Realms of War

CHASE THE DARK

Charlatan. Trickster. Blasphemer.

In Amn, the only thing worse than hurling magic is pretending to hurl it. They laughed at me, said I'd never be worth spit to my people. Then the monsters came. When the ogres marched on the cities, I was the one whistling the merry tune. I had a purpose again. If you don't have it in you to live an honest life, the least you can do is plan a heroic death.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

11 Hammer, the Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

"Ten in coin says I make a pikeman drop his stick! Who'll take an honest wager?"

Devlen Torthil smiled, raking his long brown hair out of his eyes. He rolled up his dirty sleeves and surveyed the line of men guarding the camp. Easy plucking.

A plain-faced sentry named Kelsn stepped forward. "I'll take that bet."

"Splendid, man, come here, then! The problem is distraction, see?" Flipping his palm to the torchlight, Dev flourished a red scrap of cloth in the sentry's face.

"Is that blood?" The sentry was tall, his blond hair thin under his helmet. Warily, he clutched his pike against his collarbone. Behind him, the foothills of the Small Teeth rose in a jumbled wreck, purple with the setting sun.

"Not a bit, not… a… bit. Ogre tears, that's what they are." Dev wadded the red cloth into a ball, completely encasing it in his right fist. Twisting his wrist, he came up under the sentry's nose, fingers waggling above an empty palm. The scrap of cloth had disappeared.

"Wizardry." The sentry spat on the ground, dark already with mud.

Like a good soldier of Amn, Dev thought, and bit back his sharp smile. He looked up and wiped rain from the bridge of his blunt nose.

Thunder rolled across the plain, a guttural, urgent murmur that seemed to carry words into the camp and had the sentry turning north on a muttered prayer. More of the wizardry Amn feared.

Dev sighed. Wasn't right, stealing a man's audience.

"Look here, Kelsn, pay attention. You think I'd be hanging around with this bunch if I had even a breath of wizardry?" Dev waggled his fingers again. The sentry reluctantly tore his gaze from the horizon. "The problem was you were looking at my hand. You should have been putting your eyes elsewhere."

The sentry snorted. "Where then, down yer breeches?"

"Later, sunshine." This time it was Dev who spat. "Watch this first."

Dev drew a knife from his belt and laid the bare blade against his own right thumb. He held it up so Kelsn could see.

"Oh, Dev, don't be playing at that. You know we lost our holy man in the last raid-"

The torchlight flickered and succumbed to the rain, taking the sentry's words with it. In the instant before the light died, he saw Devlen cleanly sever the tip of his thumb. The appendage fell to the ground.

"Godsdamnit, I knew you were some sick bastard!" The sentry took a jerking step back from the severed digit, as if it might leap up and bite him. His pike slipped and sank, forgotten in the mud.

Dev howled with laughter. The commotion drew the attention of Breck, head of the night watch.

"Shut yer flapping mouths, the both of you!" He squatted in the mud and fished out the thumb. Angrily, he plucked up the sentry's pike and slapped the muddy weapon against the man's chest, nearly throwing the sentry off balance. "It's a fake, you idiot! I saw him do the same trick to Fareth two nights ago."

Dev tried to contain his laughter while the sentry examined the fake digit. He pulled the red cloth from the hollow end where it had been hidden all along. Comprehension wormed its way slowly over his face.

Dev waited for the rest. Anger? Wonder? Without fail, folk had one or the other reaction to his tricks.

"Rotten cheat," the sentry growled. Dev was entirely unsurprised. "I'm not putting up good coin for trickster's wizardry-"

"Part the way!"

The shouts came from beyond the perimeter of the camp. The remaining torches snapped up, illuminating a trio of men striding slowly up the hill. They carried a litter among them. In their wake, figures scuttled across the plain, bodies riding low to the ground.

Moves like an animal, Dev thought, except the beasts carried swords, and their eyes gleamed with feral cunning.

"Kobolds!" The blond sentry hefted his pike in one hand. With the other, he drew a short blade from his belt. He tossed it at Dev. "Move, trickster!"

Breck intercepted the toss. He spun the blade and planted it in the mud. "Lady Morla's orders. No weapons for this one. You know that, Kelsn, you damn fool!"

Reprimanded, the sentry jerked his head in acknowledgment and sprinted down the hill, where guards were already assembling a line to meet the charging creatures.

The litter bearers crossed into the relative safety of the camp. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion. The man draped across the litter was dying. Dev could tell by the pallor of his skin and the steaming trail he left on the cold ground. Dev didn't know his name, but he knew the man was a scout.

A cold, sharp thrill went through Devlen's body. That meant it was time for him to shine again.

On the hill, the raiding party slammed into the Amnian defenders, their hairy bodies impaled and wriggling on the pikes. Squeals of dying animals shivered through the night air. Hearing the sound, the kobolds in the back of the party broke ranks and fled.

Dev observed the whole spectacle with detached curiosity. Weaponless, he trailed behind the litter up the hill to the commander's tent. His mind was too busy to be disturbed by the screams. He was already planning his next trick.

