Waterdeep (14 page)

“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. “Ill 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 Faerun,” 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.

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 Zhentarini 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 that 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.”