Due to the chaos in the Realms, seventy-five men-at-arms and twenty-five archers manned the outer curtain’s frowning towers at all times. A similar force guarded the inner curtain, and eight more soldiers stood constant watch at the entrance to the keep tower. The guest enclave had been converted into barracks for the fortress’s expanded complement. Travelers now had the choice of camping in the mountains or staying outside the walls at a cold, hastily erected guesthouse.
The four companions had been spared this discomfort because Kae Deverell was a Harper, and he wished to atone for the poor treatment Midnight and Adon had suffered at Harper hands during their trial in Shadowdale. Unknown to the four companions, the Cormyrian commander had also received a message from Elminster requesting that he aid Midnight and her company if they passed his way.
Deverell grabbed a mug of ale from a serving wench’s hand, then sat it in front of Adon. “Don’t ridicule my hospitality by drinking less than your fill,” he said. “Not a rat enters High Horn without my permission.”
“It is not rats that concern me,” Adon replied, thinking of Cyric’s visit to the inn. The thief had said that Bhaal was pursuing them. Adon doubted that even High Horn’s defenses could keep the Lord of Murder at bay.
A surprised murmur rippled down the long banquet table and a dark cloud settled on Deverell’s face.
Before the lord commander voiced his indignation, Midnight spoke, “Please forgive Adon, Lord Deverell. I fear his weariness has crushed his sense of courtesy.”
“But not mine!” Kelemvor said, grabbing the cleric’s mug. The warrior had spent many evenings with men like Deverell and knew what they expected of guests. “To please Your Lordship,” he said, draining the mug in one long swallow.
Deverell smiled and turned his attention to the fighter. “My thanks, Kelemvor Mugbane!” The lord commander grabbed a full mug and gulped it down as fast as Kelemvor had. “Of course, host duty dictates we match you cup for cup!” He called the serving wench and motioned to the officers seated to Kelemvor’s right. “Until he can lift it no longer, see that no man’s mug goes empty!”
The Cormyrians gave a perfunctory cheer, though more than one man grimaced at the command. Adon also groaned inwardly; when Kelemvor drank too much, he could be difficult. The cleric thought they might have been safer camping in the guesthouse.
As the officers finished their cheer, a page rushed into the room and approached Deverell. The lord commander nodded for the page to approach. Though the young man whispered into Deverell’s ear, his words were not lost to Sneakabout’s keen hearing.
“Milord, Captain Beresford bids me inform you that two guards are absent from the outer curtain.”
Deverell frowned, then asked, “Is it still raining?”
The page nodded. “Aye. The drops are as red as blood and as cold as ice.” The boy could not keep his fear from showing itself in his voice.
Deverell stopped whispering. “Then tell Beresford to worry no more, and we’ll discipline the derelicts come morning. I’ve no doubt the guards are hiding from the strange weather.”
The page bowed and left. Deverell returned his attention to the banquet table. “What a night we shall have!” he cried, addressing Sneakabout. “Shall we not, short friend?”
Sneakabout smiled and lifted his mug to his lips. “I will long remember it.”
Adon made a mental note to be sure all the pewterware remained on the table at the evening’s end. He had seen for himself that the halfling’s fellows were incorrigible thieves, and Sneakabout had already provided reason to doubt that he had the sense to leave their host’s property alone.
After escaping The Lonesome Tankard in Eveningstar, Sneakabout had tried to convince the company to ambush the Zhentilar. He was convinced that Cyric’s band was the one that had destroyed his home. The halfling had been so determined to take vengeance that Kelemvor had been forced to restrain him. Afterward, Sneakabout had been furious. The halfling had claimed then that the only reason he didn’t leave the companions immediately was because Cyric would soon catch them again.
It was a reasonable assumption. The company’s head start from the Lonesome Tankard had earned them only a fifteen-minute advantage. Twenty-five riders had appeared on their trail as soon as they’d left town. Six exhausting hours later, when the company rode into Tyrluk, Cyric and his fastest riders were barely two hundred yards behind. Adon had led the way straight through the village, hoping the local militia would assail Cyric’s company of Zhentilar. But the hour had been early, and if any watchmen had seen Cyric’s band, they had elected not to sound the alarm.
From Tyrluk, the companions had fled in the only possible direction: into the mountains. An hour later, they had caught a troop of Cormyrian mountain soldiers on the way to High Horn. It had taken little effort to persuade the captain that Cyric’s company was Zhentilar, especially after the band fled at the first sign of the Cormyrians. The captain had pursued, but Cyric’s men had escaped easily. On the open road, the Cormyrians’ mountain ponies were no match for horses—even when the horses were exhausted from hours of hard riding.
The Cormyrian captain had assigned a few scouts to trail the Zhentilar band, then resumed his journey, saying that High Horn would dispatch a charger-mounted patrol to deal with the intruders. This plan had not thrilled Midnight, who still had no wish to see Cyric hurt, but she could hardly have objected.
After chasing Cyric away, the captain had invited the company to ride with him to High Horn. The rest of the journey had been uneventful. When they had reached the fortress and the captain had made his report, Kae Deverell had offered the companions the safety and comfort of the keep. After thirty-six hours in the saddle, there had been no thought of refusing. Kelemvor and Midnight were glad to let down their guards and relax—though certainly not around each other. In fact, they had barely spoken since Eveningstar.
Thinking about his friends’ relationship, Adon could only shake his head. He did not understand what attracted Midnight and Kelemvor to each other; the closer they grew, the more they fought. This time, Kelemvor was angry because Midnight had not sounded the alarm upon discovering Cyric outside their rooms. Midnight was angry because Kelemvor had pulled his sword on their old friend.
The cleric had to take the warrior’s side in this particular dispute. Cyric wouldn’t have crept into the inn if he had not intended them harm. Adon rubbed the ugly scar beneath his eye thoughtfully, for finding himself in agreement with Kelemvor always gave him pause.
“Does it hurt, milord?”
Snapping out of his reverie, Adon looked at the serving girl who had asked the question. “Does what hurt?”
“The scar, milord. You were rubbing it awfully hard.”
“Was I?” Adon asked, dropping the offending hand to his lap. He also turned his head so the red mark would be less visible.
“I have a small jar of soothing ointment. Could I bring it to your chamber this night?” she asked hopefully.
Adon could not help but smile. It had been a long time since a woman had presented herself so boldly. And the serving girl was pretty enough and had a generous figure that had been toned by plenty of hard work. Her yellow hair spilled onto her shoulders like a silk shawl, and her blue eyes sparkled with an innocence that in no way implied lack of experience. She seemed much too beautiful to spend her life serving ale in the halls of this bleak outpost.