Waterdeep

6 The Tun Plain

Sneakabout stopped his pony and scanned the plain. Nothing lay ahead but an undulating sea of pale green grass. The day was a clear one, so the halfling could see their destination, the Sunset Mountains, to the northwest. The range was so distant it looked like a reddish cloud on the horizon.

As the halfling studied the mountains, the tall prairie grass at his mount’s feet began hissing and writhing like snakes. The pony whinnied and stomped its hooves, displeased with the pause. Since morning, the grass had clutched at the horses’ knees whenever their legs weren’t moving.

Ignoring the discomfort this latest chaos caused his mount, Sneakabout dropped his gaze and searched the nearby ground for signs of other riders. The squirming grass made it difficult to see, but the halfling didn’t consider dismounting for a closer look. The grass stood three feet high, and he had no desire to test his strength against its tangles. Despite this difficulty, Sneakabout spotted a dozen clumps of earth that passing horses had kicked up.

Radnor, a Cormyrian ranger with deep blue eyes, rode up and joined Sneakabout. Though initially hesitant to accept the halfling’s help in scouting ahead of the patrol, Radnor was now glad that he had. The small man was experienced in trail lore, with senses as sharp as any Radnor had ever seen. Given the task he’d been assigned, the ranger could use some help.

Radnor’s job was to keep the patrol undetected as it passed through the Tun Plain, the prairie between the Sunset and Dragonjaw Mountains. Located in the gap of control between Darkhold and High Horn, the plain was a no man’s land both fortresses tried to dominate. High Horn did this by regularly sending heavy patrols into the plain.

Darkhold exerted its influence through puppet lords, roving bandits, and other nefarious agents. So, whenever a Cormyrian patrol encountered someone on the plain, the captain never knew if he was meeting a Zhentarim agent or not. Normally, a patrol’s mission was to search out and interrogate suspicious characters. But Captain Lunt, the leader of this company, was adopting a different strategy. Because his orders were to penetrate clear to Yellow Snake Pass, which was near Darkhold, Lunt had charged Radnor with avoiding the plain’s residents altogether.

So far, Radnor had done his job admirably. The patrol had left High Horn five days ago, crossing the River Tun two days ago, and still it remained undetected.

“What signs, friend halfling?” Radnor asked. Like Sneakabout’s pony, the ranger’s mount snorted and stomped at the grass.

Sneakabout pointed at the overturned earth. “Another group riding toward Darkhold. I’d guess no more than twenty, mounted on chargers.”

This was the tenth set of tracks they had crossed going toward Darkhold, but neither man commented on it. Instead, Radnor asked, “Why chargers?”

Sneakabout smiled. He always enjoyed showing off his scouting skills. “The gait is too long for ponies, the line is disorderly. The horses are spirited, so the riders give them plenty of head. Draft horses plod, chargers dart.”

Radnor leaned forward in his saddle and studied the earthen clumps. “Yes, so I see.”

The halfling’s pony nickered angrily. It sidestepped away from Radnor, uprooting several tufts of grass wrapped about its legs. The two scouts took the hint and let their ponies walk while they spoke.

“Anything to the north?” Sneakabout asked.

“A caravan passed two or three days ago.”

Sneakabout frowned. “Any tracks from those lame horses?”

Radnor shook his head. “Just oxen pulling wagons.”

The halfling’s interest in the lame horses aroused the ranger’s curiosity, but he did not bother seeking an explanation. Sneakabout had already dismissed two inquiries with superficial answers.

What Sneakabout would not reveal was that the lame horses belonged to Cyric’s raiders. The halfling knew this because, while scouting alone shortly after leaving High Horn, he had found their hastily abandoned camp. There were a lot of scuffed rocks where horses had banged their hooves, and lame tracks had led away from the camp. Cyric’s men had left little else behind: a few crumbs of uneaten food and the bloodless body of an injured companion. To Sneakabout, the body confirmed that someone in Cyric’s company had taken his sword—he knew of no other weapon that drank blood.

The halfling had not reported his find, for the captain’s order to avoid contact had angered him. Lord Deverell had suggested Sneakabout ride with the patrol in the hope of engaging the men who had raided his village. But upon leaving High Horn, the patrol captain, concerned only with reaching Yellow Snake Pass, had issued the command contradicting Deverell’s promise. The halfling was determined to force Lunt to keep the lord commander’s word, even if it meant leading the patrol into the middle of Cyric’s camp.

