Waterdeep

5 A Green Sun

Despite a fitful night of sleep, Midnight woke just an hour after dawn. Slivers of light slipped through the seams in the window shutters, illuminating her room in eerie green tones. She pulled her cloak on and opened the window. Where the sun should have hung was an immense, multifaceted eye similar to a fly’s or spider’s. It burned with a radiant green light that turned the entire sky to emerald and cast a lush glow over the gray mountains around High Horn.

Midnight blinked and looked away. Atop the keep’s inner wall, the sentries marched their routes without paying the eye any attention. The magic-user wondered if she were imagining the thing, but when she looked back, the eye still hung in the sky.

Fascinated by the magnitude of its hideousness, Midnight studied the green orb for several minutes. Finally, she decided her captivation was pointless and dressed.

The mage proceeded with the task of dressing slowly, stopping to yawn often. After imprisoning Bhaal, Midnight had fallen into a restless sleep that did little to replenish her energy. Though the god’s attack had terrified her, the ride from Eveningstar had fatigued the mage to the point where staying awake had been out of the question.

Her slumber had been short-lived, however. Two guards had come to lay planks over the collapsed landing, interrupting her rest. Midnight had spent the next two hours flinching at High Horn’s unfamiliar sounds, then finally drifted into an unsettled sleep that had lasted until she woke to the green dawn.

Though still drowsy and exhausted, Midnight knew it would be pointless to return to bed. Sleeping during the day was difficult for her, especially with the clamor of castle life outside the window. Besides, the magic-user was anxious to turn her thoughts to the spell she had used last night.

The spell had simply appeared in Midnight’s mind, which both puzzled and delighted her. Magic was a rigorous discipline, demanding careful and tedious study. The mystical symbols that a mage impressed upon her brain when studying a spell carried power. Casting the spell discharged the power, draining all memory of the symbols until the spell was studied again. That was why Midnight’s spellbook had been her most valued possession.

But the stone-to-mud spell had appeared in her mind without study. In fact, she had never studied it, and had considered it beyond her ability to cast.

Flushed with excitement, Midnight decided to summon another spell. If she could call mystical symbols at will, the loss of her spellbook would be a trivial—perhaps even lucky—thing.

She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Then, remembering how Kelemvor had spurned her last night, she tried to trace the symbols for a charm spell into her brain.

Midnight did not need to try for long, however. Nothing happened, and the magic-user immediately knew that nothing would. She sat down and analyzed every detail of the previous night’s events. After the collapsed landings had failed to kill Bhaal, she had realized their only hope was to imprison the god—and a method for doing so had come to her.

But Midnight couldn’t remember any of the spell’s mystical symbols, and realized that the incantation had come to her in pure, unadulterated form. She puzzled over this for several minutes. In effect, mystical symbols were spells, for symbols put the spellcaster in touch with the magic that powered her art. It was impossible to cast a spell without using a mystical symbol.

With sudden clarity, Midnight understood what had happened. She had not cast a spell at all, at least not as most magic-users thought of one. Instead, she had tapped the magic weave directly, shaping its power without symbols or runes.

Her stomach fluttering, Midnight decided to try summoning the charm spell again. This time, she concentrated upon the desired effect instead of the symbols associated with it. The power swelled within her and she intuitively knew how to say the words and make the gestures that would shape the magic into her charm spell.

Midnight’s hand went to her chest and she ran her fingers over a flat, smooth line crossing her collarbone. That was where, just weeks before, the chain of Mystra’s pendant had grafted itself to her chest.

“What have you done to me?” she asked, looking toward the heavens. Of course, no one answered.

As Midnight contemplated the magic weave in her room on the second floor, a dozen hungry Cormyrian officers stood in the banquet room on the first floor. They had been awaiting the arrival of Lord Deverell, and dawn repast, for over an hour.

Finally, the lord commander stumbled into the room. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot and his skin pallid yellow. His condition had nothing to do with Bhaal’s attack of the night before. Lord Deverell had slept through the entire battle and knew about it only because his valet had recounted it for him.