I work alone. That's the only rule. When you have more than one mouth along on a mission, it doubles your chances of slipping the charade. And whatever you do, never pair up with a priest in war, unless he swears by his god to heal you first and even then, I've never seen anyone so twitchy as a priest on a battlefield.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

Morla was field commander of the Amnian Watch Tower Guard, affectionately named for their mission in the Small Teeth.

Morla's task had been to reclaim the watch towers being garrisoned by the monster army, led by the ogre mages Sythillis and Cyrvisnea. With those precious eyes in the foot shy;hills, Syth and Cyr could see armies marching across the land, to say nothing of what scrying spells might reveal of such a force. Armed with superior reconnaissance, the monster army had stalled or thwarted outright Amn's attempts to relieve the besieged city of Murann on the coast. Amn needed her towers back, and it was for Morla, a lone woman on the darker side of fifty, to do.

Dev might have admired her gall, if he didn't despise the old hag personally.

He lifted the tent flap and immediately regretted disturbing the air. Hot, fresh blood and the stench of burning herbs wafted liberally from the tent. Dev put a hand over his mouth.

"Where's the priest?" He coughed, trying to see into the smoky interior. "The poor devil's running out of prayer time."

Three pairs of eyes lifted from the dying scout's pallet to regard Devlen. They watched him walk among them as one might an insect that had wandered onto a lord's feasting table. Morla was the only one who spoke.

"Be welcome, Scout Devlen." She gestured for Dev to stand in the corner of the tent. Her dull gray hair was pulled tightly back, revealing a broad, wrinkled forehead. Her nose was too long for her face; she had never been a beauty, so the men whispered, but her eyes were stinging bright. It was rumored that her vision was so keen at night she could see the pinpricks of light from a kobold's eyes, miles away in the hills.

Morla's single guard stood at her left hand. Opposite the pallet squatted a short, compact figure. His robes were filthy around the knees. Silently, he fed the reeking herbs into a brazier hanging from one of the tent poles near the scout's body.

"Why the quiet, priest?" Dev asked. He wiped his streaming nose. "Aren't you supposed to be sending him to his god?"

"My name is Gerond," the priest replied without looking up. He pressed a handful of the herbs to the scout's chest, but the man was too far gone to be bothered by the stench. "The lad wanted to smell the herbs of the Wealdath, the land of his birth." The priest pointed to the brazier. "What I have is a poor substitute, but I burn them in his honor."

"Wonderful way to die," Dev muttered.

"The scout made his last report," Morla cut in. She nar shy;rowed her hawkish eyes on Dev. "I have another mission for you, charlatan."

"Sending me off again, are you? Will you miss me, Morla my love, when I'm traipsing through the dark and wet, risk shy;ing death for you?"

Morla's voice was flat. "On the contrary, charlatan, the only time I think of you at all is when I'm feeding information to the enemy regarding your whereabouts."

Devlen laughed. "What sweet thoughts they are, I'm sure."

He tried to sound derisive, but inwardly he thrilled to this latest challenge. He may not have possessed Morla's cold dig shy;nity or the priest's piety, but then, he'd never needed either. Deception was his arena. He was Amn's decoy, sent to play the fiddle of Syth and Cyr. He knew the song and dance better than anyone.

Morla pointed to a map spread across a long, wooden table. "This is the route I want you to take." She pointed to the camp's current position. "Northwest across this plain-after you've gone, I'll spread the word to their spies that a courier has been dispatched to try to round up our scattered forces. You'll leave tonight and be at your destination before dawn, or you'll be dead from their archers when the light breaks and you're seen from the towers."

"What a prospect," Dev murmured. "Why that route? A shorter path and tree cover lie straight north."

"Because that ground," Morla traced a swathe of flat land with her dagger blade, "if you fail to recall, is where this army fought two days ago. We lost over four hundred souls on that plain, more than half our remaining strength. That's the route they'll expect you to take to search for survivors."

Devlen recalled the battle, but he hadn't fought in it, as Morla knew well. She would not allow a wizard-even a charlatan wizard-the honor of fighting in her army.

"So you want me to cross an open field, sweetly seasoned with the dead and dying, in clear sight of any goblins, kobolds, or ogres that might still be lingering? You know I'll do it, Morla my light, but it'll be a short walk, I can tell you that, and meanwhile your real courier won't have much of a head start getting your message through."

That was Amn's bane, of course: communication. Syth and Cyr had arcane means to carry their whispers between their forces. Battle after battle had splintered Morla's army into smaller bands that wandered like aimless, beheaded chickens. Foot traffic and brave-or stupid-couriers were the only means of exchanging information. More often than not, Amn's couriers had met with bloody disaster on these missions, until Dev had stepped in and offered his services. Now there were two messengers: the man who carried the truth, and Devlen the charlatan, with his well-oiled fiddle. Dev didn't mind being the decoy. It was his gift. He would lend it to Amn, in return for a favor to be collected later.

"You'll have company," Morla was saying, "so perhaps you'll last until the dawn."

Absorbed in his thoughts, Dev snapped to attention quick enough on hearing this last. "That's not part of the arrangement, Morla dear. This is my show."

