by Troy Denning
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 mo
re 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 Faerun’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.