Two days after leaving High Horn, the halfling had found a broken woomera cord. This he did report to Radnor. The cord meant that his fellows were also looking for Cyric. For their sake and his, Sneakabout wanted to find the Zhentish thief first. The halfling couldn’t kill all of Cyric’s men, but at least he could kill the one with his sword—and prevent a fellow villager from taking it. Fortunately, the halfling war party had no idea where to find the Zhentilar and was traveling straight toward Darkhold.

For two days after finding the woomera cord, Sneakabout had periodically run across a lame hoofprint or glimpsed a straggler’s limping horse on the horizon—always in advance of the patrol. At first, this had puzzled him, for Kelemvor had told him that Cyric wanted Midnight and the stone tablet that Adon carried. Given that fact, he could not understand why the raiders were ahead of the patrol, as if fleeing from it.

But Sneakabout had finally realized that the stragglers were keeping tabs on the Cormyrians. From that point on, the halfling had made a point of scouting the southern flank, where the spies always lurked, and where he would be the only one who noticed them.

After Sneakabout had been brooding for a few moments, Radnor said, “I’d better return to my position. Keep a sharp eye out for trouble.” He turned his pony toward the northern flank.

The halfling withdrew from his thoughts long enough to acknowledge the scout’s departure. “I will,” Sneakabout called. “You do the same.”

Radnor, along with Kelemvor and Midnight, was one of the few humans the halfling liked. Though an accomplished ranger with an important position in the Cormyrian army, Radnor was not threatened by Sneakabout’s scouting abilities. To the contrary, the ranger had often complimented the halfling on his keen observations.

In fact, the more time Sneakabout spent with humans, the more he liked them. Unlike the villagers in Black Oaks, they did not find his serious nature insulting or arrogant. In fact, they respected him for it and treated him as an equal, a rarity in relationships between halflings and humans.

But Sneakabout knew that this growing affection could be his downfall. As he became more fond of his companions, he was beginning to feel guilty about betraying them. The halfling had even considered reporting Cyric’s spies to Radnor and Kelemvor, although he had resisted the urge so far.

Unfortunately, the decision might be taken out of his hands. There had been no signs of the spies for two days. Sneakabout feared Cyric’s raiders had lost the patrol, or had finally been forced to stop by their lame horses.

The halfling felt helpless. He could leave the patrol and look for Cyric alone, but the Tun Plain was too large to search without help. Frustrating as it was, the only thing to do was wait for the spies to return. Cyric had not trailed Midnight and the tablet this far simply to let them go.

But, even if the Zhentish spies did not return, the halfling suspected he had a chance of survival without the sword. Sneakabout still had not slept a wink since Black Oaks, and constantly longed after his stolen weapon, but there were no other signs of insanity. It seemed vaguely possible his condition would grow no worse. Perhaps he had the willpower to endure the sword’s absence. Perhaps not.

Twenty miles south of Sneakabout and the Cormyrian patrol, there was an immense bog known as the Marsh of Tun. Located in the middle of the plain, the marsh was a dismal, foul-smelling place. Most men went to great lengths to avoid it, for vicious, evil beasts lurked in the shelter of its watery confines.

Such beasts did not concern Cyric, who knew the marsh could contain nothing more sinister than his own heart. Taking advantage of its seclusion, the thief and his men had made camp on the marsh’s northern edge. He and Dalzhel were discussing the failure of their spies to track the Cormyrians.

“Where are they?” Cyric roared. It had been two days since they’d lost sight of the patrol.

“If we knew that, I’d be after them!” Dalzhel snapped back.

Cyric turned and stared over the Tun River. Its slowly churning currents had turned the coppery color of boiling blood. Despite his frustration, the unusual scene calmed the thief. Without turning back to his burly lieutenant, he said, “My plan is worthless if we cannot find Midnight!”

“And perhaps if we do.” Dalzhel replied.

The hawk-nosed man turned and stared at him with such cold malice that Dalzhel dropped a hand to his swordhilt.

“I know Midnight,” Cyric said. “She won’t betray her friends, but she won’t betray me either.”

“I’d never trust my life to a woman’s whim,” the burly lieutenant grumbled.