"Not this night," Morla said. She handed him a stack of parchment, folded neatly and warmed by fresh wax. The papers bore the commander's personal seal. "Follow the route I showed you. In the center of the battlefield there is an overturned statue. Find it, and you'll know you're on the right path. Chieva, Lady Sorrow, is her name. She was planted in the field by Chauntea's faithful, in hopes of a better harvest. Can you remember this, charlatan? When you find her, break the seal on my instructions. They'll tell you where to lead the enemy. Once the trail is laid, get back here. You'll have to hurry. As it is, you'll be chasing the dark the entire journey."

"Maybe you didn't hear me." He was straying dangerously close to defiance, but Dev didn't care. "On his best day, every man in this camp moves slower than me, and makes a lot more noise."

"But they will fight to their deaths, even to protect a charlatan," Morla said. "So you'll take two and be silent about it, or I will have you beaten silent. I imagine that will slow you down enough."

Tension sat thickly in the stinking tent. The blunt-faced charlatan and a commander who'd lost half her army stared each other down. Finally, Morla lifted her left hand, the one she always clutched around her sword hilt. As soon as it left the steel, the hand began to tremble violently, a thing apart from the rest of her rigid body. Dev saw Morla's guard avert his eyes, in pity or disgust.

She clamped the hand on Dev's shoulder, where it steadied into a claw. Forcibly, she turned him to face the back of the tent. Her voice rasped in his ear, setting his teeth on edge. "There is the first of your companions, charlatan. Do you think he moves with more quiet than you?"

Dev blinked. He'd had no idea there was anyone else in the tent. But a figure stepped from the shadows, a large, hulking shape Dev recognized immediately.

"Resch," he said. He glanced at Morla. "You're sending him with me?"

"I am."

Resch, "The Silent," came to stand next to the priest. He was tall, with well-defined muscles and no tunic to hide them. His shaved head bore a wormlike scar behind his right ear. He was called The Silent because he never spoke a word to anyone. He never spoke a word to anyone because an ogre had ripped out his tongue in the initial attack on Murann, in the early days of the war.

Resch, by his manner, was still holding a grudge. Dev couldn't blame him.

"Gerond will go along as well." Morla offered the fat priest her right hand to help him to his feet. Her left had returned to its place at her sword hilt. "As you know, we recently lost our priest, Hallis. Gerond tells us he was a colleague of his," Morla said.

"Then why don't you keep him here, seeing as he's your only holy man now?" Dev asked.

Morla smiled thinly. "You're wasting time, charlatan. Dawn is waiting." She gestured to the guard, who turned and lifted the lid on an ornate, brass-handled trunk. He removed a bow and full quiver of arrows and handed them to Dev.

"You will return them, Scout, when your mission is complete," Morla said, "according to our bargain."

"How could I forget," Dev said, and this time he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

So you know what I said about priests, yet there I was, shackled up to one, and it didn't make me feel that much better, having the healer along. You know, I once asked a boy who'd survived battle if he thought his god had saved him. The boy said he didn't remember his own name out on that field, said he was pissin' blood he was so scared and didn't think any god could make it better. Some things a healing won't cure.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

The bodies weren't two days cold on the ground, and the field already had a name. Chieva's Sorrow, it was called, for the pile of ruins that used to be the centerpiece of a fallow farming ground. Chieva, the Stone Lady, hadn't lasted the season. Her vacant eyes would be staring up at the night sky, just another body in the ripening pile. Dev had to find her, somewhere in the dark.

Their unlikely trio crouched in the shadow of a clump of trees bordering the bare edges of the field. They could hear sounds: murmurings and the suggestion of movement out in the darkness.

"They were supposed to be dead," Gerond whispered. His pudgy face flooded white in the shallow moonlight. "It's been two days."

"Thought your kind wasn't squeamy around the dying," Dev said. He never took his eyes off the penetrating darkness. Beside him, he heard a soft whistle. Resch was impatient to be on the move.

The priest's eyes narrowed. "So what's your plan, Torthil?"

"Good start would be to shut yer mouth while I'm thinking," Dev said mildly. He turned to Resch. "You think you could bring down a couple of these stout branches without making too much noise?"

Resch rose from his haunches and went to the nearest tree. He shimmied up the trunk with a grace that defied his size. He disappeared into the foliage. A moment later, two branches dropped from the leaves. Dev caught them and handed one off to the priest.

"Shave the leaves, then give me your outer robe."

"What?" the priest sputtered, forgetting to be quiet.

Dev pressed a dirty finger to his lips. "We need to make a litter, and I want your holy symbol swingin' free. Any watching eyes, we want 'em to think we're out collecting the wounded."

Resch dropped soundlessly from the tree, landing next to Dev.

"Resch here, he's going to be our invalid," Dev explained. "He'll be on the litter, waiting to pop up if we get detained."

"But shouldn't we save the litter for the actual wounded?" the priest asked.

"We're not planning any stops on this trek. You heard Morla; this is a grand charade, not a rescue mission. All we've got to get us across that plain is foot speed, and every breath we waste on prayers slows us down. You understand, holy man?"

