Free Tantras by Scott Ciencin

guards to the main entrance of the tower and was admitted without a second glance, even though the irate villagers were held back. The door leading to the dungeon stood open, and Kelemvor and the overweight guard raced to the landing. From there, they saw a congregation of dalesmen in the cavernous chamber. Forcing his way through the crowd, Kelemvor stopped abruptly as he saw the solemn faces of Lord Mourngrym and Thurbal.
    The reason for their distress sat propped upon a small stool at the head of the corridor leading to the holding cells. Kelemvor studied the wide-eyed expression of total bliss that graced the dead man’s features, then looked down to see the hilt of the man’s short sword protruding from his neck. The blade had been driven through the man with such force that the tip had pierced the mortar of the wall behind him, pinning the dead guard in place.
    “Who killed him?” Kelemvor growled. His words broke the silence on the landing, and everyone turned to him.
    “He killed himself,” a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “When I came to relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that was big, about Forester’s size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent.”
    The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story. “He said this man came down the back stairway and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym.” The redheaded guard paused for a second, then started rocking again. “When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own throat, right where the mark was! That’s just how it happened. I swear!”
    The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than the rest.
    “I saw it!” a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. “I saw it all!”
    Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.
    “Cover him,” Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon’s-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close behind.
    “What did you see?” Mourngrym said.
    “Not so fast!” the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. “What’s in it for me?”
    Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner’s hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted iron bars. Mourngrym’s sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man’s wrist.
    “You get to keep your hand,” Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner’s other hand before he could gouge Mourngrym’s face. “Speak quickly, or I’ll take you apart, starting with this hand!”
    The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous night.
    “Cyric,” Kelemvor said, hanging his head. “It must have been Cyric!”
    There was a hoarse shout from the top of the stairs. “More bodies up here! Forester is dead!”
    “Come with me,” Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he expected trouble at any second. The guard’s pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym’s coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the bottom of the red curtain. Forester’s body had been left in the space directly behind Mourngrym’s throne.
    “Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain,” the bald guard mumbled softly.
    The dalelord shook with anger. “Search the tower.” Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. “I want to know who else is…