Tantras

IX

Travel through the eastern dales was long and hard for the Company of the Scorpions, but the Zhentilar were well supplied and used to the difficulties of such a journey. Cyric quickly learned from Tyzack that the Scorpions had been on an expedition to Haptooth Hill, searching for an artifact of great power that wanderers passing through Zhentil Keep had made some offhand comments about.

The Company of the Scorpions had received its orders before the Battle of Shadowdale, when Lord Bane had been obsessed with finding any artifacts that might be repositories of magical power. In all the confusion surrounding the battle and its aftermath, the Scorpions, and their mission, had been forgotten by Zhentil Keep — until the time came to amass every available unit of Zhentilar in Scardale. A mystical communication from Bane's new sorceress, Tarana Lyr, had come one night, and the Scorpions had actually been relieved to receive the new orders. Their efforts at Haptooth Hill had been fruitless and extremely tedious.

Two days after Cyric joined them, the Scorpions ran into a small Sembian patrol and were forced into combat, an opportunity for the thief to measure his new acquaintances' skills, and for them to measure his. The battle was swift and furious, but not without cost to the Scorpions. Croxton was killed, though whether by a Sembian hand or a Zhentish, Cyric wasn't sure. Much to Cyric's surprise, Tyzack promoted the thief to second-in-command for his efforts in the battle, with Slater openly supporting the decision and the others saying nothing, though some — like Eccles — were obviously unhappy with Tyzack's choice.

One day after the clash with the Sembians, the Scorpions encountered the first of many Zhentish patrols heading toward Scardale. Tyzack automatically assumed command of the ragtag groups of fighters and thieves that the company met. No one opposed him.

Now, as Cyric rode behind Slater, his mind wandered over a myriad of subjects. But mostly he watched the bright afternoon sunlight pulse through the prism earring the female warrior had taken from Mikkel's corpse and attached to her right ear. The sparks of brilliant, multicolored light shot out from the bauble as Cyric stared dreamily at it, washing away all the thief's concerns and fears.

The line of the horizon was choppy, marred with sharp ridges, and the earth was a strange mixture of grayish green stone, with veins of raw, auburn clay. Small, barren hills and rises surrounded the riders. An immense growth of earth, with a crevice along its spine and serrated, evenly spaced depressions leading off in crooked gaps, lay ahead and continued for miles. Cyric felt that he was looking at all the skeletal remains of an incredible giant, which might have lived eons before the gods ruled Faerun.

It should be the form of a god, towering over the Realms, he thought as he looked at the ridge. Tall enough to reach into the sky and pull down the very heavens, not trapped inside a frail body of flesh, like a mortal.

Shards of light from the stolen earring drew the thief's attention once more, and as the Zhentilar rode — now more than three hundred strong — Cyric realized that he had become just as fascinated with the prism as Slater was.

The hawk-nosed thief watched the slivers of light as they glittered in a beautiful array of colors, and studied each shard. The lights came into existence and passed on in the blink of an eye. Much like a human life, he thought. Gone and quickly forgotten. Cyric wanted more from his life. He thought of the gods and the gift of immortality that they had endangered with their foolish, petty squabbling. The thief felt contempt for the deities like Bane and Mystra, who had allowed their vast powers to be stripped away.

Cyric tried to calm himself. The dry afternoon heat was sweltering, and even the slight breeze he felt did little to assuage the bands of broiling, intense heat that assaulted the company as they trekked along the Ashaba. The heat pressed against Cyric's flesh like scorching, oppressive hands, causing rivulets of sweat to pour into his eyes, obscuring his view of the prism momentarily.

Looking around at dozens of faces that he did not recognize, Cyric considered the fact that each of the Zhentilar rode to Scardale for the sole purpose of answering Lord Bane's call. Nearly all of them would lay down their lives without a moment's hesitation if the Black Lord called for them to do so. Incredibly, it was the Company of the Scorpions that these men had turned to for temporary leadership. The political maneuvering that Cyric had observed Tyzack perform to ensure his own supremacy surprised the thief. Cyric thought the leader of the Scorpions incapable of even conceiving of such well-thought-out plans, let alone implementing them.

