The halfling started to lie, but realized there was no point in it. Even if Cyric was foolish enough to believe him, Sneakabout would only have to hunt the thief down again. “You shouldn’t have taken it,” the halfling said, making a feeble grab for his sword.
“Oh, yes, I should have,” Cyric answered. He pulled the blade across Sneakabout’s throat.
On top of the cliff, the three companions did not hear Sneakabout’s gurgle. They simply saw a small form plummet soundlessly into the darkness at the bottom of the cliff.
For several moments, Midnight, Adon, and Kelemvor remained in motionless shock, unable to believe the halfling was gone. Then, as Cyric resumed his descent, Midnight tried to call Sneakabout’s name. A strangled gasp was all that escaped her lips.
Not so for Kelemvor. “Cyric!” he roared.
The thief looked up and saw the fighter raising his sword to cut the rope. Fortunately, he had been prepared for something like this. As Kelemvor brought his blade down, Cyric grabbed hold of the cliff’s face.
Adon saw the rope fall, but Cyric’s silhouette simply disappeared against the cliff’s face. “We’d better leave immediately,” the scarred cleric murmured. “Cyric’s still alive … and I don’t think he intends to keep his word.”
7
Over the Summit
The afternoon had come and gone and still the task remained uncompleted. Outside High Horn’s inner gatehouse, a dozen Cormyrian soldiers were struggling with pulleys and ropes to raise Bhaal and his amber prison off the ground. Earlier that day, the masons had mortared support posts into the wall, high over the gate. The soldiers were attempting to hoist Bhaal onto those support posts and fasten him there as a trophy.
In the fading light of dusk, Lord Commander Kae Deverell paced back and forth outside the gatehouse, a parchment scroll crushed in his fist. The crest of the Purple Dragon, King Azoun’s royal seal, still clung to the scroll’s edge where the lord commander had broken the wax. Deverell slapped the parchment against his leg, as if venting his frustration would speed the work.
The message from Suzail had come at noon: Lord High Marshal Duke Bhereu riding to High Horn to investigate drunkenness and sagging morale. Especially in this time of crisis, such behavior must be avoided. Take his recommendations as my wishes. Hope this message finds the weather fair. His Majesty King Azoun IV.
“Drunkenness and sagging morale!” Deverell hissed to himself. “We’ll see about that.”
The lord commander had a plan to convince Duke Bhereu the king was misinformed. That was why his soldiers were hanging the Lord of Murder over the gatehouse. When Bhereu entered High Horn, the high marshal would have to look Bhaal right in the eye. The duke would have no choice except to inquire about the trophy. When Deverell explained what it was, Bhereu would be forced to report that matters were well in hand at High Horn. After all, drunks and cowards did not capture gods.
The breeze came up, bringing with it a chill rain. Deverell looked into the wind and saw a bank of swarthy clouds coming toward the fortress. The watch would have a cold night.
The lord commander turned to Pell Beresford, captain of the night watch. “I’m expected at dinner. See that the amber is raised and secured.”
Pulling his hood over his head, Pell looked toward the storm. “If I may, sir, it might be wiser to leave the thing down until morning. The wind could give it a battering.”
Deverell also looked toward the storm, but he shook his head. “I want it in place when the sun rises. You’ll just have to be sure it’s well secured.”
The lord commander left without further comment. He did not notice his subordinate’s eyes burning with resentment, nor Bhaal’s hand, the only part of the avatar that protruded from the amber, closing into a fist.
“As you wish, sir,” the watch captain hissed.
Pell had to admit his anxiety was not for the amber alone. As far as he was concerned, the blob was no prize to be displayed. The creature inside, along with Deverell’s drunkenness, had cost the lives of many good men.
If the incident had been isolated, Beresford would not have found it so disturbing. But, often as not, the captain stayed on duty long past dawn because the lord commander had kept the day officers carousing into the morning hours. Pell had yet to see Deverell lucid, or even sober, at morning repast. Having his post offered to a halfling—of all things—had been the last straw.
So the captain had dispatched a rider to Suzail and lodged a formal complaint. He had not expected the king to send the lord high marshal to investigate, but Pell knew his grievance had not been the first against Deverell. Whatever the reason, though, Duke Bhereu was due tomorrow—and if that grotesque amber was not hanging above the inner gate as “proof” of Kae Deverell’s competence, Pell would be just as happy.
Nevertheless, Deverell had issued a direct order, and Beresford was too good an officer to disobey. As though it had been his own idea, Pell set about hanging the amber. Without Deverell’s presence to make the men nervous, the captain completed the task within the hour.
Beresford spent the rest of the night huddled deep within his cloak, methodically making the rounds, keeping the men alert and at their posts. The captain passed beneath Bhaal a dozen times, pausing each time to inspect the trophy’s moorings and make sure it remained secure in the heavy wind. Pell even posted two men beneath the amber blob, just in case the wind tore it loose.
In the dark, however, Beresford and his guards failed to notice that the Lord of Murder was using his free hand to fray the rope that held him in place. By the time the night wind blew itself out and false dawn’s gray light appeared behind the eastern peaks, only a strand held Bhaal’s prison in place.
Pell stood along the western wall, enjoying his favorite hour of the watch. The night air would grow no more biting, and the castle was as still and as quiet as a snow bank, only the crisp coughs and whispers of the men echoing from the cold stones. It was a peaceful time, a time when a man could turn his thoughts to breakfast and a warm bed.
But a loud crash told the watch captain that he would not enjoy that luxury this morning. Beresford turned to his page and said, “Rouse Lord Deverell and tell him his trophy has fallen.” Pell started toward Bhaal’s prison immediately. He needed no report to know what had happened.
What the captain found at the gate was far worse than he had expected. In the middle of the entrance, the amber lay broken and empty. The two sentries posted beneath it were dead, the cobblestones red and slick. Two more men kneeled in the blood, picking up pieces of the amber like children who had overturned their mother’s favorite vase.
“Where’s Bhaal?” Pell demanded, kicking at the amber fragments.
The sentries stood. “Not here, sir,” said one.
“I see that,” the captain answered, waving his hand at Bhaal’s shattered prison.
“He was gone when we arrived,” explained the second sentry, still holding a handful of fragments.
Pell’s heart sank. He could not understand how the avatar had survived his imprisonment, but now was not the time to ponder the question. “Sound the alarm. Wake and arm every man—”
Beresford’s page came running out of the gate. “Bhaal, sir! He’s in Lord Deverell’s chamber!”
Without another word, Pell and the sentries ran for the keep, charging up the central staircase in less than a minute. When they reached the top floor, the captain shoved open the lord commander’s door and rushed into the apartment, his sword drawn.
A dozen guards stood in a circle, their halberds lowered and pointed at a motionless form. Beresford pushed into the circle. A gaunt, lifeless body lay on the floor. The tattoos on the corpse’s head left no doubt that this had been the man trapped in the amber. But the fire had left his eyes, and he no longer looked even remotely menacing. Pell had no doubt his soul had long since departed.