Although he had drunk less ale than Lord Deverell, Kelemvor was less accustomed to the potent drink and was in a condition similar to the lord commander’s. However, he was still in bed, having earlier informed a maid that he would not be rising before midday. Adon, too, remained in bed, finally resting quietly after a series of dreams involving Bhaal and various forms of slow death.

Sneakabout was the only one of the four companions present when Lord Commander Deverell took his seat. Though any other host might have found the absence of Sneakabout’s friends strange, perhaps even rude, it did not trouble Deverell. In fact, it made him feel less guilty about rising so late, and these days he could do with less guilt. The night officers were sure to grumble about his valet’s inability to rouse him last night, and Deverell couldn’t blame them. Lately, there had been too many occasions for similar remarks. But he felt he could not be blamed for keeping himself entertained in the forlorn halls of High Horn.

Deverell waved the officers and Sneakabout to the table. “Sit,” he said wearily. “Eat.”

The officers sat without comment. From conversations he’d had earlier, the halfling knew that the Cormyrians were in a foul mood. Most had spent the night on cold ramparts and were anxious to go to bed, though ceremony dictated they break bread with their lord first.

Serving wenches brought out steaming bowls of hot cereal. Deverell looked at the gruel and pushed it away in disgust, but Sneakabout dug in with a hearty appetite. He liked boiled grains more than roasted meat or sweet cake.

A moment later, Deverell turned to the halfling. “My steward tells me you broke into his office last night.”

Sneakabout gulped down a mouthful of oats. “The need was great, milord.”

“So I hear,” Deverell replied, shaking his head sadly. “My thanks for your quick thought.”

“Think nothing of it, milord. It was but gratitude for your hospitality.” Though raised in Black Oaks, Sneakabout had seen the inside of enough palaces to know the mandates of courtesy.

A murmur of approval rippled through the room. The lord commander tried to smile and inclined his head. “Your words are kind, but I must apologize. I promised safe refuge, and my failure to provide it is a grievous violation of host duty.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Lord Deverell,” Midnight said, stepping into the room.

Lord Deverell and the others stood to acknowledge her presence. “Lady Midnight,” Deverell observed. “You look well this morning.”

Midnight smiled, appreciating the flattery—though she knew her fatigue showed. The magic-user approached the table, continuing to speak. “You mustn’t feel bad on our account. Our attacker was Bhaal, Lord of Murder.”

Whispers rustled round the table. She had just confirmed the rumor that had circulated through the ranks all night. A few men cast nervous glances toward the courtyard, where Bhaal still lay in his amber prison, but no one made any comments.

Sneakabout added, “There was nothing you could do. Nobody could have stopped him.”

“But you slowed him down, friend halfling,” Deverell responded, motioning Midnight to a seat. “Perhaps you should be my watch captain.”

One of the officers, a lanky man named Pell Beresford, frowned. So did Midnight. In the few days she had known him, she had developed a fondness for the halfling—and the cleverness he had shown in twice saving their company. The prospect of parting with him did not make her happy.

“I know you haven’t traveled long with Midnight and her friends,” Lord Deverell continued, resuming his seat. “If you wish to stay here, my offer is serious. I can always use men with keen wits.”

“You flatter me,” Sneakabout said, astonished. Humans rarely offered positions of authority to halflings.

Midnight bit her lip. If Sneakabout took the offer, she would have to congratulate him and appear happy.

“I’d like to accept,” the halfling replied, looking into Deverell’s blurry eyes. “But my path runs with Midnight’s for a while yet.”

Midnight breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, thinking Lord Deverell deserved further explanation, Sneakabout added, “I’ve certain unfinished business with a Zhentilar band pursuing them.”

“Black Oaks,” said Pell Beresford, pushing aside his empty bowl.

Sneakabout nodded. “How did you know?”

“Before dawn, forty of your people passed this way. They were trailing a troop of Zhentilar that one of our patrols chased off during the night.”

“No doubt the same Zhentilar that chased you into our company,” Lord Deverell observed.

“I must leave at once!” Sneakabout exclaimed, hopping out of his chair. “Where did they go?”

“Patience,” said Lord Deverell. “They undoubtedly fled to the west, and those lands belong to the Zhentilar—if they belong to anybody. You’ll never find the ones you seek, though plenty of evil will find you. It would be wiser to forego your vengeance and accept my offer.”