The thief cleared his eyes and returned his gaze to the prism. The shards of light released from the earring seemed endless, and as each new shard died away, another took its place. Cyric thought of Tyzack. The man had to have a weak spot, a vulnerability that Cyric could exploit. What was it? the thief wondered. Ahead, Slater reached for the prism earring, caressing it gently. The thief smiled. Perhaps there was a simple way of finding out.

An hour later Tyzack was off chatting with the commander of a fifty-man contingent from Tasseldale that was located somewhere near the rear of the sizable Zhentish advance. Ren had gone with Tyzack. Cyric moved up through the line and motioned for Slater to join him a few lengths ahead of the Zhentilar. Willingale, one of the Zhentish operatives from Harrowdale, had taken point a few hundred yards ahead of the troops, and Cyric told the others that he and Slater were going to replace him for a while.

"Why are we replacing Willingale on point?" Slater asked as she rode next to the thief. Cyric hesitated, and the flesh of the woman's eyebrowless forehead wrinkled as she flashed her eyes wide open in a gesture that was meant to emphasize her confusion. "What is it you really want with me?"

"Am I that obvious?" Cyric asked as he looked away from the Zhentish soldier.

Slater grinned. "Don't ask if you don't want an answer," she said.

Cyric chuckled softly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "By the gods, it's hot!"

Slater frowned and tapped her fingers on the stock of her crossbow. "If this of your idea of small talk, I think I'll take my leave," she grumbled.

"I was merely making an observation," Cyric snapped, turning to the fighter. "And I was wondering how observant you have been."

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she looked at Cyric with mistrust. "In what regard?" Slater asked.

"I wish to know more about the Scorpions," Cyric stated flatly, looking straight at the woman.

"I can guess why," replied Slater, running her hand across her horse's mane. "It's Tyzack you really want to know about, right?"

This one's brighter than I suspected, the thief thought. "Aye," Cyric admitted, trying to look as innocent as possible. "His actions confuse me. So do yours, for that matter."

Cyric saw that Slater was intrigued. "Explain yourself," she said abruptly.

"You recommended me for second-in-command, when you certainly could have had it yourself. Why would you do such a thing?" Cyric asked, wiping more sweat from his brow.

Slater grinned maliciously. "Survival. People in that position do not seem to last terribly long in the Scorpions."

Though Cyric tried to appear shocked, he was actually quite pleased. It seemed that Slater needed very little prompting to tell the truth. That could be a very useful little quirk. "Yes…," the thief said at last. "I thought that something was odd about Croxton's death. Was there someone before him?"

"Yes," Slater said casually, swatting at a fly that was buzzing around her. "His name was Erskine."

"What happened to him?"

"Dead," Slater stated flatly. "What else?"

"Tyzack killed him?" Cyric gasped, perhaps a bit too melodramatically. "Why?"

The warrior shook her head and shrugged. "Who's to say? We were on our way back from Haptooth Hill. Tyzack, Erskine, Ren, and Croxton had gone off to forage for dinner. Everyone except Erskine returned. We were told that it was an accident. They had separated to cover more ground, and Ren placed a shaft in Erskine… by mistake. They buried him in a shallow grave, and we moved on."

This time, they left Croxton for the crows with the dead Sembians, Cyric thought. He didn't even merit a shallow grave. "Maybe they were telling the truth," the lean thief suggested.

Slater bit her lip, then let out a deep breath. "Erskine was a troublemaker. He had known Tyzack for many years, even before the formation of our company. The man was loud and stupid, and he took liberties no one in the company would ever dream of risking. Erskine courted death until, one day, it came to collect him. We were all glad to be rid of him."

"Why are you willing to tell me all this?" Cyric asked after a moment. The thief felt he knew the answer, but he wanted Slater to say the words aloud and commit herself to the course of action they would imply.

The woman looked at the thief for a moment, then glanced back at the Zhentish following them. "Because Tyzack is weak," Slater stated without emotion. "He's not a warrior. His dreams consist of a comfortable place somewhere in the bureaucracy of the Black Network. His reticence to engage in battle has cost us days of travel. By the time we reach Scardale, the war may be over. If not, our task will be to protect Tyzack's life at all cost.