“I don’t ask you to,” Cyric replied evenly. “All I ask is that you find her. If I had not listened to you and stopped to raid that stable—”

“All our mounts would be lame and we would have lost the Cormyrians anyway.” Dalzhel realized he was still holding his swordhilt and released it. “At least now we have fresh horses.”

The thief sighed. His lieutenant was right. Horses were not men. One could not force them to walk upon crippled legs. “If Darkhold captures her—”

“Darkhold won’t get her,” Dalzhel stated calmly. “Most of their raiding parties are farther south than we are. I’ve positioned sentries near the three groups that might intercept the patrol.”

Cyric’s eyes widened in alarm. “How do you know one of your sentries won’t betray us?”

Dalzhel shrugged. “We must run that risk. When Midnight and her company leave the Cormyrians and turn south, there’s no other way to be sure we’ll be the first to sight her.”

A thought occurred to Cyric and he laid a hand on Dalzhel’s shoulder. “Darkhold’s gangs are working in the southern towns?” he asked.

“All ten that we know of, milord.”

“We can assume Bane took most of the patrols out of Yellow Snake Pass to attack Shadowdale and Tantras, can’t we?” the thief asked, staring into space.

“Aye,” Dalzhel replied, frowning. He did not see the point his commander was working toward. “That would make sense.”

Cyric grinned. He had originally assumed Midnight and her company would stick close to Cormyrian protection and follow Dragonjaw Road south to Proskur. It had been a reasonable assumption, for Darkhold’s grip on the western Tun Plain was secure. Once in Proskur, Midnight’s company could easily join a caravan traveling to Waterdeep.

But the Cormyrian patrol had ridden due west, and the thief had been forced to change his thinking. Cyric had decided the soldiers were escorting Midnight across the desolate sections of the northern Tun Plain. Once they had crossed the plain, the patrol would turn back and Midnight would drop south. The thief had assumed Midnight and her companions would cross the Far Hills south of Darkhold, trying to reach the walled town of Hluthvar.

But Cyric suspected he had been wrong. “What if Midnight isn’t riding for Hluthvar?”

“Where else could she go?” Dalzhel demanded, rubbing his chin.

“Yellow Snake Pass lies due west of High Horn,” Cyric said, looking northwest.

“Not a beggar passes through there without Darkhold’s permission,” Dalzhel objected. “Your friends would never try it!”

“They would,” the thief replied. “We’re not the only ones who might suspect the pass is empty.”

Dalzhel’s eyes widened in shock. “I’ll tell the men to break camp. We can leave in an hour!”

Seven mornings after leaving High Horn, the Cormyrian patrol awoke at the base of Yellow Snake Pass. Named for a fearsome, yellow dragon that had inhabited it several hundred years ago, the forested pass now seemed calm and safe.

In the sharp morning light, Yellow Snake Pass looked no less impressive than it did at dusk. A wide, deep canyon snaked its way to the Tun Plain from the heart of the Sunset Mountains. Bushy conifers and white-barked poplars covered the valley floor, except where tremendous red bluffs poked smooth-edged rips through the green carpet. These cliffs rose one after the other like a titan’s staircase leading toward the range’s summit.

Sheer, spike-shaped peaks flanked the valley like rows of sharp teeth, forming canyon walls as steep and as slick as slate tiles. The peaks were stained deep red, giving the whole valley an eerie feeling of twilight. Every now and again, the silvery ribbon of a mountain stream rushed off a canyon wall, dissipating into a misty spray. The trail twisted its way along the valley floor, climbing slowly toward the distant summit.

Midnight studied the scene with equal parts of awe and fear. Beside the magnificence of Yellow Snake Pass, she felt at once peaceful and insignificant, as if she could lose herself in its reaches. The magic-user knew the beauty of the pass was misleading. Like any mountain trail, it was fraught with potential disasters ranging from mysterious fevers to avalanches.

Had the dangers been only of the natural variety, she would not have been frightened. But Zhentilar dominated Yellow Snake Pass, and Midnight had no doubt that they wanted her and the tablet as badly as anyone did. Fortunately, as she and her friends had hoped, it appeared the Zhentilar had abandoned the pass.

Captain Lunt and Adon approached. Lunt said, “My men and I will be taking our leave now.”

Midnight turned to face the captain. He was a man of forty, his curly black hair lined with gray streaks. “Our thanks for your escort, Captain. You saved us a great deal of time.”