“If it were only a matter of vengeance, I would,” Sneakabout sighed. He meant what he said. As much as he ached to repay the men who destroyed Black Oaks, he knew that no good would come of trailing them into the Tun Plain.

But Sneakabout had no choice. When the Zhentilar had attacked his village, they had stolen his sword. Now, as evil as it was, he had to steal it back. The thing had a will of its own—a will that had long dominated Sneakabout, forcing him to murder indiscriminately and often. If the red blade’s absence had not been driving him insane, Sneakabout would have been happy to be rid of the thing.

But an irrational desire to recover the sword dominated all of his thoughts and he had not slept an hour since losing it. Sneakabout knew his symptoms would get worse. The sword’s previous owner had turned into a raving lunatic—before dying in a poorly planned attempt to recover the weapon.

The lord commander, misinterpreting the desperation in Sneakabout’s eyes as resolve, said, “Do as your honor dictates. No matter how great my need, I can’t command you to stay.”

Sneakabout bowed to Deverell. “My thanks for your hospitality.” He turned to Midnight. “Please say good-bye to Kelemvor and Adon for me.”

“Where are you going?” Midnight demanded, rising to her feet.

“To track down the Zhentilar who destroyed my village,” the halfling answered, glancing at the door anxiously. “As I remember, you wanted to avoid them.”

Midnight ignored his barbed comment. “You’re going to catch your people and join the war party?” she probed.

“You know they won’t have me,” Sneakabout replied testily.

“If you go alone, the odds are twenty-to-one,” Deverell said. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Are you mad?” Midnight added, grabbing the halfling’s shoulder.

Noticing that the Cormyrian officers were listening to the exchange, Sneakabout hesitated before replying. Midnight did not know about the sword’s curse. Nobody did, and he thought it wise to keep it that way. Finally, the halfling pulled away from the magic-user and snapped, “I’ve slipped into better guarded camps.”

“And then what?” Midnight demanded. “Will you slit twenty throats as the Zhentilar sleep?”

Just one, the halfling thought. He’d done that often enough. But all he said was, “I must go.”

“You’ll be killed!” Midnight cried. She clenched her fists, angry at the little man’s stubbornness.

“Perhaps not,” Lord Deverell noted, turning to halfling. “We often send heavy patrols into the Tun Plain. It’s time for another. If you rode with it, you’d be safe until you caught the Zhentilar who raided your village.”

Before Sneakabout could reply, Deverell turned to Midnight. “The patrol could also escort your company as far as Yellow Snake Pass, if you’re going that way.”

Several officers arched their brows, thankful they had been permanently assigned to garrison duty.

“We’d certainly welcome that,” Midnight said. She and her companions had not yet discussed their new route to Waterdeep, but she knew both Adon and Kelemvor would agree. They’d been driven so far north that risking the Tun Plain and Yellow Snake Pass would be much easier than going south to join a caravan.

“Good,” Deverell said wearily. “I’ll have the quartermaster assemble a few supplies. You’ll need mountain ponies, cold weather gear, spare weapons, rope, a map.…”

Cyric sat huddled behind a boulder, a wet cloak drawn over his shoulders. To all sides, white-streaked peaks eclipsed the horizon, scraping their jagged snouts against the sky’s gray belly. Cyric’s men were camped on the only flat space visible for miles, a field of man-sized rocks at the base of a towering cliff. The field ended atop another cliff that overlooked the road from High Horn.

A gentle, cold breeze washed down the valley, carrying with it the sour odor of skunkweed. Though a few scrappy bushes grew in sheltered pockets, there wasn’t a tree or plant taller than a dwarf in sight.

Dalzhel stood next to Cyric, having just relayed what he thought was a reasonable request from the men.

“They can’t build fires,” Cyric replied, not that he could see where anybody would find the wood to start one. After a night of icy drizzle, an insect eye had risen in the sun’s place. Though the eye had cast a green light over the mountains, its rays had lacked warmth, causing more grumbling among Cyric’s already disheartened men. Mercifully, clouds had finally moved in at midday and concealed the eye. At least the day now looked like it should be cold.

