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. “I’ll 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 Faerûn,” 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.”