Lunt looked up into the mountains. “Even if the Zhentilar have left, there are other hazards in the pass.” He paused, then set his jaw as though he had resolved a troublesome conflict. “We’ll go with you—orders be damned.”

Midnight looked at Captain Lunt and smiled. “How much do you know of our journey?” she asked.

“Not much. Lord Deverell said Faerûn’s safety depends upon your success.” The Cormyrian officer paused again, then noted, “But I mean what I say about coming along.”

“We’d be glad for your company, Captain,” Adon said. “But Lord Deverell wanted you to stop here for a reason. A small party will fare better in the mountains.”

Lunt’s face sank. “Aye, you’re right.” He turned toward Midnight. “Until swords part, then.”

“Until swords part,” Midnight responded.

Captain Lunt returned to his men. The Cormyrians left without further ceremony, save that Sneakabout and Radnor exchanged daggers as tokens of friendship. The halfling threw his saddlebags over his pony’s back, then mounted. “Shall we be on our way?” he asked. “This path looks like a long one.”

“You lead, Sneakabout,” Adon ordered, loading his own pony’s saddle. “I’ll follow, then Midnight and Kelemvor.”

Kelemvor groaned. Though the others looked at him expectantly, he said nothing.

Finally, Adon asked, “What’s the problem, Kel?”

The warrior looked away, picking up his saddlebags. “It’s nothing. I was thinking of the trail dust, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” Adon responded, puzzled. It wasn’t like Kelemvor to object to a little thing like riding order. “But we need a rear—”

“Adon, why don’t you and I switch places?” Midnight interrupted. “I suspect Kelemvor’s groaning has less to do with trail dust than trail company.”

Adon frowned. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “You two haven’t stopped fighting since Eveningstar.”

Midnight ignored him and mounted her pony. “Lead the way, Sneakabout.”

The halfling obligingly started up the trail, but Adon was determined to make his point. He mounted his own pony and quickly caught the magic-user. “From Kelemvor, I can understand this. But you, Midnight?”

From the rear of the line, Kelemvor called, “It’s Cyric. He’s got her so confused—”

Midnight twisted in her saddle. “Me! You’re the one who’s confused—but that’s nothing new,” she spat. The statement felt hollow and fiery to her, the way angry words often did.

“Midnight,” Adon said, “Kel’s right about Cyric. Why can’t you see that?” Without waiting for an answer, he twisted around to face the warrior. “But you’re just as much to blame—”

“Who asked you?” Kelemvor roared, dismissing Adon with a wave of his hand.

Sneakabout interrupted the argument to say, “I think I’ll scout ahead.” When nobody paid any attention to him, the halfling shrugged and urged his pony into a trot.

After a short pause, Adon added, “You’re both being stubborn.” He was growing more exasperated by the second. “Don’t let your spat interfere with our mission.”

“Adon, be quiet,” Midnight snapped. She spurred her pony ahead.

The cleric ignored her order. “Like it or not, we’re in this together—”

“Adon,” Kelemvor interjected, “one of your sermons won’t solve the problem.”

The warrior’s statement quieted the cleric for a little while, but the rest of the day was filled with bitter arguments and long periods of silence as sharp and as distressing as the peaks overhead. The mountain ponies Lord Deverell had given them climbed the conifer-lined trail slowly, kicking up puffs of powdery dust each time they set a hoof down. Time passed slowly. Each minute of choking on the dust seemed an hour, and each hour an endless, wearing day. Twice, Sneakabout led them into the forest to avoid approaching Zhentish caravans. Otherwise, despite their growing fatigue, the companions did not stop. So great was their animosity that they even ate the midday meal in their saddles.

In his heart, Kelemvor knew that Adon was right—as he had been so often lately. The warrior and the mage could not allow their anger to interfere with the task at hand. Too much depended on the completion of their mission.

As she rode, Midnight was having similar thoughts. However, she was determined not to apologize first. Kelemvor was the one who had deliberately prolonged the argument back at High Horn. In addition, the magic-user thought she was right about Cyric. It was true that their old friend was self-serving and mercenary, but Kelemvor had been more so, and he had found redemption. It was unfair to deny that same redemption to Cyric, and Midnight would not give up on her friend so quickly.

Finally, dusk came. Sneakabout led the group off the path, stopping in a forested area near a cliff. The cliff overlooked the portion of the valley they had already climbed, so the heroes could watch their trail until night fell completely.