The chill did not trouble Cyric. Though the water in his canteen was frozen solid, he could not have been warmer if he had been sitting before a roaring fire. Although the thief did not fully understand the reason for his warmth, he suspected the red sword had something to do with it.

“We’re ill prepared for mountain travel,” Dalzhel grumbled, his nose and ears white from the cold. He looked toward the west, where eighteen of Cyric’s company sat huddled in the rock field. “The men are frozen and hungry.”

One of the Zhentish soldiers let out an agonized wail, as he had every few minutes since dawn. The howls unsettled the horses and put Cyric’s nerves on edge.

“No fires,” the hawk-nosed thief repeated. Though his men were freezing, there could be no fires, for fires created smoke, and smoke was visible for miles. “When our spies sight Midnight and we start moving, the men will warm up.”

“That’s little comfort,” Dalzhel replied, rubbing his hands together. “Half the men will be frozen corpses by then.”

“Think!” Cyric snapped. He touched the tip of his sword to a nearby rock. “This is us.” The thief moved the tip of his sword a few inches to the east. “And here is High Horn. The Cormyrians are over five hundred strong, with patrols crawling all over.”

Dalzhel winced at the mention of High Horn. Last night, they had camped a mile from the fortress. A patrol of fifty Cormyrians had surprised them. After losing quite a few of his men, Cyric had been forced to flee into the mountains.

The Cormyrians, mounted on sure-footed mountain ponies, had dogged their trail through most of the night. The enemy patrol had only turned back when Cyric’s band of cutthroats ambushed them in a narrow gorge. The Zhentish outlaws had taken the rest of the night to find the road and their present resting place. Along the way, the Zhentish sergeant, Fane, had broken both his legs in a bad fall, two horses had stepped off cliffs, and half the mounts had gone lame stumbling through the rocky terrain. Though he had originally snickered when he saw the Cormyrians’ riding ponies, Dalzhel would now gladly trade three men for a dozen of the sure-footed beasts.

Cyric placed his swordtip north of the spot representing his company. “The Farsea Marshes. Home to the Lizard People.” He touched the sword to the west. “Darkhold, Zhentilar stronghold.”

“We have nothing to fear from that direction, at least,” Dalzhel said. “Darkhold’s forces were decimated in the battles at Shadowdale and Tantras.”

Fane wailed again, causing the horses to whinny. Both men glanced in his direction, then returned to their conversation.

“We have plenty to fear from Darkhold,” Cyric snapped. “With his numbers decimated, the garrison commander is surely sending raiders into the Tun Plain to look for recruits. Don’t you think they’d come after us?”

Dalzhel reluctantly nodded. “Aye.” A puff of steam came out of his mouth with his voice and obscured his face. “We’d be stuck on garrison duty for the rest of our lives.”

“If they didn’t recognize us as deserters,” Cyric added.

Dalzhel shivered. “This had better be worth the trouble. Fighting Cormyrians I can take—but being tortured as a deserter is another matter.”

“You don’t have a choice, do you?” Cyric snarled, irritated. A staggering urge to kill his lieutenant washed over him. He lifted his sword, then realized what he was doing and stopped. The thief closed his eyes and calmed himself.

“Is something wrong?” Dalzhel asked.

Cyric opened his eyes. The anger had faded, but bloodlust had replaced it—a bloodlust more powerful and more sinister than anything the thief had ever felt. The emotion was not his own, and that made Cyric truly angry.

“You’d better check on the watch,” the hawk-nosed man grumbled, thinking of an excuse to get Dalzhel out of his sight. “And let me know the minute our spies report from High Horn.”

Dalzhel obeyed immediately and without question. He had no wish to add to the tension that was playing over his commander’s face.

Cyric sighed in relief, then laid his sword across his knees. The blade had paled and was now beige instead of a healthy red. Pity for the weapon washed over him.

Cyric laughed aloud. Feeling sorry for a sword was no more his emotion than the thirst he had felt for Dalzhel’s blood.

Fane howled again, sending a shiver of irritation down the thief’s spine.

Kill him.

Cyric hurled the sword off his knees and watched it clatter to the rocky ground. The words had come unbidden to his mind in a wispy, feminine voice.

“You’re alive!” Cyric hissed, the cold biting his ears and nose for the first time.

