I wasn't dead. After all, I was unconscious for a while." Here Varden rubbed the bruise on his forehead. "Anyway, I was perfectly safe as long as the Zhents thought I was dead."

Gratus stiffened at Varden's words, then turned to leave the room. "You didn't know?" the old man mumbled as he moved into the hallway. The sounds of Durrock barking orders to the Zhentilar drifted in through the open window. "Come on, the lot of you! We've got to get out of here!"

Midnight and Adon followed Varden and Gratus down two flights of warped wooden stairs into the basement of the building. The old man took the map from Midnight once they reached the musty basement and looked at it again. "The entrance to the tunnels should be right here," Gratus said, pointing to a large, empty bookcase.

The heroes pushed the oaken bookcase a few feet to the side and found a thin sheet of wood covering a small, dark doorway.

For several moments, Varden had been mulling over the comment Gratus had made before they left the room upstairs. "I didn't know what?" the thief finally asked as the heroes peered into the darkened tunnel.

Gratus frowned, but he didn't turn to look at the thief. "Normally the Zhents chop the heads off their victims just to be sure no one's faking," the old man explained. "When you fell, I had to assume you were dead… or soon would be."

Varden turned white, and Midnight couldn't suppress a shudder. The realities of war, she reminded herself. She turned away from the tunnel as there was a loud crash upstairs, and Adon heard Durrock barking orders to his men.

"I may be wrong, you understand," Gratus noted calmly as he reached for a torch that hung inside the door. He quickly pulled out his flint and steel and lit the old wooden torch. "But if I'm right, I think we can make the Sembian garrison by nightfall."

Varden took the torch from Gratus and stepped into the tunnel. Midnight and Adon glanced at each other for a moment, then followed the Sembians into the darkness.

Shaking his head to toss his thick, matted hair from his eyes, Kelemvor surveyed his cell. It was a barren little room, really little more than an eight-foot cube, with a wall at his back, bars at his front, and bars to either side of him. Beyond the bars in front of the fighter, there was a poorly lit hallway where two guards were stationed before the cell. Chains bound the fighter's hands and feet, allowing him less than two feet of unimpeded movement from the back wall of the cell.

Heavy footsteps sounded from down the hallway, as if a procession had entered the lower level of the Zhentilar headquarters and was now approaching through the narrow stone walkway. Kelemvor watched as a red-haired man wearing ebon armor entered the corridor and stopped before his cell. The fighter recognized the ornate armor as identical to that worn by the God of Strife in the dungeons of Castle Kilgrave. A beautiful blond woman, wearing an elegant black robe with a brilliant red sash, stood beside the red-haired man, a wicked smile playing across her features.

"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," Lord Bane murmured. "I trust you remember me." The god drew a finely crafted sword from a scabbard at his waist.

"Your dogs address you as 'Lord Bane,' but if that's true, you've changed," the fighter said calmly. "You're not quite as ugly as you were when Mystra defeated you in Cormyr."

The sword shook in the Black Lord's hand. "Do not try to goad me into granting you a quick death!" Bane roared.

Kelemvor winced. Even if this wasn't Bane, Kelemvor realized, his impersonator had control of the situation. Perhaps it wasn't best to provoke him. "What do you want with me?" the fighter asked softly.

"I have come to make you an offer. Choose wisely, for your life may depend on your response," Bane purred, clanging his sword across the bars of the fighter's cell.

"I would expect that kind of offer from someone who threatened a chained, unarmed man with a sword," Kelemvor said, smiling. The fighter looked at Bane and saw shards of crimson dancing in his eves.

The red-haired man narrowed his eyes. "Do not try to endear yourself to me, either. I know everything about you, Lyonsbane. Perhaps you forget that I was inside your mind when you and your pitiful friends entered Castle Kilgrave."

Kelemvor flinched. This really was the God of Strife who stood before him. No one else could know that Bane had entered his mind and drawn forth illusions based on his fondest desires to prevent him from rescuing Lady Mystra.

"Ah, you remember," Bane noted. "And do you remember the offer your dead uncle made to you in the dream I gave to you?" The fighter looked up sharply. "You can be free of the curse of the Lyonsbanes, Kelemvor — free to be a hero if you wish, without fearing the curse."