"The other Zhentilar, the ones who follow brave leaders, will be awarded the glory and honor of conquering our enemies for Lord Bane. If I can help it, I will not be denied that opportunity," Slater growled and put her hand back on her crossbow's stock.

"What do you mean to do?" Cyric said, again trying to look innocent.

"Don't be coy!" Slater hissed. "Your talents do not lie in the art of deception, no matter how much you believe they do."

Cyric looked ahead. They would soon catch up to Willingale, the point man.

"I know you, Cyric. You're a thief. You're a murderer. And you're ambitious," Slater growled. "Lie to the others, if you want. Not to me. I can help you… and help myself by doing so."

The warrior gripped the mane of her horse as she said, "The time to act may not come until we are in the thick of battle in Scardale. All we may have to do is allow ourselves to be distracted long enough for an enemy sword to take Tyzack's head off."

"Good," Cyric said, dropping his facade of innocence. "And if the opportunity comes sooner?"

The woman narrowed her eyes again and looked at the thief as if she was seeing him for the very first time. "Then we will take it," Slater said. "Afterward, you will give me my own command. Thirty good soldiers would do. That way, if your blood turns out to be as thin as Tyzack's, we will not find each other in opposition. I will take my soldiers to battle. You will do whatever you wish. Agreed?" The Zhentish soldier looked directly at Cyric's eyes now, waiting for his reply.

"Agreed!" Cyric said after a moment, returning Slater's stare.

Willingale was almost within hearing range, so Cyric let the conversation die. And as the Scorpions approached, the heavyset Zhentish soldier turned and signaled them to hurry to his side. "Glad you came out here, sir," Willingale said to Cyric. "You've saved me the trouble of coming back to report." He pointed. "There's something on the horizon."

The thief followed Willingale's finger and saw a bright, steady light in the distance. The pitted, mountainous rise to the right flank of the Zhentish forces provided no cover for the troops from whatever was creating the light. In fact, there was absolutely no sign of natural protection within three hundred yards in either direction.

"It could be a trap," Willingale said, scratching his chin. "Our enemy could be waiting in the ribs off the spine of that rise. The rifts could hold a hundred men or more."

"Perhaps," Cyric answered. "But why alert us to the danger? Why not just lie in wait, then take us by surprise? There must be some other explanation."

"It could be just some natural reflection of the sunlight… or even some manifestation of the chaos in nature," Slater noted, reigning in her horse. "The light never seems to change."

"We'll ride back and inform Tyzack," Cyric said to the point man. "Keep watching, and let us know if you see anything else, but don't go any farther. When the company catches up to you, you'll get new orders."

Willingale nodded as Cyric and Slater turned and rode back to the main body of the Zhentish army. The female soldier remained silent for a moment, then noted, "An ambush would give us just the opportunity we're after, Cyric."

"At the expense of how many of our fellow Zhentilar, or even our own lives?" the thief asked gruffly. "There will be better opportunities than this. Besides, we have another problem — Ren. He blends into the background so well that I hardly notice he's around. Yet he seems to be Tyzack's true second-in-command, no matter who holds the actual title. Any plans we make will have to take his interference into account."

The thief and the warrior arrived at the front line of the Zhentish advance. Tyzack and Ren were waiting for them. The leader of the Scorpions trembled with barely controlled rage.

"Would the two of you like to explain yourselves?" Tyzack screamed. The dark-haired man waved his fist in the air as if he were shaking dice.

Cyric looked to Slater, then back to Tyzack. "I don't understand. What did we do that requires explanation?"

"Spare me," Tyzack growled. "Word came to me that the two of you left the ranks, and so I was forced to come to the front and investigate. The penalty for desertion is — "

The thief's features turned as hard as stone. "Am I your second-in-command?"

Tyzack flinched. "What has that to do with anything? You will be treated exactly the same as any other Zhentilar."

"You're wrong," Cyric snapped. "As second-in-command, it's my duty to see that your policies are followed to the letter when you are not present to enforce them."