When Midnight crept up to the cliff’s edge, her heart sank with disappointment. The grove of trees where they had camped last night was still visible.

As soon as he had unpacked and tethered the ponies, Adon took the tablet and disappeared into the forest. The cleric was disgusted with the petty argument between Midnight and Kelemvor and just wanted to be alone tonight. Sneakabout also went into woods, but only to see if he could forage something for dinner.

Night was already falling when Midnight spread out her sleeping roll. Left alone with Kelemvor and nothing to do, she decided to make tomorrow a more pleasant day. After digging through the cloaks, spare weapons, and miscellaneous supplies Deverell’s quartermaster had given them, she finally found a sack of corn tash. The magic-user removed a handful of biscuits and offered one to Kelemvor.

The warrior accepted it with a grunt.

“Adon’s right,” Midnight said. “We can’t let our emotions interfere with our quest.”

“Have no fear,” Kelemvor grumbled. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Midnight threw her tash to the ground. “Why are—”

“Cyric,” he interrupted.

She puffed in exasperation. “Cyric won’t harm us. We might even persuade him to our cause, if you wouldn’t allow your mistrust to color your judgment”

“Cyric has earned my mistrust,” Kelemvor said evenly. “And it’s your judgment that’s colored.” Realizing further discussion would lead to another argument, the warrior abruptly left and went to his bedroll. Angered by the rude manner in which Kelemvor had ended the conversation, Midnight walked over to the cliff and sat down to brood.

Twenty minutes later, Sneakabout startled her when he suddenly appeared at her side. She had not heard the halfling approach.

“Everyone went to bed early tonight, I see,” he said, opening a sack and offering a handful of berries to Midnight. “I guess I picked too many of these.”

Deep in the forest, Sneakabout heard a faint snap. Midnight showed no sign of hearing it, so he decided to investigate later. “I’ll stand watch tonight,” the halfling offered. “I can’t sleep anyway.”

Midnight nodded, taking a handful of raspberries from the sack. She had long been aware of the halfling’s insomnia. She suspected it was related to the magic sword that had been stolen from him in Black Oaks. Whenever the magic-user questioned him about the sword, however, the halfling always changed the subject, and she had given up trying to learn more about it. Instead, she asked, “Did you see Adon?”

Sneakabout nodded. “I don’t understand why you and Kelemvor take orders from him.”

“At the moment, he’s wiser than Kelemvor or I.”

“He’s a fool.”

Another faint snap came from the forest, and this time Midnight also heard it. “I’ll go and see what that is,” the halfling whispered, rising. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As Sneakabout faded into the woods north of camp, Midnight remained seated. She continued to watch the spot where the halfling had entered the forest.

A minute later, the magic-user heard a familiar voice at her back. “Your companions are getting shorter, Midnight.”

The mage spun around to face the speaker. He wore a hooded, dark cloak, but his hawkish nose was still visible.

“Cyric!” Midnight hissed.

The thief smiled. His band of Zhentilar was sneaking through the woods on foot, encircling the camp. While he waited for his lieutenant to position the men, Cyric had been watching Midnight and the halfling. Hoping to convince the magic-user to come with him willingly, the thief wanted one last chance to speak with Midnight alone.

“Aye,” Cyric replied. “You didn’t think I’d be easy to lose, did you?”

“What are you doing here?” Midnight demanded, standing.

The smile dropped from the thief’s face and he crossed his arms. “I’ve come to talk some sense into you.”

Several sticks snapped in the trees north of camp. Midnight frowned, glancing toward the forest. “If Kelemvor sees you, he’ll cut—”

“Let him. It’s time we had this out.”

As if on cue, Kelemvor roared, “Cyric! You won’t escape this time.” The fighter rushed out of the night, sword firmly in hand.

Midnight stepped in front of Cyric. “Hold your sword, Kel! He came to talk.”

Kelemvor slowed his charge and tried to circle around the raven-haired mage. The thief stood perfectly still, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Outside camp, a surprised yell arose. A moment later, Adon screamed, “Wake up! We’re surrounded!” He ran out of the forest, waving his mace. The saddlebags with the tablet were slung over his shoulder.

Cyric drew his sword.

Ignoring Adon’s tardy warning, Midnight said, “Kelemvor, Cyric, lay down your weapons!” She looked from one to the other.

