and entered the warehouse alone.
The warehouse was almost empty. A rickety, rotted wooden staircase led to an open trap door at the top of the stairs. A single
shaft of light shone through the opening, bathing three suits of armor that lay in the lower room's center in an intense, macabre
brilliance that almost made them seem attractive. On closer examination, though, the armor's appearance proved more ghastly than
attractive - night black, covered with rows of razor-sharp spikes. Durrock and two of his most trusted men would don that armor soon.
Next to the armor lay three fine leather saddles. They were magnificently crafted, but far too large for any normal steed. As
Durrock waited for his fellow assassins, he busied himself with checking the armor and tack.
Within five minutes, two more assassins quietly entered the empty, cavernous warehouse. Durrock nodded a silent greeting to
the two men and moved toward the armor. The other assassins followed. Soon all three were fully clad in the frightening, deadly mail.
"Summon your mounts," Durrock said flatly as he placed a thick metal chain around his neck. A glowing black pendant hung on
the end of the chain, in the shape of a small horse with glowing red eyes.
In unison, all three assassins held up identical pendants and slowly repeated a series of powerful commands. Bolts of red and
black lightning flashed across the room. A swirling blue cloud appeared in the center of the room, high in the air, accompanied by a
wave of noxious-smelling mist.
Three sets of glowing red eyes appeared in a rift in the cloud, and the assassins could hear the sound of heavy, thunderous
hoofbeats. Their mounts were approaching.
First one, then another, then a third gigantic black horse leaped through the swirling rift and landed heavily on the floor of the
warehouse. Fire flashed from the horses' hooves, and the creatures' nostrils flared orange. The huge ebon steeds reared and bared a
set of perfectly white fangs.
"You are ours to command!" Durrock cried, holding the pendant out toward one of the nightmares. "Lord Bane has given us the
tools to call you from the Planes to do our bidding!" The nightmare mounts reared again, breathing clouds of smoke from their
nostrils.
The nightmares whinnied nervously as the assassins moved toward them, but the horses could do nothing to prevent the
humans from saddling them. The special magical pendants Bane had provided for Durrock and his men gave them complete control
over the strange otherworldly beasts.
Durrock wheeled his nightmare around and spurred it toward the huge double doors at the front of the warehouse. The
nightmare reared up and gave the doors a mighty kick with its flaming hooves. The doors burst open, and the three assassins raced
out into the street. At the sight, the nearby villagers gasped and shrieked. Several fainted dead away.
Durrock laughed and pulled up on his nightmare's reigns, and the creature leaped into the air. Within a few minutes the scarred
assassin and his lieutenants were racing across the sky, the nightmares' hooves pounding flaring gouts of fire into the air as they flew
toward Blackfeather Bridge.
* * * * *
Earlier in the day, Cyric had made the decision to portage the skiff around the dangerous rapids that lay ahead, where the
horseshoe curve of the Ashaba led southwest and sprouted two tributaries before finishing its arc and traveling northeast. Midnight
gazed at the violently churning water and felt relieved that they weren't going to attempt the passage. Fallen trees groped over the
shoreline, their branches half buried in the water. The trees looked like gnarled gray hands with thousands of skeletal fingers. Large,
craggy rocks rose up out of the water in the distance. Clouds of froth gathered before the rocks, calling attention to areas where the
flow of the river was temporarily slowed by the stones.
Heavy woods stood sentinel on either side of the Ashaba, but there were occasional clearing on the shore, left, perhaps, by
fishermen or other travelers. Cyric guided the skiff toward the eastern bank, where a small clearing was visible. As the heroes
approached shore, the thief barked out orders for his companions to get out of the boat and guide it toward land.
Cyric jumped out of the boat, too, and together the three heroes dragged the skiff to shore. Beyond the small clearing lay a path
that followed the bank of the river. Obviously they weren't the first to choose not to brave the rapids downstream.
"We'll have to carry the boat awhile," Cyric grumbled as he pulled his pack from the skiff. "That path should take us to the edge
of the woods. We can follow the Ashaba for a little ways, then cut overland through Battledale and get the boat back into the water
beyond the bend." The thief paused to wipe sweat from his eves. "Is that simple enough for everyone to follow?"
