The guard, a young blond man who reminded Cyric of Adon, rubbed his eyes. Silently hurrying for the cover of the stables, Cyric glimpsed a pair of eyes in the stable and tensed, but he did not break his stride. He sighed with relief when the huge whites of the eyes merely revealed a pony that had wandered to the doorway.
“Here, now!” a deep, age-withered voice called. “You come back here!”
The pony pranced closer to the stable door, and the footsteps of the stablemaster sounded inside the building. Cyric unsheathed one of his daggers, angled to his left, and doubled up into a crouch, ready to spring at the man and silence him before he could raise an alarm. Another voice cried out abruptly as the guard from the rear entrance turned the corner.
“Manxtrum! You’ve got a runaway, it seems,” the guard shouted. “Better get a tighter rein on your charges!”
The man from the stables walked past the pony and stood at the doorway, oblivious to the dark figure who crouched in the shadows a few yards to his right. Cyric was not facing the guard, and the thief couldn’t tell if he’d been spotted. He didn’t dare to turn around, but since no one had cried out yet, he assumed neither the guard nor the stablemaster had seen him.
“Ah, this little beauty is the one Mourngrym promised to your daughter last week,” Manxtrum said. “Care to come over and take a look?” Cyric gripped his dagger more tightly.
“Can’t now,” the guard said. “Perhaps after my shift.”
“Decent folk will be asleep!” Manxtrum said, waving his finger at the guard like an angry parent.
“Then you should be wide awake,” the guard called, laughing at his own joke, then suddenly bursting into a coughing fit.
Manxtrum shook his head and led the pony back into the stable. Counting to twenty, Cyric slowly looked over his shoulder and saw the guard cough again. The man’s back was to him. Cyric shifted position slightly and, with a deft flick of the wrist, hurled his dagger.
The blond guard’s arms jerked backward as the blade pierced his neck. He went down, falling backward with a gurgling, strangled cry that was cut short when he landed.
Cyric waited for any sign that the guard’s cry had been heard. After a moment, the thief scrambled to the servants’ entrance to the tower, near where the dead man lay.
Took care of that nasty cough, now, didn’t we? Cyric thought grimly as he turned the corpse over to pull his blade from its throat. The thief grabbed a plank left over from some work on the shutters and placed it next to the guard. Uncoiling three lengths of rope from his waist, Cyric laid them out horizontally, then placed the wood plank over the center of the ropes. The thief rolled the corpse onto the plank, tying the ropes around his thighs, waist, and chest, then propped the dead man up in his usual station, visible from within the shadowy confines of the tower as well as the stables. His head hung limply upon the man’s chest, concealing the bloodied throat.
Cyric entered the alcove that housed the servants’ door. When he looked back toward the stables, the thief saw that the light from within the building revealed no sign that his actions had been detected. He then looked up to check where he had removed the large stone block in the alcove’s ceiling several hours earlier. It had not been sealed up. Cyric silently climbed up the wall into the indentation, took a breath, then, reaching down with one leg, gave the wooden door a kick.
Moments later, he heard a muffled voice call from the other side of the door. “Segert?”
Cyric frowned, lowered his leg once more, and kicked the door once again, this time adding an exaggerated cough. Drawing back up into the indentation in the ceiling, Cyric watched as the door opened and a short man with a gray mustache stepped out into the alcove.
“Segert?” the guard asked as he moved toward the still figure that leaned against the wall just outside the alcove. Muscles straining, Cyric prepared to drop on the guard, but froze when he heard a second guard approach from inside the tower.
“Trouble, Marcreg?” the second guard asked, his voice high and trembling. Cyric could barely see the younger guard’s face in the doorway.
“Guess not,” the guard with the gray mustache snapped impatiently. “Better get back to your post. We’ll continue your training later.”
“Aye, sir,” the other guard said and hurried away.
Marcreg shook his head and stepped forward. “Now, what’s your problem, Segert? There’ll be no sick leave until after the prisoners are executed. I told you that—”
Cyric relaxed the pressure on his braced legs and allowed his body to fall. The thief landed with his legs around the neck of the gray-mustached guard and twisted hard until he heard the sound of cracking bones. Marcreg fell into the door, nearly slamming it closed. In a moment of blind panic, Cyric let go of the guard and jammed his foot in the upper corner of the door. Suppressing a cry of pain as the heavy door pressed against his foot, Cyric wriggled out of his boot and landed beside the corpse.
Cyric dragged Marcreg’s body away from the door, then slid his boot to the bottom of the doorjamb. The thief unraveled his last section of rope, set it aside, and arranged Marcreg’s body like that of the other guard. After propping up the corpse outside the door, Cyric entered the tower.
