Sands of the Soul (23 page)

“Make it quick,” Tazi told her. “Steorf, keep a watch on the inner door there.”

She motioned to the entrance they had just come from.

It took Fannah a few moments to collect all the dropped pages. Tazi stood guard over her with one blade drawn.

“Hurry, Fannah,” she admonished, but saw that a frown had crossed her friend’s face. “What is it?”

Fannah rose carefully to her feet with the bundle of writings stacked in her hands.

She handed them to Tazi and asked, “Are these all part of the book they spoke of?”

Tazi frowned as well but accepted the sheaf of vellum. After sheathing her sword, she flipped through them all carefully before she answered Fannah.

“As far as I can tell, they are all written in the same hand. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Fannah said slowly, “this bundle is significantly heavier now than it was yesterday.”

“Are you sure?” she asked seriously.

Fannah looked at her squarely with her white eyes and said, “I am very certain.”

Before either woman had a chance to comment on the implications of that fact, Steorf rushed to their side.

Sands of the Soul*

T

It’s gone,” the Mysterious Lurker nearly cried. “It’s gone.”

The old priest wandered around the main chamber, paying little attention to the two injured novices who stood there looking nervous. He had eyes only for the once again upright, but very empty, dais.

“How could this have happened?” he moaned.

“How could what have happened?” a deadly voice repeated from the darkness.

The Lurker whirled and nearly tripped on his own robes that were tangled around his legs. He watched with growing fear as Ciredor separated himself from the deep shadows behind the dais. The priest could see that the necromancer was already seething with anger. Thoughts of running crossed his mind, but he

knew there was no choice but to face the dark mage.

“Lord,” he cried, “those gharabs have fled with the sacred writings of Ibrandul. I cannot begin to … to apologize.”

He clutched at his robes defensively.

“What happened?” Ciredor demanded.

“A-a few hours ago,” the priest stammered out, “the two Sembians found their way back to this chamber from the Muzad and stole the book.”

“I thought you were going to take care of them,” Ciredor taunted him. “They escaped your trap with the aranea, but you swore they would never return here alive.”

The Lurker dropped his robes and wrung his hands together.

“They wouldn’t have,” he nearly screeched, “if that pariah, Asraf, had obeyed his orders.” He continued on a higher tone, having found someone else to share the blame with. “If these two—” he paused and pointed to the two Children of Ibrandul—”had been stronger in their faith, they would have stopped those Sembians here … permanently.”

“Leave this room,” Ciredor told the Children of Ibrandul, suddenly very aware of their presence.

When they hesitated, he hissed, “Now!”

They fled without a backward glance at the Lurker, who felt very alone. >

Ciredor slowly paced around the priest. The Lurker bowed his head under Ciredor’s deliberate scrutiny and came to accept the fact that it was his responsibility alone regarding the safekeeping of Ibrandul’s tome. He couldn’t blame the others.

“What shall we do?” Ciredor whispered silkily. “Now that the book is gone and, I assume, Fannah as well, what do you suggest?”

All the while, he circled the priest.

It was all too much for the disciple of Ibrandul to bear. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

“It’s my fault entirely,” he sobbed. “You discovered those

amazing words, dedicated your whole life to retrieving them, and now, in one moment, I’ve lost them.” The Lurker prostrated himself on the ground and cried, “I have betrayed my god. I don’t deserve to live!”

Ciredor stood over him and tapped his foot. Seizing on an idea, the mage slowly sank to his knees and gathered the Lurker’s shoulders in his steely grip.

He flipped the priest around to face him and said, “So you wish to die? Very well.”

The Lurker broke free of Ciredor’s icy hands and scuttled, crablike, a few steps back. His heart was pounding. He watched as Ciredor rose gracefully to his feet and reached wfth his right hand into a fold of his black silks. The priest cringed as the dark mage withdrew a glowing, amethyst gem and held it in his outstretched hand. The sight of the unholy artifact froze the Lurker’s blood in his veins.

Somewhere he found the voice to ask tremulously, “W-what is that?”

Ciredor smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his black eyes.

“Don’t be frightened,” the necromancer consoled. “You said you don’t deserve to live.

“Well,” he continued easily, moving closer to the Lurker, “I’m going to send you to join your cherished Skulking God.”