Midnight flinched. "You don't have to treat us like children, Cyric. Your meaning is quite clear." The raven-haired mage grabbed
the sack containing her spellbook and slung it over her shoulder.
"Is it?" Cyric said, then turned his back on the mage and shrugged. "Perhaps..."
Placing her hand on Cyric's upper arm, Midnight gave a gentle squeeze, then rested her forehead on his shoulder. "Cyric, I'm
your friend. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me about it if you need to talk."
The thief pulled away from Midnight's comforting touch with obvious repulsion, as if her fingers were the legs of a spider. He
refused to look at her. "I don't need to talk to anyone," he snapped. "Besides, you wouldn't like what I had to say."
Behind Midnight and Cyric, Adon trembled and climbed into the boat. The cleric pulled his knees up to his face and closed his
eyes. Midnight took a step back toward the skiff, then stopped as she saw the thief's back tense, as if he were preparing to attack
Adon. Instinctively, the mage stepped in front of the thief, blocking the quivering cleric from view.
"Cyric, you can say anything you want to me," Midnight pleaded. "Don't you know that by now? When you were wounded, on the
ride to Tilverton, you told me so much about yourself, so much about the pain and the heartache that's driven you. I know your
secrets, and I -"
"Don't badger me!" Cyric hissed as he moved closer to Midnight in a rage. The hawk-nosed man pointed at Midnight with his
right hand, his fingers thrust forward like daggers. The mage backed away slowly.
"I-I wasn't," Midnight whispered. She looked into Cyric's eyes and shuddered. There was something in the thief's eyes that
frightened her, something she had never noticed before.
"I know your secrets, too," Cyric growled. He stood only a few inches from the mage. "Don't forget that, Ariel!"
The mage stood perfectly still. Cyric had learned her true name on the journey to Shadowdale. With that information, in league
with a powerful mage, the thief could, if he chose, hold dominion over her soul. Midnight knew she should have been afraid, but she
was simply angry.
"You know nothing about me!" Midnight cried and turned to the boat. Adon stood up and held his hand out toward the mage.
"I know you," the cleric said softly and moved to Midnight's side. He pointed to Cyric, who was still glaring at the dark-haired
magic-user. "I know you, too, Cyric."
The thief narrowed his eyes, then looked away and walked to the clearing. "We have a long journey. We should go now if we're
going at all." After a moment, the thief cleared his throat and spoke again. "Are we going, Midnight?" he asked.
The mage trembled. "We're going. Let's go, Adon."
Smiling at the mage, Adon gathered the remaining gear and got out of the skiff. Both he and Midnight turned to Cyric, who was
still standing a few yards away. The thief muttered something, walked to the skiff, and grabbed the bow. Midnight and Adon took hold
of the stern, and together the travelers flipped the surprisingly light craft upside down and held it over their heads. They followed the
path through the woods, parallel to the river, for nearly an hour, speaking only when necessary.
As the thief had suggested, the heroes soon broke from the woods to take the more direct route past the rapids. Soon, they
were in view of the low, rolling hills of Battledale. For hours they were surrounded by lush green rises as they carried the boat over
the soft ground. The hills in the distance seemed to melt, losing form until they became a hazy, greenish white wall on the horizon. A
soft wind whispered over the dale, and occasionally a sound from the river made it to their ears.
The heroes found a path that lay between a series of hills and followed it. On either side of the travelers, the rising earth was
marked by ridges that angled up to the top of the hills, then blended into the soft, brownish green of the landscape. As they
progressed through the dale, the hills that were closest came into sharp focus, while those in the far distance lost their form and
melted into the sky. Slow-moving, puffy clouds drifted past.
The work was tiring, but it was a pleasant break from the steady toil of rowing the skiff down the Ashaba. The heroes set a
strong pace, and soon after highsun, they were once again nearing the river.
"The Pool of Yeven should be very close," Cyric said flatly. "The river's usually calm here, but who knows what it'll be like now?
Be ready for anything."