Both men scorned her plea. Hefting his mace, Adon came to Kelemvor’s side.

“You were foolish to come here,” the cleric said, glaring at Cyric. “But you won’t live long enough to make the same mistake again.”

“No!” Midnight objected. “He came to talk!”

“If that’s what he said, he’s lying,” Adon snarled. “His men are sneaking toward us right now.”

Cyric waved his rose-colored short sword. “If that’s how you want it, old friends,” he hissed, “that’s how it will be.” His voice cracked with a sharp command: “Dalzhel!”

The sound of snapping sticks echoed from the edge of the forest. Kelemvor and Adon looked over their shoulders. A hundred yards away, a dozen shadows were emerging from the woods.

Kelemvor looked from the shadows to Cyric. “You’ll die with us, you know.”

“No one’s going to die tonight,” Midnight said, stepping toward the fighter.

The warrior snorted and roughly pushed her out of his way. “Somebody will.”

“Stop!” Midnight ordered sharply, but her command went unheeded.

Kelemvor lifted his sword and charged. Hefting his mace, Adon followed.

Cyric met Kelemvor’s charge first, ducking under the swing. He came up standing behind the warrior, but Adon arrived in the same moment. The cleric leveled his mace in a blow vicious enough to smash a giant’s skull.

Cyric’s short sword flashed and blocked Adon’s stroke, stopping the mace in midair. The cleric’s whole body trembled, then he stumbled back a step, shaking his head in disbelief. The thief swept his feet at Adon’s ankles, taking him by surprise and dropping him to the ground.

Cyric swung at Adon. Kelemvor deflected the red blade, though, then slashed at the thief’s head. Cyric ducked, and the warrior stepped forward again, slicing down toward his opponent’s throat.

Midnight cried out. The fight had broken out so quickly that she’d been unable to prevent it. Now she felt helpless to stop it. To the north, the mage saw one of the shadows point his sword at the fight. His followers began to run toward camp. Sneakabout still had not returned, and the magic-user hoped he had not perished at the hands of the men coming from the forest.

Midnight knew those men had to be stopped. She decided to risk creating a magical wall of fire ahead of them. Given the current instability of magic and the recent changes in her relationship to the weave, she didn’t know if the spell would work properly. Still, if Cyric’s men reached the fight, all was lost. The magic-user reached into her robe and withdrew a few pinches of phosphorus to serve as a material component.

The proper gestures and words for creating a wall of fire came to Midnight’s mind. To her surprise, there was no indication as to what she should do with the phosphorus.

While Midnight prepared to cast her spell, Cyric blocked Kelemvor’s slash. Their blades clanged loudly, but the block held. As Kelemvor’s eyes widened in surprise, Cyric brought his sword down and lunged for the warrior’s unprotected chest.

Kelemvor barely managed to save himself by kicking the thief squarely in the stomach and knocking him toward the cliff. Cyric landed flat on his back six feet away.

Meanwhile, Cyric’s men had closed to seventy yards. Midnight sprinkled the phosphorous in a semicircle around her body, then called upon her magic to create a wall of fire.

The white granules simply fell to the ground.

An instant later, a loud pop sounded in front of the charging Zhentilar. Tendrils of glowing yellow smoke sprang out of the ground between them and Midnight. The tendrils began to wave in the breeze, as if they were corn stalks. Dalzhel and the others slowed their advance, uncertain of what to make of Midnight’s strange magic.

Oblivious to the misfired spell, Kelemvor, Adon, and Cyric continued to fight. The thief scrambled to his feet. Adon did likewise.

The cleric and Kelemvor advanced cautiously. Cyric backed away, buying time to plot a strategy. The cliff dropped away a mere ten feet beyond his back.

Then Kelemvor noticed a shadow creeping up behind the hawk-nosed thief. It stood about as high as a man’s waist, and could only belong to a halfling.

“Your swordsmanship has improved,” Kelemvor observed, trying to keep Cyric’s attention focused on him. “Or is it that blade you now carry?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” Cyric responded.

Kelemvor nodded to Adon. They charged from opposite directions. Cyric stepped away, then heard a soft patter at his back.

Sneakabout sprang just as the thief turned. Back on the Tun Plain, the halfling had dared to hope he could forget the sword. But one sight of the weapon had rekindled his desire to recover it.

