Tantras

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Durrock raced forward, his black sword spiraling through the air. The assassin moved like lightning,