"You can't expect me to ignore that there are wounded men on that field," the priest said. "Gods, you can hear them. Think how many could be healed. They could join us. If the purpose of this mission is to find more men-"

"The purpose of this mission is to reunite an army that can make a run at the towers," Dev said. "The few stragglers we can pluck off this ground won't be worth anything to Morla, not in their condition." He took the thick outer robe from the priest and knotted both ends around the poles.

"You think very highly of your comrades," Gerond sneered, "but I tell you I could restore a pair of men, maybe more, to full fighting strength."

Dev chuckled, truly amused. "You think that'll solve our problems, do you? You wave your digits and we've got a pile of whole men ready and eager to fight on? 'Cept maybe,"-he tapped his temple-"they aren't quite whole, eh?" He pointed at the litter. "Try it out, big man, and let's hope your tongue bore the worst of your weight."

He heard the priest catch his breath in alarm, but Resch merely made a rude gesture and lay back on the litter. Dev saw the scarred man tuck his mace in the dangling folds of cloth.

Dev looked again across the field. He guessed they had at least two miles of open ground to cover, carrying corpse-weight all the while. The bulky priest would slow them to a crawl. Dev cursed. It would be a miracle if they cleared the field before midday.

"Up and out," he said, and they were moving, hauling the litter over the rough pile of stones that marked the border of the field.

In truth, Dev had no idea if his plan would buy them any degree of safety. His best hope was that any passing patrols would see a pair of desperate humans collecting their dead, not worth the effort of returning to a field where so many of their own lay rotting.

Dead grass crunched under Dev's boots. For a long time, it was the only sound in the party. When the desolate earth gave way to oddly formed lumps and piles, Dev fixed his gaze firmly on the horizon.

He let his boots fumble aside the bodies, wincing when the soft suede came away wet and, in some cases, still warm.

The smell was harder to ignore. Sweet, sickly wafts of rot and human waste hit his nose. Dev gagged and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. If he'd had any sense, he'd have fashioned a mask for his nose and mouth. He glanced back at Resch and saw the man's chest heaving.

"Get it under control," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Better they think you've expired already, makes us less of a threat. What say, priest?" he asked. "Can your god clear this air for us, or does he only believe in the reeking herbs?"

"Fair punishment, for leaving these men behind," Gerond said. The priest's voice was strained from the load he carried. His face shone bright red, his cheeks sucking in and out on each breath. Every few feet, he hesitated, casting furtive glances all around in the dark.

"Keep moving!" Dev snapped. "I told you these men are no use to us."

"What are you talking about? You're a damn fool if you think I can't help them!"

On the litter, Resch made a soft clicking sound with his teeth. A warning.

"You're injured. Play the part," Dev barked, but he lowered his voice.

He glanced back at Gerond to pry the man's attention from the field. "Do you know why Morla's hand shakes, holy man?"

"No," Gerond admitted. "I have not had the opportunity to treat the commander, but I assumed the ailment stemmed from some sort of palsy. Age, I expect. What does that have to do with anything?"

Resch clicked his teeth again, fast and low, an eerily perfect parody of amusement.

"Her first engagement, Morla got herself stuck in the gut with a spear," Dev said. "Not one of them sleek sentry's blades, either, I'm saying barbed teeth, a goblin weapon wielded with an animal's brute strength." Dev heaved aside another body. A cloud of flies stirred up by the motion drifted lazily in front of his face. Dev spat at the air, but the insects buzzed relentlessly around his hair and ears. "Well, Hallis the holy man wasn't any shy;where nearby at the time, so what's she going to do? Gut wound won't kill you quick, and Morla, she'd rather slit her own throat than lay out in the sun with an open wound, so what'd she do? No bandages, no time to make 'em, so she just balls up her left fist and sticks it in the wound to stop the blood."

"Merciful gods," Gerond murmured.

"Not so merciful, as it turned out," Dev said cheerfully. "The men lost sight of her. Eventually, they found old Morla wandering the battlefield as the fighting was winding down. She was half dead with fever and infection, but it took Hallis the longest time to get her to sit down and take her hand out of her own entrails. Turns out, she'd pressed that fist so hard in her wound she'd made it twice as painful as it could have been." That pain was something Dev didn't want to contemplate. "But Hallis treated her in time, knitted that wound up smart with his prayers and beseeching to his god. Didn't even leave a scar on her lovely, wrinkled belly. But that left hand, you can't make it forget. Unless she minds it with her whole strength, that hand trembles. No priest or prayer in this whole world going to fix that. The only cure's in Morla's mind, and she hasn't rooted it out yet."

Dev had turned away, his eyes back on the horizon, but he could feel Gerond watching him.

"All men are not created the same," the priest said after a moment. "Most would rather live than die. Most would prefer to walk off this battlefield alive, if not whole."

"Better they'd died."

"Then why do you serve Morla?" Gerond demanded. "Won't a similar fate await you?"

Dev shrugged. "I serve Amn any way I can, holy man, any way they'll let me-for a price."

"Whatever gold you receive won't be enough, if you die out here," the priest said.