Cyric stepped aside, catching Sneakabout’s arm in his free hand and hurling the halfling at Adon. An instant later, the thief had to defend himself against Kelemvor, and barely managed to stop a powerful slash.

But Kelemvor was not finished. He kicked Cyric in the ribs, knocking him three steps backward. The thief now stood at the edge of the cliff, bent over and gasping.

Kelemvor kicked again, this time knocking Cyric off his feet. The thief landed with his sword arm twisted awkwardly beneath his body, balanced precariously on the cliff. A scream of pain and rage escaped his lips.

Upon hearing his commander’s scream, Dalzhel swore he would allow the smoke to delay him no longer. He ran into the writhing mass of yellow tendrils. When the wisps did not hurt him, the burly lieutenant waved his men forward.

As the Zhentilar approached, Kelemvor stepped forward to finish Cyric.

In a forceful voice, Midnight yelled, “Stop, Kelemvor!”

Kelemvor responded without looking away from Cyric. “No.” He pointed the tip of his sword at the thief’s throat.

Adon and Sneakabout picked themselves up, then noticed the approaching Zhentilar. The cleric quickly retrieved the saddlebags with the tablet, while Sneakabout disappeared into the shadows.

“If you kill him,” Midnight cried, “we die too.”

Without looking away from Cyric, Kelemvor said, “We’re not going to die alone.”

“We don’t have to die at all,” Adon yelled, turning to face the approaching company, who were now only thirty yards away. To them, he yelled, “Stop, or Cyric’s dead!” The cleric pointed at Cyric, who still lay beneath Kelemvor’s blade.

Dalzhel’s first instinct was to charge the scarred man. But upon seeing his commander’s predicament, he halted and motioned for his subordinates to do likewise. “Milord?” asked the burly lieutenant.

For the first time, Cyric dared to move. He slowly pulled his sword arm from beneath his body. “Wait there.”

Kelemvor frowned. “Now what are we going to do?” the warrior asked Adon. “Zhentil Keep sent Cyric for the tablet. He’s not going to give up.”

Cyric laughed bitterly. “You’re mistaken. They’re no longer my masters. I want the tablet for my own reasons.”

“To satisfy your lust for power,” Kelemvor snapped.

Cyric ignored him. “I have twenty men. Let us join forces. We all want to return the tablets to the Planes.”

Adon snorted. “You’d slit our throats while we slept.”

“Can you look into men’s hearts, Adon?” Midnight demanded. “Are you a paladin that you can tell when a man is being untrue?”

The cleric didn’t reply.

“Then how do you know what he intends?” Midnight was relieved that her friends had to hear Cyric out.

After a long pause, Kelemvor answered Midnight’s question with his own. “How do you know what he intends?”

“I don’t,” Midnight admitted. “But he was our friend. He deserves our trust until he abuses it.”

Kelemvor snorted. “He’s done that already.”

A maniacal gleam sparkling in his eye, Sneakabout returned to the group with a long rope. He began anchoring one end to a boulder at the cliff’s edge.

Dalzhel watched the halfling carefully, ready to charge.

“What are you doing?” Midnight asked.

“I’ll hold him hostage while you three climb down the rope,” Sneakabout replied. “You’ll be long gone before his men ride back around the cliff.”

“What about you?” Adon asked.

The halfling shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

In reality, Sneakabout already had a plan in mind. He intended to kill Cyric, then recover his stolen property. With luck, he could slide down the rope a short distance, then climb onto the cliff before the rope was cut. The plan was risky, but it was the only way to both save his friends and get the sword back.

Cyric frowned at the halfling’s resourcefulness. “I know when I’m defeated,” the thief lied, hoping to stall and looking at Midnight. “If you let me go, I’ll take my men and never bother you again.”

“He’s lying!” Sneakabout yelped, finishing his knot.

“No doubt,” Adon said, “but at least we’ll live through the night.”

“I still want to kill him,” Kelemvor said, pressing the tip of his sword against Cyric’s throat. “Can’t you stop his men with a spell, Midnight?”

“No!” the raven-haired mage exclaimed. “I won’t even try.”

Kelemvor sighed in frustration. Still holding his sword to the thief’s throat, he said, “Then you live, Cyric … for now. Stand up.”

Cyric carefully stood, acutely aware that Kelemvor could kill him with a mere twitch.

“Your command, milord?” Dalzhel asked.