When Ciredor mentioned Ibrandul’s title, something pierced the fear that had settled over the priest’s mind like a fog.

He even found the courage to demand, “What are you talking about? You wouldn’t…”

Ciredor advanced on the priest and extended his left arm. A green bolt escaped his fingers and shot over to the priest. Hovering over his body, the emerald orb divided into four smaller spheres, and each one pinned either an arm or a leg to the stone floor. The Mysterious Lurker was held fast.

“What?” he screamed at Ciredor.

Sands of the Soul -

The dark mage walked over to the bound priest and unceremoniously dropped the amethyst onto his chest. The gem winked and twinkled in the light, and the priest found himself mesmerized by the stone in spite of the predicament he was in. He fruitlessly strained against the sorcerous bonds. He was at Ciredor’s mercy.

If there is such a thing, he thought morosely.

Ciredor walked over to the Lurker’s head and stood so that the priest was forced to strain his neck back only to view the mage upside down. He scraped his scalp in the process, but the Lurker had a sneaking suspicion that that injury was the least of his worries. Ciredor gracefully dropped to his knees and leaned in close to the priest’s ear.

“Your Lord of the Dry Depths,” Ciredor explained smoothly, “has been dead for several years now.”

“Lies!” the Lurker shrieked. “What kind of lies are you spinning?”

He was no longer aware of his vulnerability, having heard his god was so maligned.

“Surely you recall the Time of Troubles years back, and the Godswar,” Ciredor continued, undaunted. “I’ll take your silence as an affirmation.” The dark mage chuckled. “My, this floor is rough.”

He rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his pants. The Lurker watched as best he could while Ciredor prowled around his prostrate form.

“While skulking about… if you’ll pardon the pun,” the dark mage said in a mock apology, “deep in the Underdark beneath Waterdeep, Ibrandul had an encounter with my goddess. Shar slew him on sight.”

“No …” the Lurker denied, but without much passion.

There was something in what Ciredor said that rang true to the priest. He had noticed over the past few years that there were fewer and fewer encounters with the Lord of the Dry Depths. He had been vaguely uneasy for months since Ciredor had been feeding him Ibrandul’s “lost words.” It was

as though he sensed at a subconscious level that something was wrong.

“How can that be?” he asked, still reeling from the realization that his god was indeed dead.

“It was a time of great change,” Ciredor explained, savoring the pain the Lurker suffered as though it were a fine wine. “Ibrandul’s avatar was no match for my queen. She seized his powers, his dominion, and his followers after his death.”

“But we have seen some signs of the Lurker in Darkness,” the priest argued weakly. “Not many signs, but there have been some.”

,He was desperate to cling to any hope that his god still lived.

Ciredor smiled playfully and shook his head.

“Always, it was Shar,” he explained. “She maintained the illusion that your Skulker was alive because it suited her whim, and helped her in her ongoing battle with Selune. She is so very wise,” he added reverently.

“There is no point for me to continue to live,” the priest told him.

Being so close to death, he realized that he was truly dedicated to Ibrandul and tried to garner some peace from that knowledge.

“I won’t argue that,” Ciredor agreed, “but don’t be too sad. Your death will have some meaning yet. In fact,” he added slyly, “I think it will have more meaning than your life ever did.”

The Lurker could tell that Ciredor hoped he would ask the mage to elaborate, but in finding the strength of his faith the priest also found the strength to resist Ciredor’s final temptation. He maintained his silence.

A slight frown creased the necromancer’s face when the Lurker grew quiet.

“Afraid?” he asked sweetly. “You should be, for your soul is nearly the last that I need.”

When the Lurker didn’t even bat an eye, Ciredor continued,

Sands of the Soul* Q

“I have been collecting these facets for my goddess over the last few years. Within this gem”— he pointed to the stone still resting on the Lurker’s chest—”are ten souls. But these are not ordinary souls, by any means. These are the souls of beings who have all worshiped Shar in one aspect or another.”

He walked around the Lurker, and the priest could see that the mage was caught up in his own narration.

“Some of the souls knew they worshiped Shar, but not all. There is an elf in here who literally fell into my hands and did not even realize his deity was a part of my dark goddess.”