The dark eyes of the Zhentish leader narrowed.

"Willingale was staying far too close to the main body," Cyric continued, pointing toward the soldier as he spoke. "He is not a Scorpion and does not know your views about serving as point man for the Zhentilar." The thief paused and smiled. "Of course, we both know that if Willingale was close enough for our men to see him too clearly — which he was — then he was far too close to be an effective scout. Slater and I informed him of his error." Again the thief paused. This time, however, he turned to look at the Zhentish woman. "That's when he pointed out the strange light on the horizon — right, Slater?"

Ren leaned close to the company's leader and whispered something in his ear. "What strange light?" Tyzack asked as soon as Ren had finished speaking to him. "What's causing it?"

Cyric forced a look of bewilderment onto his face. "We don't know," the thief said. He related what he and Slater had seen — and their personal views of the situation — to Tyzack. "I instructed Willingale to hold his position until you caught up with him."

The black-haired Zhentish leader ran a hand through his tangled hair and grinned a wolfish smile. "All right," he muttered, motioning to Ren. "Let's bring the company to a halt. It may be nothing, but someone is going to have to investigate before we can ride any farther."

The Zhentish leader then turned to the hawk-nosed thief. "Cyric, since you seem to have unlimited amounts of initiative today, the task of discovering the nature of the strange light goes to you… and Ren. Slater will remain with me. Your climbing skills may come in handy. Scale that southern rise and follow its path until you can tell what's producing the light."

Cyric's heart skipped a beat as he stared into Ren's narrow face. The man's eyes were cold, emotionless. Ren stared back at Cyric as if the thief were a corpse that didn't have the sense to lie down and allow itself to be buried. In short, Tyzack's orders were a death sentence, and both Cyric and Ren knew it.

"Be careful up there. With all the gaps and rifts, it would be a shame if either of you had an accident," Tyzack said, still grinning evilly. Ren nodded and gestured for Cyric to lead the way.

"Of course," Cyric said cheerfully, pretending that the Zhentish leader's orders had no particular significance. Yet, as the thief kicked the sides of his mount and prodded the beast forward, he growled, "Good-bye, Tyzack… Slater."

Ren followed close behind the thief, and the two men were no more than a hundred feet away from the Zhentish column when Tyzack and Slater both screamed. Cyric turned, confused… until he saw the shining, diamond-shaped sliver of steel approaching from the east, tumbling end-over-end as it pierced the air, heading directly toward the main body of Zhentilar — toward Slater and Tyzack.

The hawk-nosed thief drew his dagger and tossed the weapon in one fluid motion. Cyric's knife sailed through the air and passed the deadly shard, which was only slightly larger than the dagger itself, an instant too soon. The flechette continued on. Suddenly the sound of metal striking metal echoed through the air. Although it was a small sound, very high-pitched, Cyric started as he heard it.

Ren had tossed one of his own daggers and deflected the steel shard from its path. Slater and Tyzack were safe.

The thief forced his body to relax as he focused his attention on Ren. The Zhentilar was, quite possibly, Cyric's equal with a blade, and that knowledge made the thief thankful that they had been temporarily recalled from their "mission." Cyric knew that it was up to him to make the reprieve permanent.

His original plan had been to kill Ren on the skeletal ridge, then escape over the southern side of the rise and head for the Ashaba. But without a horse or supplies, his chances for survival were slim. Should Tyzack turn vengeful and order just a few Zhentish soldiers to track him down, his chances were downright dismal. And returning to the advance with Ren dead would have been out of the question, too. Tyzack would have executed Cyric on the spot. So, since the mission to the ridge was a no-win situation, the thief knew that he had to find a way to turn the current situation in his favor.

Slater stared at the ground six feet before her, where the two-foot-long sliver of steel had fallen. She looked at Cyric and saw the frustration in his face, then turned to Ren and said, "My thanks."

"I am here to serve," the blond Zhentilar replied, his voice low and scratchy.

Tyzack was staring off at the horizon. "What was that?" he asked, visibly shaken.

Ren leaped from his mount and reached down to grab both his dagger and the diamond-shaped metal shard. The blond man picked up his knife, but there was a hissing sound the moment Ren's hand touched the steel sliver. The Zhentilar drew back, holding his right hand in his left.

"Damn!" he growled. "The sliver burns!"

"There must be a sorcerer involved," Tyzack hissed as he tried to regain his composure. "I see no one near, and nothing could have thrown that shard all the way from the rise. It's simply too far away."

The thief instinctively thought of Midnight, then chided himself for the foolish thought. The mage would never be stupid enough to confront a three-hundred-man regiment of Zhentilar. Then a thought occurred to the thief. "If it was a mage, it might explain the light in the distance," Cyric noted aloud.

Suddenly a shadow passed over the Zhentish forces, and an audible gasp erupted from the troops. As Cyric looked up, his hand moving onto the hilt of his dagger, the thief saw a swirling mass of glittering light hovering above them Squinting, Cyric realized that, although he was looking full into the sun, a curtain of steel fragments hung in the sky, blocking his view. Sparks of light refracted from the myriad surfaces of a storm cloud formed from metal shards.

"What is that?" Tyzack cried, his voice cracking. The Zhentish leader reached over and clawed at Slater's shoulder, trying to get her attention. The warrior shrunk away from Tyzack's touch as she controlled an urge to grasp the man's hand, yank him from his mount, and cut his throat as he fell.

Instead, Slater yelled, "Don't touch me!" and shoved Tyzack's hand away.

"Tyzack!" Ren murmured, disquiet showing in his ragged voice. "What are your orders?"

A single shard fell from the heavens like a drop of water dripping from the tip of an icicle that had begun to melt. Tyzack tore his gaze from the skies and covered the back of his head with his arms, then he thrust his face into the mane of his horse. From a hundred feet behind the black-haired leader, there was a scream.

"It got Sykes in the leg!" someone shouted.

Some of the Zhentish soldiers had begun to break ranks, scattering across the flat, open field. "There's nowhere to hide!" someone screamed, and a ripple of panicked cries arose from the troops.

Cyric watched the leader of the Zhentilar quake and moan in fear. "Ren's right!" the hawk-nosed thief growled as Tyzack slowly raised his head. Contempt for the coward raged within Cyric as he cried, "You must give an order!"

Tyzack was about to speak when another shard fell from the sky, this one sailing toward the front of the advance, where the Scorpions had gathered. Praxis was struck in the shoulder by the sliver of metal, and he howled in agony as the sharp tip exited the back of his arm.

"I'm — I'm burning!" Praxis screamed as a grayish black mist rose from the wound. The soldier tried to pluck out the shard, but the effort only caused him greater pain.

Cyric and Ren turned to face the rest of the Zhentish army. Both men shouted for calm, then looked at Tyzack, waiting for the man to speak. Discord was spreading through the ranks, and individual leaders were trying to take control of the individual factions within the force.

"We're… dead!" Tyzack whispered as he stared at the heavens. "There is no place to go!"

Cyric forced his horse over alongside Tyzack's. He grabbed the black-haired man by the collar and shook him hard. "Don't say that!" the thief hissed. "You'll lose control of the men." Cyric was surprised to see that Ren didn't make a move to stop him.

"The blades!" Tyzack cried. "There are so many of them, and they're getting bigger! Look!"

Looking toward the sky, Cyric saw that the mass of shining silver blades was slowly descending.

"Ride!" Tyzack muttered, his voice as soft as a child's.

A half-dozen shards dropped from the sky like ripe apples from a tree. Those Zhentilar that had shields now struggled to free them from their hacks or their saddles. Screams went up from the rear and center of the advance.

Cyric looked to Slater. "What did he say?"

Ren glared at the thief. "Tyzack said to ride! We must reach the shelter of the southern rise before the shards drop from the sky!" The blond fighter kicked his horse into motion, and a large group of soldiers followed him.

The rain of metal shards increased, as if the bottom of the huge, invisible box that had been holding them were torn open, allowing the flechettes to plummet to the ground. Screams sounded from throughout the ranks. Handfuls of Zhentilar were struck down, dead or gravely wounded.

"Ride!" Tyzack screamed as if he had suddenly realized the danger. The black-haired man kicked at the sides of his mount, propelling the beast forward.

In seconds, Cyric found himself racing toward the auburn, skeletal ridge. The shadow caused by the cloud of knives was deepening, and it seemed to be following the Zhentish army. The cries of the Zhentilar who were struck down by the shards filled the air, their shrill screeches cutting through the dull roar made by hundreds of galloping horses.

The Zhentilar are at my back, Cyric mused. Then suddenly his amusement turned to fear. He felt exposed and very much alone at the front of the horde of charging soldiers. The thief's shoulders tightened, and he strained to listen for any mount that was closing on him, knowing that at any moment the rain of steel from above could end all of his problems.

The thief focused on the ridge, even though he thought their flight was useless. Then one of the rifts leading off from the skeletal hills beckoned, growing larger, its night-black shadow opening wide in front of the soldiers like the maw of a hungry animal. More and more Zhentish riders were struck by the shards. The lucky ones were killed outright. The unlucky ones fell from their horses and were trampled beneath the hooves of their comrades' mounts.

Slater was still riding near Cyric when they finally reached the mouth of the rift, where Ren and a majority of the Zhentish that had followed him had taken refuge. The soldiers' abandoned horses raced around, frantically trying to avoid the burning pieces of metal. From the number of horses either wounded or riderless at the end of the rift, Cyric judged that a hundred men had already taken refuge inside it.

But inside the ten-foot-wide gap, the Zhentish were faring no better than those still out on the plain. "This is absurd!" Cyric cried. Then a flechette smashed into his horse's neck, and the mount tossed the thief onto the ground. Luckily for the thief, however, he was close enough to the rift that the riders behind him had slowed their pace enough to avoid trampling him. Still, Cyric was momentarily shaken by the fall.

Before the thief could utter a word of protest, Slater grabbed him by the arm, and they were forced into the dark, cool rift by the flood of soldiers desperately crowding into the opening. Once in the rift, Cyric grabbed a rough wooden shield from a trampled body and raised it over his head. Slater, taller than the thief, had to crouch slightly to remain beneath its cover. The warm, smelly crush of bodies surrounded the thief and the warrior, and Cyric cursed loudly whenever he was bumped or pushed.

"They're not using their heads!" the thief yelled to Slater, who cowered next to him, listening to the frantic cries of the Zhentish and the hiss of falling shards. Above the Zhentilar, the rain of shards continued. The walls of the rift helped to slow the metal fragments; many struck the rock first, then tumbled with decreased momentum toward the soldiers, burning them but not killing them. But many knives still fell directly into the ranks, and the screams of the dying filled the rift with horrible echoes.

"Use your shields!" Cyric screamed, then Slater joined him in the cry, trying to make their voices heard above the din. A dozen soldiers immediately surrounded the thief, looking to him for orders, their eyes wide and frightened. But Cyric's words seemed to slice through the chaos as surely as the sharp edge of a blade through unarmored flesh. "Use your shields! If you don't have a shield, crawl under a corpse!"

More soldiers turned to Cyric and obeyed his commands.

"Interlock the shields, then — " Cyric screamed as a burning metal shard pierced his shield, striking his arm. There was a hiss, and the hawk-nosed man felt his flesh burning. He gritted his teeth and turned to Slater. "Anchor the shield, I've been hit."

The Zhentish woman complied with Cyric's commands. As the thief pulled his arm away from the shield — and the shard that still hissed at its center — a group of nearly fifty soldiers with shields closed ranks around the thief, near the center of the rift.

"Give the tallest men the shields!" Cyric yelled, holding his hand over the blackened wound. "Those without shields, stay low, under the protection!"

The shards continued to fall, but now the sound of shields being struck echoed through the cavern, drowning out the moans of the wounded and replacing the screams of the dying. Of course, occasionally the steel slivers found the meaty forearms on the undersides of the shields, but no one complained.