"Is that so?" Dev asked, his voice rich with scorn. "Who said I wanted gold?"

"Then what?"

Dev halted and gestured for Gerond to lower the litter. "Shut it, now. We're here."

"How do you know?"

"Because I just busted a shin trying to move this body here," Dev said.

He pointed to the ground. A large stone statue lay across their path. Like a lass sleeping in moonlight, Chieva had her serene face turned to the stars. Moss and curling weeds twined around her solid arms, which were raised in supplication to the goddess.

Dev motioned for Resch to remain on the litter. He and the priest took cover at the base of the statue. Leaning against the stone, Dev took out Morla's instructions and broke the wax seal. He folded back the parchment and began to read.

There was quiet on the field for a long time after that.

Dev didn't know how much time passed, but suddenly, someone was shaking him insistently. He looked up into Resch's wide, shadowed face. He hadn't registered the man's presence.

"What's wrong with him?" he heard Gerond whisper. Resch motioned for the priest to be quiet. His gaze moved between the parchment and Dev's face. The question was obvious, and abruptly, Dev realized that Resch the Silent probably couldn't read.

Dev handed the parchment to the priest. "Tell 'im," he said. Gerond took the instructions and read aloud:

"Scout Devlen, if you are reading this, you have reached Lady Chieva, and here your true task begins. You will not be leading a decoy mission this night. Instead you carry vital missives to be distributed to our fractured camps throughout the foothills of the Small Teeth. My own men are leading the kobold and goblin patrols astray so you may move among the enemy. Your skills in the wild will be put to the ultimate test in this, as will your tactics of deception. Good fortune to you, charlatan, and I trust you'll forgive me my own deception-"

He stopped reading when Dev wheeled around and vomited on the statue.

Mouth burning, Dev emptied the contents of his stomach. The field around him wavered, seeming to take on an unreal quality. Resch and the priest were far away. He was alone, drifting in the land of the dead, with only Chieva for company. The arms of the statue dug into his chest. Chauntea's emissary was holding him up in sympathy, Dev thought. He almost felt ashamed for fouling her with his terror.

Then, in a rush, the world returned to normal pace. The priest was speaking, too loud. The priest was always speaking, Dev thought. He wanted to cave in the man's skull.

"I didn't understand before," Gerond said, shaking his head in wonder. "I thought you a mercenary, but now I know better. Amn hates you for pretending wizardry. The only way for you to salvage any honor at all is to die a hero's death, in service to the land that shuns you."

"Hard to do out here, chasing the dark with a couple of mouthy hangers-on," Dev muttered, but he hadn't recovered his dignity. He wiped his dripping chin.

Gerond chuckled. "But you wanted to die alone out here, didn't you? Playing the part of the reckless decoy, responsible for nothing and no one except yourself. It doesn't matter that no one's here to see. You have Morla, a respected commander, to relate the tale of your deeds once you're gone. That's your price." The priest leaned in close and dropped his voice. "But now everything's fouled up, isn't it? Foul as your wet breath. Lives other than your own have been placed in your hands and you're terrified you'll fail them. Then no one will ever speak well of you."

Dev hurled himself at the priest, but Resch stepped between them, catching him with an immovable arm against his chest. With the other, he shoved Gerond back. He shot the priest a fierce glare when Gerond opened his mouth to speak.

Slowly, Dev relaxed. Things had spun wildly out of control. The deceiver had finally been deceived, and look how he'd fallen apart because of it. He shook his head. A mess, Dev, that's what you've always been. That's what they've always told you.

"We have to move," he said, gathering himself. He shook his head when Resch went to the litter. "No more time for that, pretty face. You weigh too much, and speed is our only chance now." He took his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow from the quiver. The fletching felt soft against his fingers, his muscles comfortably tight as he drew the string. "Let's go," he said.

He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, his mind whirling with the implications of the mission Morla had given him.

Was it a punishment? Did she expect him to fail? Dev had a hard time believing the old woman could be so cruel, but then, he'd been wrong before about her.

Dev stepped around the sprawled body of an ogre with a line of arrows bristling from its spine. Goblins and kobolds lay in similar frozen agony, the blood crusting their muzzles. Dev averted his eyes. His stomach felt wrung out, twisted with stale nausea. He breathed through his teeth until his tongue ached and he couldn't stand it.

Testing the air a moment later, he was surprised to find it fresher, so much so he thought he could breathe without fear of retching. Even the clouds of flies had dissipated. For an instant Dev was relieved, then he felt a wave of fresh terror course through his body.

The air shouldn't be so pure, not with all the dead monsters lying in piles. It should be foul with rotting ogre flesh.

Unless some of the monsters were still breathing.

Dev kept walking, trusting his companions to be behind him. He could hear the priest huffing along to his left. He heard nothing to his right, but he could smell Resch's faint odor. A swift night breeze at his neck told him the way was clear directly behind him. Just ahead and to the east, he saw the mangled remains of a dead horse and her rider. They'd collapsed together on the field. Amn's banner fluttered slackly from the rider's hand. It was no sort of fortification, Dev thought, but it was close enough. He headed straight for the banner, motioning for his companions to follow.