Lowering his head, the green-eyed fighter looked away from the Black Lord. "What do you want with me," Kelemvor repeated.

Bane sighed. "Right to business, then. As you might have guessed, my true interest is not in you. You can swing from a meat hook, for all I care." The blond woman at Bane's side giggled.

Kelemvor thought of the body he had found in the Twisted Tower, courtesy of Cyric's handiwork. Those two would be well matched, the fighter thought.

"Open the cell," Bane ordered, sheathing his sword. In seconds, the door was opened and Bane stood within a few feet of the fighter. The blond sorceress followed the fallen god into the cell.

Bane smiled a perversely charismatic grin and put his hand on the fighter's arm. "It's the mage I want… Midnight. You know her better than anyone else in the Realms," the God of Strife purred. "And I know you. I know everything about you. Your entire life passed before my gaze in Castle Kilgrave."

Kelemvor looked into the avatar's eves and nodded slowly. "I want information from you, mercenary," Bane stated, all emotion absent from his voice. "I want an accounting of every time Midnight used the power Lady Mystra granted to her."

"The pendant, you mean?" Kelemvor asked. "The blue star pendant that Mystra gave to Midnight?" The fighter paused and breathed a sigh of relief. "It's gone. It was destroyed in the Battle of Shadowdale. Midnight has no other gift from Mystra, so you can stop worrying about her."

Bane thought of his final moments in the Temple of Lathander. Even though he had taken the pendant from the raven-haired mage, she was still able to cast a spell of far greater power than should have been possible. Perhaps Mystra, who was by then only a magic elemental of sorts, granted Midnight the power directly. Or perhaps Midnight had more power than any of her friends suspected.

"I want you to tell me in detail about every time she used magic since the time of Arrival," Bane said, anger tingeing his words. "And I want to know what her destination is."

Then she escaped! Kelemvor suddenly realized. The assassins didn't recapture her. "I don't know her plans," the fighter said sharply and turned away from the God of Strife. "Besides, why should I help you?"

The Black Lord's hand struck out with blinding speed, and Kelemvor's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow. "If you lie to me, the consequences will be painful." Bane stepped back from the fighter and grinned again. "Besides, you will eventually tell me the truth… given the right prompting. So let's not waste my time, and yours, by forcing me to slowly flay you alive."

The blond sorceress moved past Bane and reached up to touch the side of Kelemvor's face, where he had been struck.

"If you refuse me," the God of Strife noted, "I'll let Tarana take your body, then your mind, then your life." Bane covered his mouth his hands, stifling a yawn. "She is a mage. She can enter your mind, just as I have in the past."

The fighter jerked his head away from Tarana's caresses. "Magic's unstable," Kelemvor snapped, tear spreading through him. "A spell like that could kill us both."

"That's true," Tarana cooed and giggled again. "Quite a romantic picture, don't you think?"

Kelemvor looked into the deep blue eyes of the sorceress and felt as if he was gazing into an endless pit of madness. She would gladly kill us both, the fighter realized. He shuddered and turned back to Bane. "What reward do you offer me for my assistance? You know that my curse will not allow me to help you without payment."

The God of Strife smiled. "Before we set a price, my friend, you should know that I want more than information from you." Bane ran a hand through his flaming red hair and paused.

"I assume that Midnight plans to venture to Tantras, with hopes of finding one of the Tablets of Fate that Lord Myrkul and I stole from the heavens." The God of Strife turned away from Kelemvor. "Not that she would ever find it, of course. Its hiding place is a masterpiece of deception. It is nowhere that you would ever expect it to be."

"Stop playing games, Bane. If you're going to kill me once I give you the information, you might as well tell me where you've hidden the tablet," Kelemvor growled.

"Kill you?" Bane asked, a chuckle in his voice. He turned back to the fighter.

Kelemvor frowned deeply. "Isn't that my reward? A quick death?"

All emotion drained from the Black Lord's face again. "I don't want to kill you, Lyonsbane. I want to hire you to draw Midnight from her hiding place, then retrieve the Tablet of Fate from Tantras."

Kelemvor was shocked, and it clearly registered on his face. "But why me? You must have an army of loyal followers who would gladly perform such tasks for you." The fighter paused and stared at Bane. "In fact, why don't you find Midnight and retrieve the tablet yourself?"'