The heroes reached the shore, and Midnight and Adon lowered their end of the skiff as Cyric did the same. Midnight was
exhausted, and her muscles ached. She sat on the ground beside the skiff, and Adon knelt beside her. The thief stood with his arms
crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.
"What do you want from me?" Midnight cried. "Do you want me to cast a spell that will take us to Tantras? I only wish I could. At
this moment, I'd rather be banished to Myrkul's realm than take on the Ashaba again." The mage put her hands over her face. "But I
don't see that we have a choice."
Midnight stood and walked toward the thief. "We're just as worthy to make this trip as you. In fact, I don't know who put you in
command of this little expedition in the first place." Cyric started to speak, but Midnight cut him off.
"The point is, Cyric, I'm not going to be treated as your baggage anymore. Neither is Adon. If you want to continue alone, then I
won't stop you. I'm sorry that I couldn't be whatever it is you wanted me to be. I tried to be your friend, but that doesn't seem to be
enough for you."
Cyric's arms had fallen limply to his sides. There was nothing he could say, nothing he wanted to say, to make up for the pain
he had caused Midnight. That simply didn't matter. Cyric wanted the Tablets of Fate. The desire for the power and the glory they
would bring burned inside him. All other considerations paled beside his need for control of his own fate, and ownership of the tablets
would buy him that control.
Cyric had begun his life as a slave, and until he confronted and killed his former mentor from the Thieves' Guild, just before the
Battle of Shadowdale, Cyric had never felt like a free man. Phantom chains of servitude had hung around his neck, wrists, and ankles
all his life. Now, however, he had a purpose, a quest for his own gain. And if he succeeded, no one would ever control him again. The
chains would be removed once and for all.
But Cyric also knew that, for now, he needed Midnight, and perhaps even Adon, to make it to Tantras, to recover the first of the
missing Tablets of Fate. He simply couldn't allow the mage's petty anger to spoil everything.
"I'm... sorry," Cyric lied as he pushed the boat into the water. "You're right. I have treated you both badly. It's just that... I'm
frightened, too." Midnight smiled and threw her arms around the thief.
"I knew you'd come around, Cyric!" she said happily. Smiling, Midnight removed her arms from around the thief's neck, helped
Adon into the skiff, then threw her gear in the bottom of the boat. "We're all in this together."
Neither Midnight nor Adon could see the expression on Cyric's face as he turned his back to them and reached for his own
pack. A peculiar smile crossed his face - a smile born not of happiness, but of victory. And contempt.
As the heroes rowed toward the Pool of Yeven, Adon sat near the bow of the skiff, his hand hanging over the edge. The cleric
watched the rushing, quicksilver lines of current in the blue-green water, and a slight frown formed across his face. "The direction of
the river is changing up ahead," Adon said softly. His words were smothered by the sounds of the river, and the cleric was forced to
repeat himself.
Cyric looked back over his shoulder and gazed toward the vast lake downriver. Adon was correct; the current was changing. A
wall of pure white froth arose at the barrier where the river met the lake, obscuring the swirling chaos beyond.
The Pool of Yeven had become a huge whirlpool!
The thief looked to either shore and realized that he could never guide their fragile craft to land before the pull of the current
caught them and capsized the boat. The only chance the heroes had was to guide the boat to the outer channels of the violent water
and attempt to ride it out.
The thief shouted hurried orders to Midnight and Adon, but his words were lost in the roar from the vortex. As they got closer to
the whirlpool, Adon stared at the maelstrom as if it were somehow familiar. Midnight, on the other hand, seemed paralyzed with fear.
With only Cyric's frantic efforts to slow them down, the heroes soon passed through the barrier of mist where the river entered the
pool. Although they were all soaked to the skin, the skiff did not take on enough water to cause alarm.
Midnight was shocked from her paralysis by the splash of the ice-cold water. When she saw the gigantic, gaping maw of the
whirlpool in the center of the once-placid Pool of Yeven, she couldn't hold back a scream.
Cyric couldn't hear her. There was a wall of sound rising up from the center of the vast maelstrom that grew louder as the skiff