A fine mess, Dev, and that's the truth, he berated himself. You should have seen this ambush coming before you put your foot in it.

When he could see Amn's colors, Dev spun, drew his bowstring taut, and released.

The arrow whistled past Resch's shoulder, but the big man didn't flinch. He dropped flat to his stomach behind the dead horse and yanked the priest down with him. In the distance, the arrow thudded into a dead ogre's neck.

"What in the Nine Hells is he doing!" hissed Gerond. "Have you gone completely mad?"

When there was no response, no break in the night air, Dev honestly wondered if he had gone insane. But he waited, his own eyesight as keen as Morla's in the dark, and where his arrow met gray ogre flesh, he saw a core of blood well up, over shy;flow like a fountain, and bubble down the monster's neck. The ogre had only been playing dead, but Dev had made it true.

Resch shouted a garbled warning. Automatically, Dev pivoted and fired a second shot, aiming at what might have been a drifting shadow. Arrow thudded again into flesh, and this time an animal cry broke out across the battlefield. It was the worst sound Dev had ever heard.

Gods keep us, he thought, we're already surrounded.

"Stay down!" he bellowed. Resch and Gerond scrambled to make room for him as Dev rolled over the dead horse's flank. Viciously, he twisted the animal's legs out of the way to make room for his quiver.

Two more creatures leaped up from their death poses. Dev laid his bow across the saddle and fired, clipping a kobold's haunch. To his right, Resch swung his barbed mace, caving in the skull of the second kobold as he crawled over the makeshift wall to get at them. When the creature stopped twitching, Resch hauled its body up next to the riders, but the cover still felt pitifully inadequate.

The priest chanted a low, monotone prayer, and touched Resch on the shoulder. Green light shone through his fingers, casting hollow, eldritch shadows on the vacant-eyed horse. Then the spell drained away, and Resch's flesh seemed darker, healthier, his movements more precise. The priest then turned to Dev, but Dev waved him off.

"Save it," he snapped. "Keep them back. If they get close enough, they'll rip us apart!"

Grimly, Dev thought that seemed precisely the monsters' plan. More bodies became animate from the field, until five stood between them and freedom.

Dev took bowshots at random, more to keep the monsters at bay than with any real aim. He planted a stack of arrows in the mud at his knees, determined to keep shooting until they were too close to pick off.

The priest raised his holy symbol. His eyes were closed, so Dev couldn't tell if he was frightened or merely concentrat shy;ing. The monotone chant sounded again. Dev thought he must be seeing things. He could actually see the spell cloud seeping from the priest's lips, a white fog that had no scent, and no more consistency than pipeweed smoke. The divine magic drifted past Dev's cheek, numbing him with cold. Dev recoiled, and his next shot went wild.

The monsters took the distraction and scurried closer, using the bodies of their own slain companions to absorb Dev's shots.

"Get that mace ready, sharp tongue!" Dev cried. "They're coming in for a visit!"

He grabbed the silent man by the shoulder, but Resch didn't move. He was doubled over, his forehead against the ground. He clutched his stomach, his mouth slack in sound shy;less pain. Dev couldn't see the wound, but the way Resch's body convulsed told him it was bad. It had happened so fast, the attack, and now they would be overrun. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

Furious, defeated, Dev fired blindly into the night. He didn't care if he ran out of arrows. He'd take some of the bastards down with him. Damn them and damn Morla for trusting a charlatan.

Resch had managed to maim one of the kobolds before he went down. The creature limped away, clutching a ruined leg. Dev took one more in the eye when it looked out from its hiding place. There were still three left, too many for himself and the worthless priest.

Dev hooked the bow on the slanted saddle horn. He'd never been skilled enough to wield a sword, but his fists would serve. He was about to vault over the horse when he felt the vibration.

He wasn't able to identify the source at first. But then the white mist came again, this time emanating from the dead horse's mouth.

Atrophied muscles contracted, and the beast's bent legs jerked weirdly back into their proper alignment. Dev fell back on his elbows, too frightened to put up a defense against the advancing monsters. His mouth hung open, horrified at the sight of the dead horse rising up before him, dragging her limp rider across her back.

The animal got to its feet in time to block the final advance of an ogre and its kobold minions. The creatures hesitated, as stunned as Dev by the animated horse. The beast's black mane was pressed to its back by dried blood. A long sword slash cut across its neck, exposing musculature and white bone.

Shaking itself, the horse reared. It turned on the closest kobold, spewing white vapor and with its dead rider in tow. Rotting hooves came down, trampling the creature before it could run. Horse screams joined the dying kobold's pitiful wailing.

The remaining kobold and ogre fled. Dev could hear the priest casting another spell. He turned in time to see a cluster of black shadows hanging in midair. The lifeless forms shaped into the outline of some kind of mallet or hammer.

Dev watched it spin through the air, slamming into and through the back of the retreating ogre's skull. Shadows and blood exploded in the air, and a second hammer followed the first. Dev waited for it to find the skull of the fleeing, screaming kobold, wondering if the creature would feel the same numbing chill Dev had tasted when the priest's magic touched him.

