Dalzhel raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “Even if she knows where to find us, I doubt she’ll trust you after you killed the halfling.”
“Trust me?” Cyric guffawed, grabbing Dalzhel’s massive shoulder for support. “I don’t expect her to trust me any longer. I’ll no longer play those games with her.”
Dalzhel frowned in puzzlement. “Then why would she join us?”
Cyric laughed even harder and pointed to the river. “The ford,” he said. “It’s the only one within sixty miles. She has to come this way.”
Embarrassment crept over Dalzhel’s face and he smiled sheepishly. “Of course, milord. We’ll ambush her.”
“Without Kelemvor to buy her time, we’ll have her bound and gagged before she casts her first spell!”
Midnight’s heart felt as though it had turned to ice. Kelemvor had been right—Cyric was a traitor. She needed no more proof. The magic-user exhaled quietly and choked back her anger. The icy feeling in her heart remained, and she vowed Cyric would pay for his betrayal.
The shower increased to a downpour. An eerie wail came down the river and the fetid rain fell as though driven by a hardy wind. Even though the air remained deathly calm, Midnight ignored the bizarre rain. Since the night of Arrival, she had seen many things a thousand times stranger.
But Cyric and Dalzhel did not share her lack of concern. The last time they had heard that wail, in the Haunted Halls, they’d lost several good men. Both men frowned and looked skyward.
“I’ll check the sentries,” Dalzhel said.
Midnight’s scalp bristled with alarm. She had seen no sentries, and the fact that she remained undiscovered proved they had not seen her. Something was wrong.
“I’ll finish with the halflings,” Cyric grumbled, turning back to his men and prisoners.
Midnight saw that the soldiers had forgotten about the halflings. They, too, remembered what had happened the last time they heard a wail like the one that echoed around them now. Several of the Zhentilar held their hands on their hilts, nervously glancing in every direction, expecting Bhaal to appear at any moment.
As Dalzhel turned away, Cyric called out a last instruction. “If Midnight doesn’t show within the hour, we’ll go to Hill’s Edge.”
“Aye,” Dalzhel replied, “assuming we’re not fighting for our lives.”
“You will be,” Midnight whispered. “I promise.” Though she did not understand the source of Cyric’s distress, she intended to use it to maximum effect.
Her first order of business, however, was to free the halflings. Though fearing her magic might misfire, she had no choice except to rely upon it. She summoned the words and gestures for telekinesis magic to mind. A normal telekinesis spell simply moved objects horizontally or vertically. The magic-user was gambling she could manipulate the ends of the ropes with enough dexterity to loosen them.
Midnight immediately performed the incantation. To her astonishment, all the ropes in the area, not just the ones binding the halflings, immediately loosened and began to unravel of their own accord. The two halflings on the torture device came free and floated down the river. Then their ropes began swimming for shore, as though they were snakes. The cord lashing the poles came undone, too, and crawled onto the log, coiled itself, and struck at one of the Zhentilar.
Cyric’s men voiced astonished shouts and angry curses. The thief started toward the river. “Kill the prisoners! Kill them this instant!” He pulled his short sword. In the gray light, its pink blade seemed especially threatening.
His men immediately moved to obey, drawing their blades. The halflings swam as fast as they could, and the men lunged after them clumsily, hacking and swinging—sometimes at the escapees, and sometimes at the ropes squirming past them. The halflings were exhausted and it was all they could do to keep their heads above the water. Still, the current was a fast one, and it seemed possible the river would carry them out of danger’s reach. Cyric growled angrily and waded into the river to intercept one of the escapees.
When Midnight noticed that the living ropes were crawling toward her, she backed into the brush, moving closer to the river. The ropes adjusted their course and kept crawling toward her.
One of the Zhentilar noticed what the animated ropes were doing and pointed at them. “Look!” he yelled. “They’re after something!”
Cyric glanced at the ropes. “See what it is!” he ordered. At the same time, he adjusted his position to intercept his prey.
Midnight backed away again, through the bushes. If the Zhentilar’s attention had not been focused in her direction already, the resulting rustle would have gone unnoticed. But the squirming ropes were crawling straight toward Midnight’s hiding place, and it was impossible for the soldier to miss the noise. An instant later, he saw Midnight’s form huddled in the brush.
“There’s someone in there!” He yelled, stopping. “A woman!”
Midnight stood, ready to flee.
In the same instant, Cyric turned toward the brush and saw the mage’s familiar black cloak. “Midnight!” he called. “You’re here at last!” Without looking away from the thicket, he reached out and snagged the halfling who was drifting by.
“I am,” she growled. In that instant, the raven-haired magic-user decided not to run. As of yet, Cyric and his men had made no move toward her, but they would obviously give chase the instant she fled. The longer Cyric talked, the longer Midnight had to develop a plan of escape. “And I know you for what you are.”
Cyric shrugged. “What’s that?” Moving smoothly and casually, he pulled the half-drowned halfling to him and slit his throat.
“Monster!” Midnight yelled, taken by surprise. “You’ll pay for that!”
An instant of doubt flashed across Cyric’s brow. He let the halfling’s body slip into the water, then waded toward shore. His men started after Midnight, but he waved them back. “No,” the thief said. “You won’t make me pay. We were friends once, remember?”
“That’s over!” The magic-user thought of killing Cyric and the appropriate incantation came to her, but she did not cast it. Before he died, Midnight wanted Cyric to know what she was punishing him for. “You betrayed me, Cyric. You betrayed all of us, and by Auril’s blue skin, I’m going to—”
“Be careful by whom you swear,” Cyric cautioned, stepping onto the riverbank. “The Goddess of Cold is more of my persuasion than—”
The thief’s eyes suddenly bulged in terror and his lips pursed to form a single word. “No!”
Cyric’s unexplained fright caused Midnight to hesitate. She sensed movement behind her—then the ambusher was upon her. A vicelike hand clamped over the mage’s mouth, burning her lips where it touched them, and a steely arm snaked around her waist, causing her intestines to churn in revolt.
Midnight tried to cast her death spell, but found that she could not. The thing held her immobile; she could not voice the words or make the gestures to execute the incantation. The iron-gripped attacker lifted the mage off her feet and retreated into the brush.
When that day became night, it did not grow dark. The sky twinkled with a thousand different colors, as though the heavens were filled with glittering gemstones. Kelemvor could not deny that the flickering light cast a certain macabre beauty over the land. But he would have been happier with the customary stars and moon overhead, and he envied Adon for having found a retreat from the eerie night.
Adon sat cross-legged before the small fire, his attention focused on the yellow flames. Though he knew Kelemvor sat beside him, that it was night and they were camped on the bank of the River Reaching, he was not “aware” of these things. His mind had retreated into itself, following the convoluted pathways of prayerful meditation.