The service hallway stretched in both directions, following the curvature of the tower. Cyric knew that he would have to search out the guard who had spoken to Marcreg. The younger man wouldn’t wait for his tutor forever. When the older man didn’t return, he would certainly raise the alarm.
There was a clanging of metal bowls and a whispered curse from off to Cyric’s right. The thief followed the noise to the delivery entrance to the kitchen. A sign had been tacked up above the open doorway, marking it as a portal safe from magical chaos. Cautiously he peered around the corner. Inside the kitchen, the young guard stood in semidarkness. The dull orange glow of a lantern revealed the furtive motions of the guardsman as he gorged himself on a rare delicacy, a chilled bowl of chocolate covered with cherries and cream. He had his back to the door.
Drawing a dagger, Cyric advanced on the guard. This is too easy, the thief thought. He noticed, a moment too late, that the young man was gazing at the flickering shadows on the shiny metal surface of the bowl.
The cold metal bowl flashed in the dim light as the guard whirled and hurled it. It struck Cyric full in the face, but the thief managed to catch the bowl before it could clatter to the floor. Cyric’s blade flew by his head as the young guard turned to run. The dagger missed completely, thudding dully into the wall beyond.
Drawing his hand axe, Cyric leaped upon the guard, slashing with the axe and driving his knee hard into the man’s back. Cyric grinned as he heard the crack of breaking bone. The guard’s legs twitched for a few seconds, then were still.
Rising from the dead man, Cyric glanced around for any signs that a disturbance had taken place. After straightening a few stools and clearing away the spilled chocolate, Cyric dragged the guard’s body down a flight of stairs to the food storage cellar. Then the thief took the lantern and went back up into the hallway.
Following the layout of the tower from memory, Cyric skirted the north wall, passed through a series of interlocking chambers, and emerged near the southwest hallway, leading to the boathouse. The information Cyric had been provided was accurate so far. Only one guard was stationed at the far end of the hallway. However, Cyric was trapped in a single moment of indecision as he stared at the nearly seven-foot-tall guard. It was Forester, a man who had served under him at the Ashaba bridge.
Forester turned sharply, then relaxed as he saw Cyric emerge from the shadows.
“I’ve been sent to relieve you,” Cyric said, smiling. “You’re needed on the upper floors.”
“But I just got here,” Forester said as he approached Cyric. “Where have you been all day? I sent word for you to meet me at the Old Skull—”
Forester didn’t even scream when Cyric’s dagger pierced his heart.
Just according to plan, Cyric thought as he dragged th
e body through the hallway. The thief had to remind himself that the battle was only two days ago. It might as well have occurred in another lifetime.
Once Forester’s body was safely hidden away, Cyric returned and began to search for the secret entrance to the dungeon level. Following the explicit instructions of his contact, Cyric pressed the uppermost edge of the twenty-eighth wooden panel from the west door. Nothing happened.
Cyric frowned, then counted off a half dozen paces, crouched down, and located a small opening in the wall, just above the floorboards. Easing his dagger into the crevice, the thief heard the telltale clicks of some kind of mechanism working back and forth as he gently moved the hilt of the dagger. The door still didn’t open.
A heavy weight seemed to fall on Cyric’s shoulders, and he wondered if the guardsman who had given him the information had neglected to mention that both means of entry had to be performed simultaneously. Cyric drew another dagger, counted off the floor panels once again, then threw the blade at the upper edge of the wood panel as he yanked the floor release back.
The hilt of the dagger struck the panel. There was a slight hiss as the door opened and cold air escaped into the hallway. Cyric retrieved his second dagger and moved toward the darkened passageway, holding the blade out before him.
According to Cyric’s informant, the long, winding stairway led to the rear of the dungeon, where the holding cells were located. The hidden stairway had been installed as a fail-safe, in case the main entrance to the dungeon was ever blocked or overrun. A single guardsman, if he was unable to reach the alarm gongs, could quickly reach the ground level by the stairs to get help.
Cyric descended the stairway until he came to the landing and a second door. The thief knew he would be spotted the moment he opened the door and stepped off the landing, but he was not concerned about the lone guard stationed below an alarm gong at the far end of the cells. However, the hallway took an abrupt right after that guard station and opened into a large hall, where six more men apparently were gambling. They were swearing so loudly that Cyric could already hear their voices.
Cyric withdrew a small black cylinder from the sash at his waist, then used his remaining dagger to ease the metal cap from its end. He wrapped his fingers in the sash and felt for the sharp point of the Gaeus Thorn.
Cyric’s knowledgeable informant had made a pastime out of exploring the ruined hut of an alchemist and selling his finds on the black market. The Gaeus Thorn was very rare, possibly one of a kind, and Cyric smiled at the irony that Mourngrym’s gold had paid for the item.