Then the shadows were spinning toward him, blocking out the moon. Dev didn't realize the hammer was meant for his skull until it was almost too late. He ducked, but the spectral weapon clipped him on the side of the head.

Dev thought he felt his eardrum shatter. He fell sideways, one arm crushed under him, his body hitting the ground like a limp doll's-or a dead horse, he thought. He appreciated the irony for a breath until he lost consciousness.

I know what yer thinking, and it's absolutely right. He could have killed us at any time. He had something a little more painful in mind.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

"Don't worry," Gerond said, "your friend won't be in pain much longer. The poison will soon run its course."

For an interminable amount of time since he'd regained consciousness, Dev had been watching Resch squirm and convulse on the ground. Every muscle in his body stretched taut, it looked like the man would rip himself apart before it was over. Sweat poured down Resch's face, but he never made a sound. The silence was the worst part. Dev thought he could have handled it better if the dying man had been screaming obscenities.

"The spell is an interesting twist on traditional invigora shy;tion magic," Gerond explained, as if Dev was curious. "For a brief time, it strengthens the target immeasurably, but at the cost of disintegrating many of the vital functions of the body. That part of the process takes a bit more time."

"Cyric preach that one to all his followers, or just the fat ones?" Dev asked. His head throbbed, and his muscles were stiff where the priest had tied his arms. Taunts were the only weapons he had left.

"To think I almost killed you while you were sleep shy;ing," Gerond said. He knelt next to Dev and twisted his head around by the hair. "Lucky for you, I wanted one last conversation."

Pain flooded Dev's skull, and he whimpered involuntarily at the sight of the shadowy hammer floating in midair above the Cyricist's shoulder. He forced a laugh, though his jaw was locked with pain.

"No wonder your herbs reeked," he murmured. "And they call me the blasphemer."

Gerond smiled faintly. "You don't know what a relief it is not to have to play the charade any longer. Or do you? Do you ever grow tired of being the deceiver, Devlen?"

Dev would have shrugged, if the pain of it hadn't threatened to put him out again. "All I know," he said, his eyes straying to the dead kobolds lying nearby, "is you killed your companions."

"True, but like you, they're not very reliable." Gerond leaned forward, flipping Dev onto his stomach with a casual hand.

He's stronger than I thought, Dev realized sickly. His breath quickened, thinking the priest was going to cave in his skull after all, but instead he felt the priest clasp one of his bound hands.

"Why are you out here, fighting for Amn?" Gerond asked. "What is between you and the commander? I might be able to use it later, but either way, it will satisfy my curiosity."

Dev didn't answer. The pain was swirling in his head. He wondered if the sensation was blood, filling up his skull. If he were truly lucky, he would die before the bastard had a chance to be done with him.

"Suddenly you're not all mouth," the priest murmured. "But I hope you can still appreciate a good jest."

Dev heard the clink of steel as Gerond drew a knife from his belt. Still holding Dev's hands, the priest peeled one of his thumbs back. Dev felt the blade against his skin.

"What is between you and Morla?" Gerond repeated the question calmly. When Dev still didn't answer, he pressed the blade into Dev's thumb, neatly severing it below the nail.

Dev howled, curling automatically into a fetal position. The priest held onto his hands, slick now with blood. He thrashed and screamed over and over, the cries turning finally to frenzied laughter. He couldn't seem to stop, even when the Cyricist's dark prayers sealed over his wound, leaving an empty stump that was cleaner than any magician's trick.

The watching gods are going to slay me with irony. Dev beat his head against the hard-packed earth until his vision swam. Darkness cheerfully claimed him, but he knew that when he awoke he would still be maimed, and he would have to tell the priest everything.

When you're a soldier, there's nothing more valuable than the trust of the man-or woman-fighting next to you. If that trust is broken, the whole army suffers. To be a good soldier, or a good commander, you have to understand this. Even if it ruins a life.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

"I was in the militia, Esmeltaran," Dev said. "This was years before your friends came to drive us out."

Dev was dimly aware of the priest, standing somewhere behind him, probably watching for more patrols. He could hear Resch farther away, in the last throes of the poison. If sound was any indication, the man was throwing up blood and gods knew what else.

The animated horse trudged the field in slow circles, a spell-locked trance from which it couldn't escape. Dev remembered a time in his home village, when he'd seen a lame foal shuffling around its paddock, just before a farmer put a knife across its throat.

"Step and drag… step and drag you here to me… hush you little pony… hush you goodnight," the farmer sang.

"Go on," the priest said. "Did you know Morla then?"

"We were on the wall together," Dev said. "Morla and I had the best eyes. Esmeltaran's militia is small. We all knew each other."

"You were friends," Gerond said, surprised. "I hear it in your voice. What happened?"

"One night, I saw something from the wall, something Morla didn't see." Dev stopped speaking, but he knew it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the priest.

"What did you see?" Gerond asked.

"Nothing, as it turned out," Dev said, "a trick of my eyes, a shadow. If I could have bitten my tongue, my life might have turned out a little differently than it has."

