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.
6
The Tun Plain
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 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.