The great hall, residential apartments, kitchen, and stable had once stood snuggled against the keep’s interior wall, their doors and windows opening onto the courtyard. Only the great hall—built from the same black granite as the gatehouses—remained completely intact. The other buildings, constructed of some lesser stone, had fallen into ruins.
Given the castle’s combination of crumbled walls and imposing edifices, it did not surprise Cyric that the men found the place unsettling. Still, he had little stomach for their complaints. Dalzhel and the rest of the troops had arrived at the castle that morning, in plenty of time to avoid the storm that had raged all afternoon. Cyric, however, had not come until dusk—cold, tired, and wet after an afternoon in the rain. He had no wish to listen to the men simper.
Heedless of his commander’s mood, Dalzhel continued to speak. “There’s something beyond the outer curtain,” he said, trying to gain Cyric’s interest. He removed his scabbard and placed it upon the dusty banquet table. “Or so the watch says.”
Cyric had little concern for what lurked outside the walls to frighten his men. He decided to change the subject and asked, “How is my pony? That fellow carried me well, considering how hard I rode.”
“With rest it’ll recover—provided someone doesn’t kill it first,” Dalzhel said, returning to the fireplace. “There are those who grumble that it has eaten better than the men.”
“It’s proven more use!” Cyric snapped. The pony had carried him nearly one hundred and fifty miles over the last three days. A war-horse could not have done better. He considered threatening death to anyone who touched the pony, but rejected the idea. The order would breed resentment, and someone might take up the challenge. “If it survives until morning, take the pony to the plain and free it.”
“Aye. That’s for the best,” Dalzhel responded, surprised at his commander’s unexpected hint of compassion. “The men are in a foul mood. Couldn’t we have stayed elsewhere?”
“Where would you suggest?” Cyric growled, glaring at Dalzhel’s standing form. “Eveningstar?”
“Of course not, sir,” the soldier responded, stiffening his posture.
Dalzhel had meant the question to be rhetorical. Given that he and all the men wore Zhentish armor, few things would have been as foolish as seeking lodging in a Cormyrian town.
Cyric looked away and glowered into the fire. “Never question my orders!”
Dalzhel did not respond.
The hawk-nosed thief decided to further chasten his lieutenant by bringing up a sore subject. “Where are your messengers?” he demanded harshly.
“Holed up with two-copper wenches from one end of Cormyr to another,” Dalzhel retorted, standing more or less at attention.
Cyric had ordered sentries to watch all roads leading out of Cormyr, and it had fallen on Dalzhel’s shoulders to execute the command. So far, not a single messenger had reported.
“And I’d be with ’em,” Dalzhel continued, “if my mother had blessed me with the sense of an ox.”
Cyric wheeled on Dalzhel, the rose-colored short sword in his hand and the desire to use it in his breast.
In return, the Zhentish lieutenant backed away and snatched his scabbard off the banquet table, then met his commander’s angry glare with a puzzled gaze. His reply had been out of line, but Cyric had never before responded to unruliness with such vehemence.
Three tentative raps sounded at the cockeyed door. The intrusion brought Cyric back to his senses and he thrust the short sword into its scabbard. “Enter!” he ordered.
The night sergeant, Fane, slipped into the room. He was a stocky man with a scraggly red beard. Water dripping from his cloak, he turned to Dalzhel and reported, “Alrik is missing from his post.”
“You’ve looked for him?” Dalzhel demanded, laying his scabbard back on the table.
“Aye,” Fane replied, hardly daring to meet Dalzhel’s gaze. “He’s nowhere to be found.”
Dalzhel cursed under his breath, then said, “Assign another to his place. We’ll deal with Alrik come morning.” He turned away, indicating the audience was over.
Fane did not leave. “Alrik isn’t one to desert,” he insisted.
“Then double the guard,” Dalzhel snarled, turning back to the sergeant. “But don’t let the men grumble to me about it. Now go.”
His eyes betraying irritation, Fane nodded and backed out the door.
As the sergeant left, Cyric realized that he had turned on Dalzhel for a minor infraction. It was not a smart thing to do. Without exception, the men were cutthroats and thieves, and he needed Dalzhel to watch his back. It would not do to have his bodyguard angry at him.
By way of apology, Cyric said, “Everything depends upon those messengers.”
Dalzhel understood the explanation for what it was and accepted it with a nod. “It shouldn’t be as difficult for the messengers to avoid Cormyrian patrols. The storm must have muddied the roads and slowed their pace. It seems that Talos the Raging One is against us.”
“Aye,” Cyric replied, dropping back into his chair. “All the deities are against us, not just the God of Storms.” He was thinking of five nights ago, when he had been spying upon Midnight’s camp and a group of zombie riders had appeared. It was possible they had been just another aspect of the chaos plaguing the Realms, but Cyric thought it more likely a god had sent them to capture Midnight and the tablet.
“Not that it gives me fright, understand,” Dalzhel said, watching Cyric closely. “But this business hardly seems the affair of common soldiers. It makes a man curious.”
Cyric kept his silence, for any man privileged to know his intention might try to usurp his place.
“The blood between you and the three we seek must be bad indeed,” Dalzhel pressed.
“We were once … friends, of a sort,” Cyric responded guardedly. He saw no harm in admitting that much.
“And what of this stone?” Dalzhel asked. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his interest was more than casual. Cyric wanted the flat stone the trio carried as much as he wanted them. Dalzhel wished to know why.
“My orders are to recover it.” Cyric tried to intimidate Dalzhel with an angry stare. “I don’t care to know why.”
Cyric was lying. Before the battle of Shadowdale, he and his companions had helped the goddess Mystra attempt to leave the Realms. The god Helm had refused to let her pass unless she presented the Tablets of Fate, which had been stolen from Ao, the mysterious overlord of the gods. Cyric knew little else about the tablets, but he suspected that Ao would pay a handsome reward for their return.
Cyric had spent most of his life putting bread in his mouth by thieving or fighting, always without a sense of destiny or purpose. For more than a decade, this shiftless existence had seemed an empty one, but the thief had been unable to find a higher purpose in life. Every time he tried, the matter ended as in Shadowdale, his efforts unappreciated. Often as not, Cyric found the very people he had tried to help chasing him from town.
After Shadowdale, Cyric finally realized that he could only believe in himself—not in the abstract concept of “Good,” not in the sanctity of friendship, not even in the hope of love. If his life was to have a purpose, it had to be his own best interest. After deciding this, Cyric began to formulate a plan that not only gave meaning to his life, but one that would literally allow him to choose his own destiny. He would recover the Tablets of Fate and return them to Ao in return for a reward that would doubtlessly make him as wealthy as any king.
Without knocking, someone brushed past the heavy wooden door and stepped into the room. Cyric stood and brandished his short sword. Dalzhel grabbed his own weapon. Both men turned to face the intruder.