So absorbed was the dark mage that the priest was sure Ciredor had forgotten that there was someone in the chamber with him.

“Fannah shall be my crowning glory,” he continued, “for she and her family are priestesses of Sharess, and that goddess was completely under the influence of Shar for many, many years until she broke free. I shall unite these souls and make the ultimate gift to Shar: a gift of unity. I will give her … herself.”

The Mysterious Lurker saw that Ciredor was nearly in a state of rapture over his plan. Though he knew he was near death, he found he was actually curious.

“What do you get from this ‘gift’?” the Lurker asked.

Ciredor looked down at the bound priest and said, “Shar will see that I, over all other mortals, understand her and know the secrets of her heart. Because of that, she will take me as her consort.”

“This is what you have been planning for the Foreshadowing all along,” the Lurker deduced.

“Clever in the end,” Ciredor complimented the priest. “The ‘Foreshadowing’ that will occur on the new moon is actually a night that has been declared a Kiss of the Lady by Shar’s true Temple of Old Night. Within my desert stronghold I will honor her with my gift: my heart, if you will, and Shar will honor me.”

“You will not succeed,” the Lurker said. “I have made many

mistakes in my life, and I shall pay for them all, but so shall you pay for yours. The Sembians will stop you.”

Peals of laughter poured from Ciredor.

“How delightfully entertaining you are,” the necromancer said. “I know my goddess will find you equally amusing as she has already enjoyed duping you these fourteen years. I think she will find you delicious.”

Ciredor stepped back a few paces.

The Lurker watched with detached fascination as Ciredor closed his eyes and began a low chant. He still found the dark mage’s voice sweet, even though his life was forfeit at the sound of it.

l{ will be good, he thought serenely, to finally join Ibrandul.

His serenity only lasted a heartbeat. As Ciredor’s litany reached its crescendo, the Lurker’s world exploded. Pain blossomed over every inch of his body, and he writhed in excruciating torment. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he wept tears of blood. He clawed at the stone floor until he reached the bones of his fingers and he ground those down too. He was beyond screaming, beyond any verbal expression. The gem pulsed on his chest.

The last living sight he saw was Ciredor’s calm visage. The Mysterious Lurker felt his very essence ooze from each of his pores and vaguely saw a gray smoke rise from his body. That smoke was hungrily sucked into the waiting gem, and when the last wisp of his soul was seized, the Lurker’s body went limp.

Ciredor’s laughter echoed throughout the abandoned temple.

ŚŠŚŠŚŠŚŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ

“What do you mean I can’t go with you?” Steorf demanded.

He, Tazi, and Fannah had escaped from the false Temple of Ibrandul and navigated their way back into Hook Ward. Though Fannah was distressed to learn that the Children of

Sands of the Soul -

Ibrandul had been misled, she was not entirely surprised.

“You and I know how sweetly deceiving Ciredor can be,” she had reminded Tazi.

Though she had been loath to admit it, Tazi recalled how infatuated she had been when her mother had first introduced her to the dark mage.

“There is something compelling about him,” she grudgingly acknowledged. When she saw Steorf’s stern glance, she hastily added, “Even though he is a monster.”

Fannah had brought them to the Festhall of Eternal Delight, despite their blushing protests.

“This is the only place to rest in seclusion,” Fannah had informed them, “for a number of reasons.”

Tazi noticed that her Calishite friend hadn’t used the word “hide.”

“Since he is a minion of Shar, this temple of Sharess is our only choice,” she had told them. “Shar’s influence can not reach us here and we can fully prepare for the coming storm.”

Fannah had spoken to an old acquaintance and secured rooms for them all. Steorf mumbled something about Fannah’s old friends and traps, but Tazi sharply reminded him that Fannah had only said she knew of’the Children of Ibrandul; she had never claimed any allegiance with them as she did the priestesses of Sharess. Tazi was content to trust her sightless friend once more.

With most of their gear, including the sacred book, safely stowed in their rooms, Fannah led Tazi through many halls of debauchery to a special room down in a lower level. Steorf adamantly refused to leave Tazi’s side any longer and followed along, though the sights in the halls brought a rosy flush to his face. When they reached the door, however, Fannah placed her hand on his broad chest and told him he could go no farther.