The sword remained silent.

“Speak to me!”

His only answer was Fane’s pitiful groan.

Cyric retrieved the sword and immediately grew warm. The desire to kill Fane washed over him, but he made no move to act on the urge. Instead, the thief sat back down and laid the sword across his knees again.

“I have not decided to kill him,” Cyric said, glaring angrily at the weapon.

Before his eyes, the blade began to pale. Hunger and disappointment crept into his heart, and the thief found himself completely absorbed with pangs of hunger. As the blade grew more pale, Cyric became increasingly oblivious to his environment. By the time the weapon had turned completely white, he was aware of nothing else.

At Cyric’s back, a girl’s voice said, “I’m hungry.”

He stood and spun around. An adolescent girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, stood before him. She wore a diaphanous red frock that hinted at ripening womanhood, but which also betrayed a half-dozen protruding ribs and a stomach distended with starvation. Black satiny hair framed a gaunt face, and her eyes were sunken with fatigue and desperation.

Behind her stretched an endless white plain. Cyric was standing in a wasteland as flat as a table and as featureless as the air itself. The boulders on which he had been sitting were gone, as were the mountains that had surrounded him, and even the sword that had been lying across his knees.

“Where am I?” Cyric asked.

Ignoring his question, the girl dropped to her knees. “Cyric, please help me,” she pleaded. “I haven’t eaten in days.”

The thief didn’t need to ask how she knew his name. The girl and his sword were the same. She had moved him into a sphere where she could disguise her true form and assume a more sympathetic one.

“Send me back!” Cyric demanded.

“Then feed me.”

“Feed you what?” he asked.

“Feed me Fane,” the girl begged.

Though the plea might have shocked Midnight or Kelemvor, Cyric did not recoil from its hideousness. Instead, he frowned, considering her request. Finally, he shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Fane means nothing to you. None of your men do.”

“True,” Cyric admitted. “But I decide when they die.”

“I’m weak. If I don’t eat, we can’t return.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Cyric warned. An idea occurred to him. Without taking his eye off the girl, he turned his attention inward. Perhaps she was manipulating his imagination and he could break free by force of will.

“I’m dying!” The girl staggered a few steps and collapsed at the thief’s feet.

The girl’s scream broke Cyric’s concentration. They remained in the wasteland. The young girl’s skin had turned gray and doughy, and it truly looked as though she would perish. “Then, good-bye,” Cyric said.

The girl’s eyes glazed over. “Please. Have mercy on me.”

“No,” the thief growled, returning her gaze with a cold stare. “Absolutely not.”

Whatever the sword’s true nature, there was no doubt it was evil and manipulative. Cyric knew that to give in to its plea was to become its servant.

The girl buried her head in her arms and began to sob. Cyric ignored her and looked at his feet, trying to visualize the jumbled, gray rocks upon which he had been sitting. When that didn’t work, he turned his gaze to the sky, trying to see the soft, curved lines of clouds in the barren bowl above.

The sky remained a white void.

Cyric stared at the horizon, searching for the towering peaks that had encircled him just minutes ago. They were gone.

As if reading his mind, the girl said, “Disbelief won’t save you.” Her voice had grown deeper, more sultry and mature.

Cyric looked at her. She had become a woman, her red frock now clinging to a full, round figure. As he watched, the void upon which she lay formed itself into a white bed and lifted her off the ground.

“You’re in my world now,” the woman purred. “And it’s as real as your own.”

Cyric didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but he realized that it made no difference. Whether she had truly transported him or was only playing games with his mind, he could not leave this place on his own. He had to force her to return him.

“I’m yours,” the woman cooed.

Despite the dark circles beneath her eyes, she was voluptuous, and Cyric might have been tempted had he not known that she was trying to lure him into servitude.

“Every gift has a cost,” the thief said. “What is the price of yours?”

The woman tried to redirect the conversation. “I’ll keep you warm when others are cold. When you’re wounded, I’ll make you well. In battle, I’ll give you the strength to prevail.”

Her promises interested Cyric, for he would need magic in the days to come. Still, he resisted his desire to go to the bed. “What do you want in return?”

“No more than any woman wants from her man,” she replied.

Cyric did not respond. The meaning of such a statement could easily be twisted. He was determined to master the sword, not be indentured to it through some vague covenant.

“Let’s be more specific,” he said coldly. “I’ll feed you only when and where it pleases me. In return, you’ll serve me as your master.”

“What?” the woman screamed. She twisted her face into a grotesque mask of rage. “You dare to suggest that I become your slave?”

“That’s your only choice,” Cyric replied. “Serve me or starve.”

“You’re the one who’ll starve!” she snarled, baring two long fangs.

A crash sounded behind Cyric and he spun around. A dirty gray wall stood where moments before there had been nothing. Then another wall slammed into place on his right, and a third to his left. The thief turned around again, just as the fourth wall and a ceiling appeared. The floor turned hard and dirty, and the thief suddenly found himself standing in a prison.

Beneath her blood-colored robe, the woman’s body had withered into a grotesque and frightening parody of womanhood. Her sunken eyes had grown cold with hatred and malice. A pair of silvery manacles appeared in her hand. She stepped toward Cyric. “Give me Fane.”

With her sinewy muscles and clawlike fingers, the woman looked as though she could disembowel Cyric in seconds. But he didn’t retreat or show fear. To back away was to surrender, to become her slave—and he was determined to rot in the foulest dungeon before serving someone besides himself.

“I want Fane!” the woman hissed, opening a shackle.

As the hag reached for his arm, Cyric punched her with all his strength. The blow connected squarely with her jaw. She staggered two steps back, her mouth agape in astonishment. He struck again. This time, the woman caught his fist in her open hand, stopping it in midair.

“Fool!” With her free hand, she closed one shackle over the thief’s wrist. “You’ll pay for that!”

Cyric slammed his other fist into the woman’s head, surprising her once again. She released the manacles and stumbled away, puzzlement showing on her face. “I can kill you,” she gasped, as if surprised that she had to mention that fact.

“If you want to starve!” Cyric replied. He began twirling the chain hanging from his wrist. With nearly two feet of steel links between shackles, the manacles made a serviceable weapon. “Return us to Faerûn,” he ordered.

The woman sneered at him. “Not until you feed me.”

“Then we’ll both die,” Cyric told her flatly.

He swung the chain. The hag barely managed to duck the attack.

“Stop!” she hissed. Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and fear. It had never occurred to her that, despite being marooned, the thief would attack.

Cyric did not stop. He swung the chain again, but it suddenly disappeared from his hand. Without an instant’s pause, he stepped forward and punched the woman’s chin. She took the blow with a painful grunt and fell on her back.

“You’re mine!” Cyric yelled. “Do as I say!”

Instead of replying, she swept her feet at his ankles, knocking his legs from beneath him. He dropped to the floor, landing on his shoulders with jarring abruptness.

The woman sprang to her feet and leaped at Cyric. He rolled to his left, and her claws raked his back. He came up on his knees, facing the gruesome woman eye-to-eye. She brought her elbow across his chin, snapping his head back.

But Cyric didn’t allow himself to fall unconscious, and he did not retreat. If he wanted to be the sword’s master, he could not shrink from facing the weapon’s spirit in its most hideous form. He grinned and smashed his fist into her temple, then immediately stood and slipped his other arm across her neck.

The woman rammed her fist into Cyric’s ribs, driving his breath away. Nevertheless, the thief slipped around behind her, locking his hands together. With all his strength, he pulled his forearm across her throat.

The hag’s face turned white and she snarled, then clutched at the thief’s arm with her spindly fingers. Cyric pulled harder. Her claws ripped deep grooves into his arms.

When Cyric still did not release her, the woman stopped clawing at his arms. Instead, she tried to slash at his eyes, but he pulled his head away. Then, stiffening her fingers like fork tines, she tried to reach behind her back and drive her fingers into his rib cage. By then, however, she was too weak and the attack did little damage.

“Take us back!” Cyric ordered. “Take us back or I swear I’ll kill you now!”

The hag’s arms fell limp, but Cyric maintained his chokehold. After a time, the woman’s body went slack and her head drooped onto her shoulder. Her eyes had rolled up into their sockets. After a few more moments, the outlines of the woman’s face began to soften, and it became a white smear.

“Take us back!” Cyric said again, this time subdued. All he could see before him was a white blur.

“Sir, are you feeling well?”

Cyric looked toward the voice and saw that the speaker was Shepard, one of his Zhentilar. Behind Shepard stood another five men, their faces wrinkled in concern.

“I’m back!” Cyric gasped. It was true. He stood at the side of a boulder, holding his short sword in his hand. The blade was as pale as ivory.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but did you go somewhere?” Shepard asked. For the last minute, he and the others had been watching Cyric talk to himself and wrestle with his short sword. Some of the men—Shepard included—were beginning to suspect their commander had lost his mind.

Cyric shook his head to clear it. The fight could not have been an illusion. Everything had felt so real.

When Cyric didn’t reply, Shepard suggested, “Perhaps the cold—”

“I’m warm enough!” Cyric responded testily. “Do you know the penalty for approaching me without leave?” He did not know how to explain what had happened, and thought it better not to try.

“Aye, Lord,” Shepard replied. “But—”

“Leave me, before I decide to enforce it!” Cyric ordered.

The men behind Shepard breathed a sigh of relief and began drifting away. Their commander’s petulance had convinced them he had returned to normal.

After glaring resentfully at Cyric for a moment, Shepard bowed his head. “As you wish, sir. But I’d have Dalzhel look at those scratches if I were you.” He turned and left.

Cyric looked at his forearms and saw that they were striped with cuts. He smiled. “I won!” he whispered. “The sword is mine.”

The thief sheathed his weapon, then sat down. He pressed his cloak over his wounds and passed the time by listening to Fane’s screams. They no longer seemed as irritating as they once had.

An hour later, Dalzhel scrambled through the boulder field and approached. He looked alarmed. “The spies have returned from High Horn,” he reported. Though he noticed the scratches on Cyric’s arms, he wasted no time by asking about them.

Cyric stood. “And?”

“The woman and her companions are riding this way.”

“Set up an ambush,” Cyric said sharply.

Dalzhel held up his hand. “There’s more. They ride with fifty Cormyrians.”

Cyric cursed. His twenty men were no match for a patrol of that size. “The Cormyrians will break off eventually. We’ll have to trail the patrol.”

Dalzhel shook his head. “They’re watching their back trail. They don’t want to be followed.”

“Then we’ll ride ahead and use scouts to watch them from an advanced position.”

Dalzhel smiled. “Aye. They won’t be expecting that.”

“Then prepare the men,” Cyric said, pulling his blood-soaked cloak over his shoulders.

Dalzhel did not turn to obey. “One more thing.”

“What?” Cyric demanded angrily, picking up his saddlebags.

“The lookout on the road saw forty halflings ride past this morning. They missed us, but he thought they were looking for our trail.”

“Halflings?” Cyric asked incredulously.

“Aye. They’re about half a day ahead of us. There’s no telling when they’ll realize they missed us and circle back.”

Cyric cursed. He did not like being trapped between the halflings and the Cormyrians. The halflings he could handle, but an engagement with them would attract too much attention.

Fane let out a bloodcurdling scream. It echoed off the mountains and caused both men to wince. Given the Cormyrians and the halflings, it was obvious they would have to do something to keep the wounded man silent.

“Tonight,” Cyric said slyly, ignoring Fane for the moment, “send a few men ahead to lay a false trail. Steer the halflings toward our friends in Darkhold.”

Dalzhel grinned. “That’s why you’re the general. But what about—”

“Fane?” Cyric interrupted. A crooked smile on his lips, the thief went over to the wounded sergeant and chased away the attendants.

Dalzhel followed, then asked, “What are you doing?”

“He can’t ride,” Cyric responded, drawing his sword. “Even if he could, he’d give away our position. Cover his mouth.”

Dalzhel frowned. He did not like the idea of killing one of his own men.

“Do it!” Cyric ordered.

The lieutenant obeyed automatically and Cyric plunged his pale sword into the injured man’s breast. Fane struggled only briefly, biting Dalzhel’s hand as he tried to cry out. A moment later, when Cyric pulled the blade from the wound and cleaned it, the weapon’s rosy luster had returned.