“Tell him to go down the trail to the bottom of the cliff,” Kelemvor ordered, never taking his eyes off the thief.

Cyric hesitated before obeying. “How do I know you’ll release me?”

“My promise is better than yours,” Kelemvor spat. “You know that. After they’re gone, you can climb down the rope. Now tell them.”

Cyric hesitated for a long moment. He had no doubt the warrior would do as promised. But, after coming so close to capturing Midnight and the tablet, the thief could not bear to let them escape.

Kelemvor pushed gently against his sword and the tip drew blood. “I don’t know how much longer I can resist the temptation,” the fighter warned. “Send them away!”

Cyric had no choice and he knew it. Kelemvor could kill him in an instant. “Do as he says, Dalzhel,” the thief ordered.

Dalzhel nodded and sheathed his sword. But before leaving, he addressed Kelemvor. “If you do not release him unharmed, we will be back.”

The burly lieutenant turned and led the others away.

A few minutes later, Adon walked to the edge of the forest and peered into the darkness. “I think they’re gone.”

“Good,” Sneakabout said. “Kill him now.”

Kelemvor shook his head. “I won’t betray my word,” he rumbled. Then, never taking his sword from Cyric’s throat, the warrior steered his prisoner to the rope. “If I ever see—”

“You won’t have the chance,” Cyric yelled.

Without sheathing his short sword, the thief ran the rope around his thigh and over his shoulder. Then he began picking his way down the face of the cliff, using his free hand to feed the rope through the makeshift rappelling harness. Cyric’s sword arm remained free to hold his weapon.

“Don’t make me regret saving you,” Midnight called.

The thief simply grunted and continued down the cliff.

As he watched Cyric go, a groan of disappointment escaped Sneakabout’s lips. Overwhelming despair overcame him, and the halfling knew that he could not let his sword go. Drawing his dagger, Sneakabout grabbed the rope and wrapped his legs around it, then disappeared down the cliff after Cyric.

The halfling’s action surprised everyone and it was a moment before they reacted. By the time they peered over the cliff’s edge, Sneakabout was no more than a dark form moving down the rope.

When Cyric felt the rope jerk, his first thought was that Kelemvor had cut it. But when the thief didn’t fall, he knew that something else was happening. Cyric looked up and saw the halfling sliding down the rope.

“I want my sword!” Sneakabout screamed.

“Come and get it,” Cyric called. He stopped descending and braced himself.

A moment later, the halfling reached him and lunged. Cyric easily blocked the attack and sent the halfling’s dagger flying into the night.

The lack of a weapon did not deter Sneakabout. He slid farther down, landing atop Cyric’s shoulders. Holding the rope with one hand, the halfling clawed at Cyric’s sword arm with the other.

Cyric wrenched his arm free, then laid the edge of his blade against the halfling’s neck. “You’re mad!” he hissed.

Sneakabout resisted a powerful urge to grab the weapon. At the moment, the halfling was completely at Cyric’s mercy and knew it. “Give me my sword,” he begged.

As the thief began to comprehend the reason for Sneakabout’s mad attack, a cruel smile creased his lips. “As long as I have this, you’ll never stop hounding me, will you?”

The halfling started to lie, but realized there was no point in it. Even if Cyric was foolish enough to believe him, Sneakabout would only have to hunt the thief down again. “You shouldn’t have taken it,” the halfling said, making a feeble grab for his sword.

“Oh, yes, I should have,” Cyric answered. He pulled the blade across Sneakabout’s throat.

On top of the cliff, the three companions did not hear Sneakabout’s gurgle. They simply saw a small form plummet soundlessly into the darkness at the bottom of the cliff.

For several moments, Midnight, Adon, and Kelemvor remained in motionless shock, unable to believe the halfling was gone. Then, as Cyric resumed his descent, Midnight tried to call Sneakabout’s name. A strangled gasp was all that escaped her lips.

Not so for Kelemvor. “Cyric!” he roared.

The thief looked up and saw the fighter raising his sword to cut the rope. Fortunately, he had been prepared for something like this. As Kelemvor brought his blade down, Cyric grabbed hold of the cliff’s face.

Adon saw the rope fall, but Cyric’s silhouette simply disappeared against the cliff’s face. “We’d better leave immediately,” the scarred cleric murmured. “Cyric’s still alive … and I don’t think he intends to keep his word.”