The matronly halfling stared at Kelemvor in astonishment and fright. The others stepped away, brandishing their weapons and chattering between themselves in their own language. The children began to cry and ran behind the adults.
Kelemvor kneeled, hoping to appear less intimidating. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated.
A moment later, Midnight stepped into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. She said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice was comforting and melodious. The halflings looked startled, but they did not flee.
A shrewd look of comprehension crossed the matron’s brow, then she turned to Kelemvor. “What you want? Come back to finish job?” She held the stolen dagger toward the fighter.
Adon stepped into the light, taking advantage of the opportunity to say, “No. We’re not the ones who—”
“Phaw!” the woman spat, turning Kelemvor’s dagger in Adon’s direction. “Tall Ones all the same. Come to loot rich halfling cities.” She waved the weapon menacingly. “Not take Berengaria without fight. Cut off—”
“Please!” Adon cried, pointing at the dagger. “That’s our knife you’re using to threaten me!”
“Mine now,” Berengaria replied. “Spoils of war, like tent—” She waved at Kelemvor’s cloak. “—and wineskin.” She pointed at his glove.
“We’re not at war!” Kelemvor interrupted, his patience strained. Considering how close they lived to Hilp, these halflings seemed remarkably wild and uncivilized. Perhaps they weren’t welcome in the city, for halflings were commonly considered to be a race of thieves. Apparently, it was a well-earned reputation.
“We at war,” Berengaria snarled. She nodded at two old men and they stepped forward, bearing spears folded into two pieces. Despite the old men’s trembling arms, Kelemvor was nervous. Their spears were woomeras, a special weapon he had seen used to good effect. The woomera was simply a three-foot stick with a groove along the length and a cup at the end. The halfling warrior placed his spear in the groove, then used the stick like an extension of his arm, launching the spear with incredible speed and accuracy. In the proper hands, the weapon was as accurate and powerful as a longbow.
Adon stepped forward, careful to keep his empty hands in sight. “We didn’t destroy your village. We’re your friends.”
“To prove it,” Kelemvor added, “we’ll make a gift of the dagger, the tent, and the wineskin.” He pointed at the items as he mentioned them.
Adon frowned but said nothing. The “gifts” Kelemvor had named belonged to him, and it was his business if he wanted to give them away.
The matron studied the heroes for a long time, shrewdly appraising their words. “Gifts?”
Kelemvor nodded. “To help your village recover.”
“What you want in return?” Berengaria demanded, squinting at the warrior.
“The book,” Adon said. “And Kelemvor’s flint and steel. We need those to survive.”
Berengaria frowned in concentration, but the children began giggling and she said, “Done. We all—”
Midnight, silent until now, let out a cry of anguish and rushed to the fire. Pulling his sword, Kelemvor leaped past Berengaria and her two old men. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“My spellbook!” the raven-haired mage yelled. “They burned it!” She snatched Kelemvor’s sword, then started poking at a wide strip of shriveled leather in the fire. Kelemvor knew the book was where Midnight stored her spells when they were not committed to memory, so he could understand why she was so upset. Still, he grabbed his sword away from her and put it back into its sheath; fire was no better for a sword’s temper than it was for a spellbook.
Midnight stared into the fire, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gone,” she whispered.
“It’s not so serious,” Kelemvor said, trying to comfort her.
Midnight whirled on him, her hands clenched into fists. “Serious!” she screamed. “You oaf! Those were my spells—without them, I’m nothing!”
A pall of silence fell over the camp. For several minutes, Midnight stared at Kelemvor as if the fighter had burned the spellbook himself. Finally, she hissed, “Was burying those halflings worth this?” She turned away and stared into the fire.
A moment later, Berengaria approached Adon. “We still have deal?” she asked timidly. “We still friends?”
Adon nodded. They had nothing to gain by punishing the halflings. “We’re still friends. You didn’t understand.”
“She might not have realized what the spellbook was,” said a clear, masculine voice. “But that’d be all she didn’t understand.” A gaunt halfling male stepped into the clearing. His skin was the color of ash, his eyes were rimmed with red, and a sloppy bandage circled his forehead.
The other halflings backed away from the newcomer, whispering amongst themselves. He knelt beside the fire and picked up two roasted rabbits. “Have these,” he said, giving one to Adon and one to Kelemvor. “There are plenty more where they came from, and it’s only a fair trade for all you’ve lost.”
Kelemvor accepted the rabbit, but made no move to eat it. The warrior had an uneasy feeling about this halfling, and it was not just because the others feared him. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Atherton Cooper,” the halfling replied, his gaze never faltering from the fighter’s. “But most call me Sneakabout. Now eat up. Berengaria has not been a good hostess this night.”
“Yes, please do,” Berengaria added. “We can always catch more coneys.” The matronly halfling put the dagger away and smiled.
It did not escape Adon’s notice that Berengaria’s Common had suddenly improved. It was clear to the cleric that the halfling had been playing them for fools.
“You’ve known all along we didn’t attack your village, haven’t you?” Adon demanded. “You were stealing our gear while we collected your dead!”
“That’s correct,” Berengaria replied, wincing. Then she turned to Kelemvor and added, “But that doesn’t negate our deal. What’s done is done. Besides, our need is great.”
The green-eyed fighter grunted and took a bite from the rabbit. He had no intention of demanding back what he had offered to the halflings, for Berengaria spoke the truth about their need. Nevertheless, he didn’t enjoy losing his possessions through guile and trickery.
The warrior chewed slowly, considering Atherton Cooper. Sneakabout was taller and thinner than most of his race, and there was a certain menace to his manner. The tall halfling was the only able-bodied male in the camp, and that in itself was suspicious. Still, Sneakabout was the only halfling who had not stolen from or lied to the heroes, and Kelemvor was determined to treat honesty and respect in kind.
“Where are the other men?” the fighter asked between mouthfuls of rabbit. “There weren’t many in the village, and there are fewer here.”
“Gone to massage their vanity while their womenfolk starve in the forest,” Sneakabout replied.
Berengaria turned from Midnight, whom she was trying to comfort, and added, “The menfolk were hunting when the Zhentilar—”
“Zhentilar?” Adon interrupted. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, I’m sure,” Berengaria replied. “They wore the armor of Zhentil Keep, didn’t they? Anyway, the men were gone, or there would have been a different story to tell in Black Oaks. Now our warriors have gone to track down those sons-of-sows!”
“And to get themselves killed,” Sneakabout added bitterly.
Berengaria glared menacingly at Sneakabout. “They’ll be fine without your company,” she snapped.
Sneakabout snorted in reply. “They’ll be outnumbered, outsized, and outwitted.”
Kelemvor agreed with Sneakabout, though he didn’t say so. Even if the halflings caught the raiders, the Zhentilar would cut the inexperienced warriors to shreds. The soldiers of Zhentil Keep were vicious sneaks and backstabbers who would never fight unless assured of an easy victory.