"I don't understand," the priest said. Dev could hear the impatience in his voice. He shifted, and managed to roll onto his back so he could look the priest in the eyes.

"I was scared, see? I was young, and I didn't trust my instincts-that what was out there wasn't a threat to me or Morla. My heart was thumping like to leap out of my chest, and then my whole body started to shake. It had to be sure. It needed to see that there was nothing out there. They say that's what happens with sorcery, and those that can juggle it. The need overwhelms any common sense. Suddenly, a person can do things, things that no soldier of Amn has a right to do. Like send a shaft of light-bright as sunshine-across a city wall to pierce shadows that hold… nothing."

Dev's head had started up a pounding again. He closed his eyes until the pain became bearable.

"So you touched the Weave, completely unaware, and the city-Morla-expelled you from the militia," Gerond said. He almost sounded sympathetic. It made Dev's skin crawl. "Was it then you became the charlatan?" the priest wanted to know. "Or have you always been the deceiver, Torthil, and just didn't know it?"

"You've had enough of my stories," Dev snapped. His eyes offered a challenge. "Time for sleep."

"As you wish," Gerond said. "No more deceptions, no more decoys."

He moved forward, and Dev braced himself. Thank the gods the story of my life is a short tale, Dev thought, or poor Resch might have died in the middle.

"The problem is distraction, see?" Dev said, and gasping, sobbing, the dying warrior that had once been Resch the Silent, heaved his body up from the ground, using muscles, bones, and bowels that had ceased to obey him. But some shy;how, he got to his feet and slammed his body into the priest's back.

They hit the dirt hard, but Resch was already dead. His weight pinned the priest long enough for Dev to lunge onto his back.

Wrapping his bound hands around the priest's neck, Dev thrust back, clumsily, using his heels. The rope bit into fleshy folds and lodged somewhere beneath Gerond's chin. There it would stay, or Dev knew he would be as dead as Resch.

"No prayers, no thoughts." Dev pushed down, grinding the priest's hands into the ground when he would have reached for his holy symbol. "Hush, little pony, hush."

Convulsions wracked the priest's body, but Dev kept his grip. He waited until the bloated body flopped once then lay still on the field. Only then did Dev roll away.

A dull thud sounded nearby. Dev snapped around, tense at the thought of more enemies, but it was only the horse. Freed from the Cyricist's hold, the beast crumpled in a heap of ungainly legs next to Resch's body.

Dev closed the scarred man's eyes, then went to find the priest's knife for his bonds. He tried to ignore the blood staining the blade.

Not quite the hero's grand tale. Me on my belly with an insane priest lopping off all my precious appendages. I was too damn scared to do anything, and all the while there's Resch, thrashing and bleeding out poison, trying to hold onto what was left of his body long enough to help me. I wouldn't have blamed him for rolling over and calling it done, but I didn't understand. I didn't realize how long he'd been waiting to get back at someone for the way he'd been violated. Death wasn't going to take precedence over revenge, not for Resch. Never underestimate the power of trauma to bring on clarity.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

"I read your account of what happened. You did well. More than well."

Morla stood at the opening of the tent. She'd sent her guard away. They were alone. When she turned, finally, to look at Dev, her face was the color of brittle bone.

"By Lady Selыne, I swear I didn't know about Gerond." Morla looked sick. "How could I have known?"

"How could you?" Dev echoed. He thought she seemed small, somehow, without her guard and armor. An old warrior woman. Tired. "You know I forgive you, Morla my light." The words came out hollow, with none of the usual bluster.

"Do you?" Morla was watching him, with her keen vision that missed nothing. "Do you know why I acted as I did?"

"You always do what you think is best for your people."

"For Amn. Your home."

Dev inclined his head. "Your people, as I said."

"Without stability, without trust, Devlen, everything falls apart. Amn will not-"

"Amn doesn't need to think of me as being more than a charlatan, Morla," Dev interrupted. "I see that now. Comes to it, I'd rather be the decoy."

"You have the potential to be so much more."

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "That was a long time ago. What do you want from me now, Morla? Absolution? I gave it. Your army? I carried out your mission. I'm finished now."

"You can still serve Amn. You wanted to die a hero," Morla said. "I want you to live as one. My penance, if you want it that way." Her hand shook minutely, though she still clutched her blade. "Please consider it."

A hero. That's the best bait to dangle, and Morla knew I'd wanted it bad. When I walked off Chieva's Sorrow that dawn, I had to leave Resch's body behind. Resch was a hero, but he'd had to die in agony for it, and the only thing folk would ever truly remember about him was that he'd lost a tongue in battle. At least he'd repaid one of the bastards in kind. So I walked off that field to become a war hero-better than dying, but somehow it didn't have the fire I expected. I was still a charlatan; that's what folk would always remember about me. A charlatan with a cap off his thumb. But I still played the best game in Amn. I was the trickster who could fool the monsters. Maybe they'll remember that too. Or maybe all of this is a load of piss, and I never did anything heroic. Maybe I just wrote that I did. That's the point, see? You never know when someone's playin' yer fiddle. You just never know.

— From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil