Tantras

VI

Cyric crawled through a tangle of heavy branches on the north shore of the Ashaba. The underbrush served to camouflage his quaking, half-drowned body as the thief heard the sound of the nightmares racing across the sky above the bridge, then watched as Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon were taken away by the assassins.

I'm lucky I'm not with them, the thief thought. In fact, I'm lucky to be alive at all!

After the dalesman's arrow had caused him to lose his grip on the tree in the river, Cyric had been dragged beneath the surface by a powerful undertow. Only by grabbing for handholds and footholds along the sleek, slimy wall of the riverbank had the thief been able to save himself. When he finally broke the surface of the water, he was past the bridge.

Cyric had remained hidden beneath an overhang in tin-hank and watched the events on the bridge unfold. He saw Midnight's protective sphere burst and Kelemvor become a panther and savage the dalesmen. Two men had escaped the creature's fury — the young, blond guard they had met in Shadowdale, and a shirtless, red-skinned, bald man. Cyric was uncertain of either man's whereabouts.

The hawk-nosed thief had seen Midnight and Adon resurface, then drag themselves up the bank opposite him to the woods at the southern end of Blackfeather Bridge. There had been a brief moment of relief as Cyric watched Midnight move toward the shore, but that feeling faded as he realized that Adon had survived, too. The very thought of the weak-willed Sunite infuriated the thief. Worse, he simply couldn't understand why Midnight protected him. It was that kind of foolish behavior from both Midnight and Adon that made me realize I'd be better off without them, the thief decided as he crawled up the bank. And from Kelemvor's lame performance in the non-battle with the assassins. He gave himself up! Cyric cursed silently — the thief had added the fighter to his list of people too sentimental to be trusted.

Still, Cyric did feel some remorse over the fact that he couldn't help Midnight escape from Bane's assassins. She would be disappointed in me, the thief suddenly realized, then grew angry at himself for being concerned about the mage's feelings at all. Anyway, he concluded, wherever she's been taken, she probably believes that I'm dead.

Perhaps it was best that way. There had been a strong bond of friendship between the thief and the mage — at least there was before the trip down the Ashaba — and Cyric knew that that type of bond could easily get in the way of his plans. Although he didn't care if Adon's blood might have to he spilled in his pursuit of the Tablets of Fate, Cyric did not relish the idea of harming Midnight. She knew things about him that no one else alive would ever know. Still, he realized that he could trust her, that she would not betray him. Were situations reversed, Cyric was sure that his friendship would not prove as unshakable as the mage's.

As the thief moved some branches out of his way, careful not to allow them to snap and reveal his position, he pulled himself up the embankment. The small expanse of woods Cyric faced had to be an unnatural growth, a product of the physical and mystical chaos that was infecting the Realms. That was the only explanation the thief could think of to reconcile the presence of a grove of trees in an area that had appeared barren on all his maps. Although there had been no sounds that would accompany unusual activity in the woods — or signal the presence of the two remaining dalesmen — he was quite nervous about being discovered while he was still unarmed.

Making his way to the top of the embankment, Cyric found himself staring into the eyes of the blond guardsman, Yarbro. The younger man's armor had been discarded, probably to help him avoid drowning. He still had his sword, though, and that sword was now raised against Cyric, its point grazing the thief's throat.

"It seems there is going to be some justice served here after all," Yarbro hissed as be grabbed the thief by the arm and tossed him to the ground.

Cyric was about to leap at Yarbro in a last-ditch effort to bring the guardsman down when he heard the sound of a branch snapping off to his left. Out of the corner of his eve, the hawk-nosed thief saw the deep, red skin of the bald man who had escaped from the bridge. Mikkel raised his bow and nocked an arrow.

"You're making a mistake!" Cyric gasped. The thief quickly ran through a long list of lies and half-truths that the dalesmen might just believe. "I'm as much a victim as you are," he said after a moment, his voice full of emotion.

Yarbro's sword wavered for an instant. The young guard paused, then pulled his lips back in a grimace. "Oh, really?" he growled. "And why is that?"

"Kill him!" Mikkel snapped. "Just kill him so we can get to Scardale and try to catch the other butchers!" The fisherman took a step toward the thief.

"I don't think so," Yarbro said. "Not yet. Not until I hear a few more of this killer's fantasies."

"What I've been through is no fantasy," Cyric groaned. "The sorceress cast a spell on me. She made me her pawn. My will has not been my own… not until this very moment." The thief rose to his knees and looked up at Yarbro. "Think for a moment. I helped to save Shadowdale from Bane's troops. It was under my command that more than two hundred of Bane's soldiers met their deaths. I personally put an arrow in Fzoul Chembryl, Bane's high priest and leader of his clergy. Why would I have attacked him if I were a spy for the Black Lord?"

"Perhaps you wanted Fzoul's job," Mikkel scoffed. "I understand that assassination is the preferred method of advancing one's career in Zhentil Keep."

Cyric shook with barely restrained anger. "The Twisted Tower would have fallen into the hands of Bane's forces were it not for me!"

"That's ancient history." Yarbro feigned a yawn as he allowed the tip of his sword to ease down and touch Cyric's throat again. "More recently, you killed a half dozen of our men when you helped the mage and the cleric escape from the Tower of Ashaba." The guard paused for a moment, waiting for Cyric to respond. "Do you deny it?"

"No," Cyric mumbled.

Mikkel nodded and raised his bow once more. "Then you must die!" Yarbro said. "In the name of Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale, I pass judgment on you!"

Yarbro started to back away from Cyric. The thief looked at Mikkel, who stood ready to fire an arrow into his heart. Cyric knew that if he didn't say something right now, he was a dead man. "It was the witch!" the hawk-nosed man cried. "You saw what she did to Kelemvor! She turned him into a panther, a mindless beast!"

Yarbro held up his hand and Mikkel lowered the how. "How do you know that?" the blond guard asked, moving back toward the thief. "You were in the water. You couldn't have seen anything that took place on the bridge."

"That's right," Cyric said flatly. "The raven-haired sorceress boasted of what she was about to do when the skiff got close to the bridge. I tried to stop her and the cleric from harming you. That's how the boat capsized." Cyric paused for a moment and drew a deep breath. "She cast her spell anyway, and as a result, your men died."

Mikkel moved close to Yarbro's side. "Is it possible he's telling the truth?"

A spark jumped to life in Cyric's heart, and the thief silently breathed a sigh of relief. The fools had taken the bait. They were his. "Yes! You have to stop her!" Cyric cried as he rose to one knee. "Midnight cast a spell on me before you captured her at the Temple of Lathander."

"But you didn't see her between the end of the battle and the beginning of the trial," Yarbro said. "How could she cast a spell on you?"

"I didn't have to see Midnight for her to cast a spell over me," Cyric whispered. The thief held his hand to his side, over the wound he had received in northern Cormyr. "I was injured before we reached Shadowdale, and the mage kept the weapon — smeared with my blood." Though he knew little about how magic really worked, the thief knew enough about human nature and popular beliefs to create a sufficiently ominous spell to frighten the dalesmen. "She tasted my blood from the weapon. That allowed her access to my soul later on, after the battle. She twisted me, forced me to do what I would never do on my own!"

Yarbro looked toward the bald fisherman, then back again to Cyric. The thief bowed his head.

"You must believe me — I want her blood as badly as you do," Cyric growled, without looking up. "She and the cleric exchanged laughs over the dying men's screams at the tower. They told stories of how they had lured Elminster away from the battle and murdered him in the Temple of Lathander."

Yarbro's face turned white with anger. Cyric looked up at the dalesmen. One more item on the scales, the thief decided. That should tip them in my favor.

"The cleric boasted of leading Bane's spies into the Temple of Tymora. It was he who soaked his hands in the blood of the murdered priests and painted Bane's symbol on the wall." Mikkel gasped, but Cyric went on. The thief stood up now and held his open hands out to the dalesmen. "They are the killers, and they are the ones we must find and put to death for their crimes!"

Cyric paused for only a moment, then lowered his voice and spoke softly to the dalesmen. "And if you must kill me after we have found them, I will make no move to stop you," the thief murmured. "All I desire is to hear the screams of those two monsters before I die!"

Yarbro and Mikkel backed away from the thief. The guard lowered his sword. The fisherman put away his bow. Cyric smiled and put a hand on each of the dalesmen's shoulders.

"Come with us, then," Yarbro said. "'Together we shall find the mage. Then we'll make her pay!"

Cyric could not believe his good fortune. The idiots actually believed his wild story! "She's already on her way to Scardale," the thief volunteered helpfully. "Bane's servants must have had orders to rescue them. We should follow them to the city."

Cyric and the dalesmen walked into the woods for a hundred yards, following the course of the river. They found the fishing skiff impaled on a thick branch. Obviously it would never be seaworthy again. Mikkel gazed at the small boat, thinking of the splendid times be had shared with his partner, Carella. Kicking the boat loose from the snag, the fisherman watched as it sank into the Ashaba.

"We take the road, then," Yarbro said flatly as he turned from the river and headed back into the woods. Cyric quickly followed the guard, and Mikkel soon joined them. After leaping from the bridge, as soon as they had struggled to shore, Yarbro and Mikkel had rushed to the camp the dalesmen had established in the woods at the north end of Blackfeather Bridge. There they took three horses — one for each of them to ride and the third as a pack animal. The other horses they sent down the road, away from the bridge. Now the two survivors of the hunt, along with Cyric, found the proud animals and loaded the mounts with the few supplies they had gathered.

But as they got ready to ride, Cyric realized that Yarbro and Mikkel were exhausted. The lack of sleep they had endured during the ride from the Standing Stone and their frightening experiences of the last few hours had drained the last sparks of energy from the men. Cyric was still alert, though, and he knew that the men needed rest more than anything. So the thief set about to ensure that they would never get any if he could help it.

"We must ride hard and try to catch them before they're in Scardale too long," Cyric said hurriedly as he leaped onto his horse. "If they get to the city before we do, they'll have a chance to disappear in the crowds, perhaps even catch a boat to Zhentil Keep. Then we'll never find them."

The hunters nodded. "For now, you ride in front," Yarbro sighed as he mounted his horse. "You don't get a weapon until we say so… and never forget that our cold steel is at your back."

Cyric kicked his horse into motion. "Of course. I would feel the same way if I were you. All I ask is that you allow me the opportunity for vengeance when the time comes."

"Aye," Mikkel said, stifling a yawn. "That we promise."

Cyric sensed that Yarbro hadn't believed his story as completely as he first thought. It hardly mattered. They had allowed the thief to live. Once the party stopped to rest for the night, the hunters would belong to Cyric. After he dispatched the weakened, exhausted men, he would take their supplies and set off for Scardale alone.

After an hour's ride, the forest gave out, and the barren expanses of Featherdale loomed before Cyric and the two dalesmen. Looking back, the thief half expected the mysterious forest to shimmer and vanish, or the trees to uproot and follow them. Yet nothing strange occurred.

The riders left the riverbank to avoid a curve of the Ashaba to the north in order to follow the most direct route to Scardale. After an hour's ride over the dull flatlands of Featherdale, Cyric spotted a handful of riders in the distance, riding toward them. "What do you want to do about those riders?" the thief asked as he turned slightly in his saddle.

"We have no quarrel with whoever it is," Yarbro snapped, a slight tinge of nervousness in his voice.

Cyric reined his horse to a stop. "We could try to avoid them, but they might think us cowards or criminals and set out after us if we do."

A frown creased the young guard's face. "Just a minute! I'm trying to think," Yarbro growled harshly.

"There isn't much time, of course," Cyric continued. "If we ride right now, we might stand a chance of escaping from them."

"A moment ago, you seemed to favor facing them," Mikkel said, confused. He stopped his horse next to Cyric's.

The hawk-nosed thief smiled. "Well, either way might be dangerous. There are many things to take into — "

Yarbro shook his head violently. "Be quiet! I can't hear myself think!" Mikkel frowned at the blond guard.

The thief smiled. Good, he thought. This kind of conflict will make it easier for me to stay alive a little longer in the company of these yokels. Cyric turned back to Yarbro. "Aye," he said condescendingly. "That's the problem with these situations. You need a clear head, plus a bit of hindsight, to judge them properly. If I may be so bold — "

"You already have been," Yarbro barked. "Now shut up! You're making my head swim!"

"Am I?" Cyric said softly, almost meekly. "It's not my intention, I assure you." The thief turned away and did as he was told.

After a moment, Yarbro drew his sword and laid it across his lap. "We do nothing," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "We'll simply stay here and wait to see what they do." In a short time, the riders had approached to within about a hundred yards. Their dark clothing and coats of arms became clearly visible, and Cyric identified them at once. "Zhentilar," the thief said flatly. "Probably just a wandering band. I doubt that they're on any special mission. All that should concern them is staying alive."

The dalesmen were tense and nervous as the riders approached. If they handled themselves properly, the dalesmen could avoid a conflict with the larger band. However, their frightened expressions and slightly quavering voices would probably give the hunters away no matter what they told the Zhentish troops.

The band of Zhentilar stopped about fifty feet from Yarbro, Mikkel, and Cyric. The leader of the company, a burly, black-haired man, rode forward a few steps. "I am Tyzack, leader of the Company of the Scorpions. These are my men — Ren, Croxton, Eccles, Praxis, and Slater."

Each of the black-garbed travelers nodded as his name was called. They were all well tanned from days of riding, and their clothes were worn and dirty. After a quick scan of the company, Cyric could not help but notice that one of the "men" in the company, Slater, was actually a woman.

Tyzack crossed his arms, and there was an uneasy silence for a moment.

Cyric leaned toward Yarbro. "You're supposed to respond," the thief whispered. "And I shouldn't be the one out front. It makes it seem as if I am in charge."

Yarbro led his mount past Cyric. The thief eyed the hilt of the guard's sword as he passed. Of course, Cyric didn't dare make a move for the weapon with Mikkel still at his back.

The blond dalesman cleared his throat. "I am Yarbro… a hunter of the Dales. With me is Mikkel, and Cyric." The nervous pause was far too lengthy to he missed by the Zhentilar.

Tyzack looked around at the barren fields surrounding the two parties and laughed slightly. "You're a bit out of your element, huntsman. Are you lost? Unable to find your way hack home?" A low rumble of laughter ran through the Zhentilar.

"They mock us," Mikkel hissed in a hoarse whisper.

"Better that than attack us," Cyric hissed to the fisherman.

The leader of the Zhentilar eyed the dalesmen for a few moments, then looked back to his company. Ren, a wiry, golden-haired young man, nodded, and Tyzack smiled. "Heading to Scardale, are you?"

"That's correct," Yarbro said. "And we are in a bit of a hurry, it you don't mind."

"Not so fast, dalesman," Ren called from behind Tyzack. "Tell me, what is it you hunt? You've come a long way to track your game."

Mikkel moved his horse past Cyric. "We only wish to be on our way," the fisherman snarled. "Will you let us move along?"

Tyzack spread his arms in a flourish. "Was there ever any question?" The Zhentilar signaled his company to move forward. "I didn't realize you required our permission."

Cyric cursed softly. It was clear that the Zhentilar had no intention whatsoever of letting them go. I'd better make the best of the confusion, the thief thought to himself.

Yarbro turned to Mikkel and Cyric. "Ride on," the guardsman said, the words catching in his throat. Yarbro and Mikkel flanked the thief as they rode toward the Zhentish soldiers.

As the companies came close to one another, Eccles, a wild-eyed Zhentilar with flaming red hair, spat on the ground in front of Mikkel's horse. "I'd spit on you, dalesman, but it would be a waste of water," the fighter harked as he got close to the red-skinned fisherman.

Mikkel stiffened in his saddle. "Zhentish dog!" he cursed bitterly.

"What was that?" Tyzack screamed, holding up his hand. The Company of the Scorpions halted.

"He called your man a 'Zhentish dog!'" Yarbro said flatly and reached for his sword. The Zhentilar quickly unsheathed their weapons as well.

Cyric considered his position. Yarbro and Mikkel still were on either side of him. The Zhentilar were formed in pairs, with Tyzack and Eccles in the lead, followed by Croxton and Praxis, then Ren and Slater at the rear. There's nowhere to run to, the hawk-nosed thief realized, and I have no weapons.

Eccles held a broadsword in his right hand and ran his left, with the reins wrapped around his wrist, through his red hair. The fighter trembled with rage. "Well, Tyzack?" the wild-eyed Zhentilar asked breathlessly.

The black-haired leader of the Company of the Scorpions casually looked over his shoulder at his band. "Kill them all," he said calmly.

Fingers digging into the mane of his horse, Cyric prepared himself.

"You're dead men!" Eccles screamed as he kicked his horse into motion. "Dead men!"

Cyric had leaped from his mount before the first blow was struck. He landed on the ground near Croxton, a red-bearded man with a flat jawline and thick, bushy eyebrows. The Zhentilar's lips curled back in a grimace as he saw Cyric fall, but he ignored the thief and rushed at Yarbro. As he raced past the guard, Croxton struck the young man in the face with the back of his mailed hand. Yarbro fell backward off his horse and landed beside Cyric. The thief saw seething hatred in Yarbro's bloodshot eyes.

Slater, the only woman in the ranks of the six-member band of Zhentilar, produced a crossbow and leveled it at Mikkel's face. She was no older than Midnight, Cyric realized as he watched her take aim at the fisherman, yet her features were as battle-worn as any man's he had ever seen. Her eyebrows had been completely shaved off, and her brown hair was cut short. Lips that might have been full and sensual were dry and cracked. She bit one side of her lips as she smiled and prepared to kill the fisherman.

Eccles rode past Mikkel and slashed him across the arm with his sword. Croxton and Praxis flanked Cyric and Yarbro. It was clear that the battle was over.

"Wait!" Ren yelled. "Where's the fun if we merely slaughter them? Let's give them a fighting chance… and than we can slaughter them!" The golden-haired Zhentilar turned to the company's leader. "Well, Tyzack?"

"I have no objections," the black-haired soldier said, a wolfish grin crawling across his mouth. "What do you propose?"

Ren pointed to Mikkel with his sword. "Get off your mount, dalesman."

The fisherman did not move. Ren leaned forward on his horse and pointed to Slater, who still had her crossbow trained on the red-skinned dalesman. Ren smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. "If I tell her to wound you, it might take days for you to die. I'm about to offer you a chance to live."

Yarbro wiped the blood from his mouth. "Get off the horse, Mikkel. Let's hear what they have to say."

All eyes turned to Mikkel as the fisherman slowly dismounted and sat on the ground.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Cyric slowly started to creep backward, away from the hunters. Then a high-pitched whistle caught his attention. The thief looked up and saw that Slater had aimed her crossbow at his heart. She nodded toward Yarbro, and Cyric moved back to the young guard's side.

"So, the coward would leave his friends behind," Ken growled as he turned to Cyric. "I imagine your own skin is the one you value the most."

"Of course," Cyric hissed softly.

"By Bane's black heart!" another of the Zhentilar exclaimed. "A dalesman who speaks the truth!" The speaker was Praxis, a sandy-haired man with steel-gray eyes who towered over Cyric and Yarbro on his horse. "Perhaps we can have some sport from this after all."

"This is no sport!" Eccles snarled, nervously running his hand through his hair. "Dealing with dalesmen is only sport when it takes place in the arena." The wild-eyed Zhentish soldier turned to Cyric. "Do you know what we do to 'honest' dalesmen like you in the arena?"

As he looked into Eccles's eyes, noting the tinge of madness that lay behind them, Cyric suddenly thought of a way out of this dilemma. "I know a good deal about Zhentil Keep," the thief said, narrowing his eyes. "I was born there." Both the dalesmen and Tyzack screamed "What?" at the same time. Cyric smiled a half-grin and nodded slowly. "I am an agent of the Black Network. These dalesmen held me prisoner and would be most happy to see you kill me."

"Prove it!" Ren snapped. "Tell us something only a Zhentarim agent would know."

"What I can tell you depends on your level of clearance for covert matters of state," Cyric said softly. "Not the tone of your voice or the number of threats you hold over me."

Mikkel cursed softly and shook his head. Yarbro was not so calm about the "revelation." The blond dalesman rose to a crouch and screamed, "You filthy liar!" Before anyone could act, the young guard launched himself at Cyric. "You were a spy all along!"

Croxton grabbed Yarbro by the hair and lifted him off the ground when the dalesman tried to wrap his hands around Cyric's throat. "That's enough from you!" the red-bearded soldier shouted, then tossed Yarbro to the ground.

Cyric withheld a smile. He could have blocked Yarbro's attack in any of a number of ways, but he chose to wait, hoping the Zhentilar would come to his aid. Although he despised the idea of allying himself with scum from Zhentil Keep, Cyric knew that it was far less objectionable than lying in the middle of Featherdale with his throat slit.

Tyzack dismounted and strolled toward Yarbro. "He was your prisoner?" the black-haired Zhentilar asked, his voice low and threatening.

"Why else would I have been unarmed?" Cyric said from Tyzack's left. The thief rubbed his neck, trying to make the dalesman's attack look far more serious than it was.

"Shut up," Tyzack growled as he turned to Cyric. "No one's talking to you… not yet, anyway." He turned back to Yarbro. "So tell me, dalesman, is it true?"

Yarbro hung his head. "I should have killed him the moment I saw him!" the guard hissed. The thief smiled. "Yes," Cyric said. "That's probably true."

Yarbro started toward Cyric again, but both Croxton and Praxis thrust their swords between the dalesman and the thief. "So why was he your prisoner?" Tyzack asked gruffly as he grabbed Yarbro by the back of the shirt and whirled him around.

Yarbro wrenched free of Tyzack's grasp and turned to glare at the thief, anger narrowing his eyes. "That scum murdered six royal guardsman in the Twisted Tower of Shadowdale," the young guard snarled. "Then he helped two convicted murderers, the mage and cleric who killed Elminster the Sage, to escape from their executions."

Cyric wanted to scream in exultation. The idiot guardsman was making him look better and better to the Zhentilar with each word he spoke!

A murmur ran through the Zhentilar. "So, you're from Shadowdale," Croxton hissed. "You should have told us that first. We would have killed you on the spot and not wasted any time on you."

Tyzack frowned and held up his hand to silence his company. "I'd heard that Elminster was dead. But… where are these other criminals?"

"Yes," Slater chimed in. "We'd like to congratulate them!"

The muscles in Yarbro's face twitched, and he glared at the woman with the crossbow. "They escaped," he mumbled after a moment. "Bane's assassins, riding nightmares, rescued them."

"Don't tell them anything more," Mikkel said, shaking his bald head. The fisherman's earring dangled against his cheek.

"So you're a spy for Lord Bane, is that it?" Tyzack asked as he turned back to Cyric.

"Aye," the hawk-nosed man said flatly. "I was a thief — "

"Once a thief, always a thief," Slater braved, her voice thick and raspy. She chuckled at her own attempt at humor, although no one else seemed especially amused, least of all Cyric. He had run from his past for years on end and finally thought himself free of it. Now it seemed that the only way to save himself was to embrace what he had denied for so long.

Cyric frowned and continued. "I apprenticed to Marek, an important member of Zhentil Keep's Thieves' Guild. He trained me as a spy." The thief looked around at the Zhentilar and saw that they were all listening to his words closely, waiting for him to slip up.

Tyzack raised a bushy black eyebrow. "Marek, eh? I've heard the name. An older man?"

"That's right," Cyric said.

"What information did he uncover, thief?" Eccles asked as he shifted nervously in his saddle. "What did he tell you?" Cyric laughed. "It is hardly likely that I would ever reveal important information to someone like you."

The wild-eyed Zhentish soldier growled, and Tyzack moved close to Cyric. The thief silently calculated how quickly he could take Tyzack's weapon from him. As he stared at the black-haired Zhentilar's sword, a glint of sunlight reflected from Slater's crossbow. Not quick enough, Cyric realized, and he relaxed his stance slightly.

"Telling us now might be the prudent thing to do," Tyzack said softly. "Especially if you're concerned with your own survival."

"No," Cyric said coldly. He turned to the other Zhentish soldiers and said, "My words are for Lord Bane alone. It was the Black Lord himself who gave me my orders. I will reveal what I have found only to him."

The Zhentilar mumbled among themselves or silently fidgeted at the thief's proclamation. At least I raised the stakes at the right time, Cyric thought. Now they're afraid to kill me.

Tyzack sheathed his sword and walked to Cyric's side again. "Well," the black-haired man said, "the Black Lord awaits us in Scardale, in the body of Fzoul Chembryl." He paused and looked at the rest of the Company of the Scorpions. "You'll have your chance to see him there, Cyric."

The thief was both relieved and horrified at the same time. Not only was he being taken to the God of Strife, who would certainly kill him, but the god's avatar was a man Cyric had severely wounded in the Battle of Shadowdale. The hawk-nosed man's mouth went dry as he remembered firing an arrow into Fzoul's chest at the Ashaba Bridge.

Tyzack moved away from Cyric and the huntsmen. The leader of the Zhentilar addressed his second-in-command. "Do you have a suggestion, Croxton? For our guests, I mean?"

"Let them fight one another to the death," the red-bearded fighter snapped. "Whoever lives, we let go. But he'll have to kill his friend first."

"Splendid!" Tyzack roared and returned to his mount. Reaching into a pouch in his saddle, Tyzack withdrew a fresh red apple. The Zhentilar bit into the apple, his teeth piercing it to the core. He swallowed the bite and said, "We'll include our new friend in the game, too. After all, a properly trained Zhentilar should have no problems dispatching these two sorry dogs from Shadowdale. What say you, Cyric?"

