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 more 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.