Cyric tore part of his shirt and wrapped a hasty bandage around his arm. "Forget the pain!" he cried. "At least you aren't dead!" Then he moved between the huddled men as best as he could to give orders to another segment of the frightened troops, Slater always at his side. "Those of you on the ground, help the wounded. Forget the dead; they can't be helped! Keep those shields up if you want to stay alive!" Cyric yelled, slapping some men on the back, encouraging others as he moved through the ranks.

Cyric's plan was working. Throughout the rift, more than one hundred Zhentilar with shields huddled under the network of protection.

At one point, as Cyric sat resting while Slater rebandaged his wound, she asked Cyric how he had thought of having the men use their shields as one instead of separately.

The thief smiled, or at least came as close to smiling as he had since the deadly rain had begun. "Storming a castle once… long ago. It's called 'forming a tortoise,'" the thief said. "It keeps your troops from getting slaughtered when the enemy decides to drop oil on your head or have their archers fire a rain of arrows at you." He looked up at the men holding the shields over him. "It's really quite simple."

"Cyric!" a low, throaty voice called from the huddled soldiers.

The thief spun and saw Ren crawling toward him, without a shield, his shirt torn and bloody from a number of small wounds.

"Tyzack's dead," the blond soldier rumbled. "He froze when death looked him in the eye, the coward."

Both men stood and stared at each other for a while, waiting for the storm to pass. Eventually the steady thump of shards hitting the shields lessened, then stopped altogether. The hiss of the still-warm fragments singeing the shields remained, as did the murmurs of the men and the cries of the wounded. Many of the men holding shields had begun to lower them, but Cyric shouted for them to hold their shields up until he gave orders to the contrary.

The thief turned back to Ren. "If Tyzack's dead — ," Cyric began, his brow furrowed.

"Then you're our leader now," Ren said and bowed his head slightly. "I live to serve."

The thief's head was swimming. Cyric quickly considered turning command over to someone else, but that would almost certainly turn out to be Ren, and that would most likely mean Cyric's death. As usual, the hawk-nosed man was sure that he wasn't being given a choice. "But who do you serve, Ren?"

Ren frowned. "As I said, I live to serve. You saved the men. You should lead them." The blond man paused and ran a hand across his dirty, blood-smeared face. "There is no reason to fear me… for now, anyway."

The thief ignored the last comment. "Show me Tyzack's body," Cyric said quietly.

The two men maneuvered some distance through the shield bearers. Finally Ren pointed toward a dead man lying ten feet beyond the last Zhentilar with a shield. Although darkness was now descending, Cyric could see that a metal shard had pierced Tyzack's chest, very near his heart. And the thief noticed something else: Tyzack's throat had been cut. The shards would not have been so efficient, Cyric thought as he turned to stare at Ren.

The thief stepped out from beneath the shields and looked up at the empty sky. Metal fragments lay on the ground all around him, some still red hot. Ren followed Cyric out from under the shell of shields and joined the new leader of the two hundred or so Zhentish soldiers that had survived the rain of death.

'"Tell me," the thief rumbled as Ren came to his side, "what secret did Tyzack bear that was so horrible he had you kill to protect it?"

The blond man paused for a moment and looked down at Tyzack's body. "Lately he'd become frantic that someone would discover what he'd done a long time ago at a small temple to Bane north of here." The guard looked up at Cyric. "Tyzack was hot-blooded and idealistic in his younger days, and he foolishly decided to revolt against the Black Network because they wouldn't accept him as a cleric. He raided a temple and slaughtered the young Zhentarim who had been sequestered there. If anyone from the Zhentarim ever found out — "

"It would mean his head," the thief concluded. Then Cyric laughed. "Tyzack was a fool! What he did might actually have put him in good stead with some of the powers in Zhentil Keep."

The soldier frowned and lowered his eyes. Cyric smiled and whispered, "I've done far worse than Tyzack ever dreamed of, Ren. But you won't have to protect my secrets. I take care of that myself." The blond man's frown deepened, and the thief turned away from him. "We'll wait another twenty minutes. It should be safe to send out scouts by then."

Cyric paused and looked down at Tyzack's body. "And then you can announce me as your new leader," the hawk-nosed man said proudly and walked back to rejoin the ranks of his men.