The thief looked at Yarbro and Mikkel, then nodded. If they have to die for me to go on living, even for a little while, that's fine by me. "Just give me a weapon, and we'll get this over with quickly," he hissed. "But remember, Lord Bane will hear about this."

"Hmmm," Tyzack said and rubbed his chin. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt, but…"

Eccles snarled and yelled, "If he dies, then he was living in the first place! The Black Lord will protect him if he really is a loyal Zhentilar spy!"

The other Zhentilar nodded in agreement. "It's settled, then," Tyzack muttered. The black-haired man leaned close to Cyric and whispered, "It seems that this is the only game available to you, friend. I would urge you to play it out." He paused for a moment, then added, "I won't let you get hurt. Remember that in your report."

Cyric looked at the company's leader and nodded. "Clear these horses away and give us some room."

Tyzack looked to Croxton. "Disarm the dalesmen."

As the last of the horses was led away, the Company of the Scorpions formed a circle around the combatants. Mikkel began to back away from Yarbro and Cyric. "We can't do this!" the bald fisherman said, his voice quavering with fear. "Please, Yarbro! Even if we manage to kill the spy, they'll expect us to turn on each other. Then they'll kill the survivor. We've got to fight them, not each other!"

Slater, still holding her crossbow, began to laugh. "Yes, come and fight us."

Yarbro's face was set. "Though you'll likely kill me for it, I'll not raise a hand against my comrade," the guard said as he turned to Cyric. "But I'll gladly see this one die before I rush to Myrkul's realm."

Moving toward Cyric, Yarbro reached out and tried to grab the thief. The dark, lean shadow of a man darted out of the way and moved past the young guard with ease. Yarbro cursed and followed. He reached for Cyric again, but again the thief avoided him.

"Look at them dance!" Croxton cried. The red-bearded fighter reached down and picked up Mikkel's bow. He smiled a vicious grin, then tossed the bow into the center of the circle. "This should liven things up!"

Mikkel, who was closest to the weapon, quickly grabbed the bow. As Cyric dodged Yarbro yet again, the fisherman swung the bow at the thief's head. Cyric ducked the fisherman's attack, then lashed out at Mikkel with his empty, open hand.

There was a sharp crack as the bow snapped in half where Cyric had struck it. Mikkel looked at the weapon in confusion for a second, until the thief snatched the shattered bow from his hand and thrust the jagged wood into the underside of Mikkel's jaw. The fisherman's eyes flashed open wide and his knees began to buckle. Cyric reached down as Mikkel fell, grabbed the bow, rolled to his left, then sprang up into a crouch, facing Yarbro. The guard screamed something incoherent in his rage.

"Come on, dalesman!" Cyric urged, brandishing the bloody, broken bow. "I could shove this stake into your throat before you ever saw me move. Give up and I'll make it easy on you."

"You killed him!" Yarbro wailed.

"That's the point, isn't it?" Cyric said. "And I don't expect you'll put up any more of a fight."

Yarbro moved toward the thief again. "If you hold still and fight like a man, I'll show you a fight!"

Laughter erupted from the Zhentilar. "Aye, Cyric," Slater called. "Hold still so the dalesman can relieve you of your head!"

To Cyric's right, the leader of the Company of the Scorpions stood with his arms crossed. "Aye, thief, give us a taste of blood!" Tyzack yelled. "Wound him before you kill him."

The thief forced a smile. "That would be too easy!" Cyric growled, thinking that he'd best end this contest quickly, before the Zhentilar got bored and tossed Yarbro a sword or something.

Yarbro swung out a fist wildly at the thief, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "I'll kill you!" he screamed, sweat pouring down his face.

The thief easily ducked the clumsy swing and kicked Yarbro in the stomach. "This is getting boring, isn't it?" Cyric said, circling around the guardsman and slapping him with the bow in the back of the head. The thief smiled at Yarbro, who was buckled over in pain, and tossed the bow aside. "I'll give you a running start," Cyric growled. "You can have fifty yards before I come after you."

Yarbro looked up at the hawk-nosed man, disbelief in his eyes.

"Make it a hundred, Cyric!" Ren cried.