"She has taken refuge with the Sembian garrison and hides with them. I would have to wage a major assault against the Sembian resistance to recover her. Many lives would be lost, and in the confusion, she could easily escape." The God of Strife frowned. "On the other hand, you would be able to ferret her out of hiding and lead her into a trap with little effort. In short, you would be a perfect spy."

Kelemvor took his eyes away from the god, but Tarana grabbed his jaw and forced his gaze back. Her hands were as cold as the grave.

The God of Strife stared at the fighter for a moment. "Midnight's life is mine, no matter how you decide," Bane noted flatly. "No matter what you do, I will have her. I am a god, after all." The red-haired man took a step toward Kelemvor. "Never forget that."

"Aye," Kelemvor said flatly. The chains were digging into the fighter's flesh, and the pain reminded him of the gravity of his situation. Bane would certainly kill him if he didn't cooperate, and that would put an end to his dream of somehow living a normal life, even for a few years.

And Kelemvor knew that the God of Strife could capture — no, would capture — Midnight, whether he helped the fallen god or not. But the fighter loved the magic-user. At least he thought he did. And there was very little he would trade that for.

"I still haven't told you what I offer," the Black Lord said, as if he were reading Kelemvor's mind. "You must know what I am willing to do for you before you can make a decision."

The fighter stared into the blood-red eyes of the god-made-flesh. Bane moved a step closer, and Kelemvor saw his own reflection in the god's eves.

"I offer an end to your suffering," Bane whispered. "Do as I ask, and I will remove the curse of the Lyonsbanes from you!"

Bane's words hit Kelemvor like a lightly padded mace. For a moment, the fighter's senses reeled as he turned the possibility of release from the curse over in his mind. After a moment, Kelemvor once again focused his attention on the Black Lord.

"My family has sought an end to the curse of our bloodline for generations. How do I know you can deliver what you promise?" the fighter asked, his voice low and taut with emotion. "A bag of gold I can see and feel. Its weight comforts the curse. A promise such as you have made appeals to my dreams, but will likely do little else. After I do your dirty work, then you will renege on your promise."

Smiling, Bane ran his hand over his face. "You forget you are speaking to a god," Bane said, the false grin dropping from his lips. "I do not offer what I cannot produce." The fallen god turned away from the fighter for a moment and struggled to control his anger. When he turned, his smile had returned.

"You know how bargains work, Lyonsbane. You've had to live all your life wondering if a man would keep his word." The God of Strife paused and put his hand around Kelemvor's throat. "That's why I know I can depend on you to keep your part of our bargain after I've removed the curse."

Kelemvor's heart began to race. "After?"

"Of course," Bane said flatly. "I cannot expect you to serve me if I haven't made it clear that your curse has ended."

"B-But how can you remove the curse when so many others have failed?" Kelemvor asked breathlessly.

"You keep forgetting… I am a god," Bane growled, tightening his grip on Kelemvor's throat ever so slightly. "There is nothing I cannot accomplish."

A heavy breath escaped from Kelemvor's lips.

"You doubt the word of the God of Strife?" Tarana gasped. She backed away from the fighter and drew a small knife from the folds of her robe. Bane shook his head, and Tarana put her dagger away.

"My family has petitioned gods in the past," Kelemvor stated, swallowing hard.

"But not a single cursed member of the Lyonsbanes has ever believed in a god before," Bane stated and removed his hand from the fighter's throat. The God of Strife stroked the fighter's face gently.

"That's the key," Bane purred. "A god will grant no mercy and no favors to one who does not believe completely. You may not be a follower of mine — not yet, anyway — but you know what I am. You believe that I am the Black Lord, the God of Strife. You have faith that I am all that I say I am."

Kelemvor nodded slowly.

"That is enough. That faith is all I need," Bane said softly. "And your answer." The fallen god paused and turned away from the fighter again. "What shall it be, Kelemvor Lyonsbane? One final mission, and in return, the fulfillment of all your dreams. Or would you languish here until you die? You must decide."

The blond sorceress had returned to the Black Lord's side, and together, they waited patiently for Kelemvor to give his answer.