Cyric bowed quickly to the golden-haired soldier. "A hundred yards it is," the thief said with a flourish. "Go on, run back toward the river. Maybe I won't catch you before you get to the water. Then you can escape and warn all the Realms about me."

Sweat was pouring into Yarbro's eyes. A lump was forming where the thief had smacked him with the bow, and pain exploded behind his eyes with every movement. "Damn you!" Yarbro hissed. "I'd kill you and everyone else from Zhentil Keep if I could!"

A rumble ran through the Zhentilar, and Cyric gritted his teeth. Yarbro was wearing the company's patience, such as it was, very thin. If Cyric didn't prove to the soldiers he was one of them — a brutish, bloodthirsty Zhentish agent — they might not let him live until Scardale. That just wouldn't do. "Two hundred yards," Cyric said flatly. "That's my final offer." When the guardsman still didn't move, the thief narrowed his eyes and snarled, "Run, damn you! This is your only chance. I won't take a step toward you for two hundred yards."

Yarbro's breath caught in his lungs. "But they will," the guard whispered, nodding toward the Zhentilar.

"Scorpions!" Cyric called. "Will you honor my pledge? Two hundred yards before I move after him on foot. And you stay where you are."

"Done!" Tyzack agreed. The rest of the company nodded or grunted their consent.

Cyric smiled a wicked grin. "Go. It's your only chance. Go now!"

A final grimace of pure hatred crossed the blond guard's features as he turned and began to run. The Zhentilar parted for the dalesman as Cyric strolled to the edge of the ring. Yarbro had run for less than twenty paces when the thief grabbed a dagger from Praxis's boot and hurled it. Blinding pain coursed through Yarbro as the blade entered his back at the base of his spine. Then the guardsman collapsed.

Cyric turned to the stunned Zhentilar. "Come on. He's not dead yet." As the thief approached the place where Yarbro lay, he knew that the next few moments were all-important. By turning his back on the Company of the Scorpions, he had allowed himself to become vulnerable to their attack. For every step he heard them take behind him, some walking, others riding, Cyric's confidence grew. Every moment that Slater's shaft did not strike his back was a victory.

The thief bent down over the twitching body of the hunter.

"You promised…," Yarbro gasped, his teeth gritted in pain. "You promised!"

A chill ran down Cyric's spine. "But I didn't come after you, Yarbro. I didn't take a step. It was my blade that did the job." The dalesman started to moan, and Cyric felt a swirling anger growing in his soul.

The Zhentilar gathered around the thief and his victim, and Cyric stood up and started to walk away. "Wait a minute!" Eccles snarled. "You haven't taken care of him yet."

Cyric stood motionless for a moment and closed his eyes. "It's over," he hissed. "Leave him here to die."

"He might get away," Croxton roared, balling his hands into fists. "You're no Zhentish agent if you leave him like this! You're not — "

They're not going to make this easy, the thief cursed. But I'll do what I must. Cyric whirled around, his face emotionless. "Give me another dagger," he murmured flatly and started back toward Yarbro.

As the Zhentilar watched, Cyric walked slowly to the suffering dalesman and kneeled beside him. As the thief looked into Yarbro's fear-filled eyes, he felt something die inside of him, some tiny spark go out in his soul. "You'd do the same to me," Cyric hissed. He pushed Yarbro over onto his face and quickly slashed the tendons at the backs of his ankles.

As the dalesman wailed in pain, Cyric stood up, tossed the dagger onto the ground next to Yarbro, and walked away. "Now he won't go anywhere," the thief growled as he approached the now-silent Zhentilar.

As the Company of the Scorpions prepared to ride to Scardale, Slater went to the body of the dead fisherman and bent over it for a moment. She gave a throaty laugh and snatched the prism earring from the dead fisherman. Yarbro continued to scream as the woman robbed Mikkel's corpse and the rest of the company packed, but no one seemed to notice.

Cyric mounted one of the dalesman's horses and rode up to Tyzack. The thief's expression was unreadable. Finally the leader of the Zhentilar patrol allowed a grin to spread across his face. "I'm sure Lord Bane will be pleased to see you when we reach Scardale," the black-haired man said and held his hand out to Cyric. The thief paused for a moment, then grabbed Tyzack's hand.

"Welcome to the Company of the Scorpions," Eccles chuckled as he rode past Cyric and Tyzack. And as the Zhentilar started on the long, hard ride to Scardale, the wild-eyed man's laughter drowned out the screams of the dying dalesman.