A moment passed as Cyric allowed all emotion to drain from him. He drew a deep breath, put the cylinder to his lips, and threw open the door. The guard was staring in Cyric’s direction and immediately stood up to raise a cry of alarm. The thief blew hard into the barrel of his weapon and watched as a tiny dart pierced the guard’s throat.
The wounded guard fell instantly into a stupor and sank down onto a stool, his head lolling back and forth. Cyric waited until the guard looked at him again, then gestured for the man to leave his post and come closer. Lifting himself from the stool with a flourish, the guard complied.
“Listen very carefully,” Cyric whispered as he placed his hand on the guard’s shoulder. “Lord Mourngrym has sent me to get one of the prisoners slated for execution in the morning, the dark-haired mage. He wishes to question the woman. Take me to her.”
“I should inform my captain—”
“There’s no time,” Cyric said quickly. “Keep your voice low. You don’t want to wake your other charges.”
Many of the cells had been filled with mercenaries who had been hired to fill out Bane’s forces in the Battle of Shadowdale, then surrendered themselves to the dalesmen when the battle was lost. Cyric heard the sound of a boot scuff the floor, and he tensed.
A pair of dirty hands protruded from the iron bars of a nearby cell, and a dark, sweaty face peered out. The prisoner laughed once, then nodded to Cyric and gestured for the thief to proceed.
“Let’s go,” Cyric said. The guard led him past the twenty cells that lined the corridor’s north bank. An ugly stone wall on the southern side of the hallway was the only view afforded the prisoners. Finally the guard stopped before a storage room adjacent to the final cell and unlocked the door.
“Wait,” Cyric said as the guard’s hand reached for the heavy wooden door. “If anyone should ask, I am over six feet tall, with fiery red hair, the build of a wrestler, and a strange foreign accent.”
“Of course you are,” the guard murmured flatly. There wasn’t a trace of emotion in his voice.
“Describe me,” Cyric whispered as he gazed into the guard’s face. The dalesman described the thief exactly as the hawk-nosed man had instructed. Satisfied that the effects of the dart were all that his informant had promised, Cyric gave the guard a few final commands and watched as he returned to his station.
The thief opened the door with care, fearful that the sound might alert the other guards. Cyric gazed into the confines of the black room and saw the object of his search lying on her side in the corner.
“Midnight,” Cyric whispered as he entered the cell and went to work on the bonds of the dark-haired magic-user. He left the gag for last. “Keep it to a whisper,” he cautioned.
As soon as the gag was removed, Midnight drew a deep breath, then looked at her fellow prisoner. The cleric sat with his knees drawn up before him, his forehead pressed against his knees to hide his face.
“Adon!” Midnight whispered. The mage rubbed her arms and legs, trying to massage some feeling back into them.
“Can you stand?” Cyric whispered as he got up and moved to the door. “We must leave quickly.”
“We’ve got to take Adon,” Midnight hissed urgently. She crawled toward the cleric.
“Your ordeal has left you confused,” Cyric said. “Leave him.”
Placing her hands on the cleric’s shoulders, Midnight shook Adon, attempting to wake him. Shadowy, bloodshot eyes rose as Adon looked up, but the young cleric didn’t seem to see his friends. He simply stared at the wall behind Midnight.
“He’s useless!” Cyric hissed. “Besides, he betrayed you with his silence at the trial.” The thief glanced nervously into the hallway, but no guards had noticed the open door yet.
“No!” Midnight declared, her voice cracking with pain and fear.
“Every moment we delay here increases our risk,” Cyric snapped. He turned from the door, grabbed Midnight’s arm, and tried to drag the magic-user to her feet.
“Get away from me,” Midnight whimpered, but she was too weak to resist Cyric’s less-than-gentle urgings.
“I came back for you!” Cyric hissed.
“You’ll take us both, or I’ll start screaming until even the gods know you’re here!” Midnight warned. “He’s sick. Can’t you see that?” The mage ran her hand through Adon’s tangled hair.
“I see only his cowardice,” Cyric growled. “That and nothing more. But if his life truly matters to you, even after what he’s done, I suppose I have no choice.”
Midnight stumbled back as Cyric tore into Adon’s bonds with an alarming fury. The tip of the thief’s dagger drew a few drops of blood from Adon’s wrists as Cyric hurriedly cut the last bit of rope and reached down to pull the cleric up by his filthy robes.
At the end of the corridor, the drugged guard waved stupidly as Cyric dragged Adon from the black room. Midnight stumbled along behind the thief.
Every step was a struggle for Midnight, and it became worse when they reached the darkened stairway. Cyric contemplated dropping Adon down the stairs, hoping that the cleric would break his neck in the fall. But Midnight walked close behind him, as if sensing the thief’s intentions.
“Where’s Kel?” Midnight gasped through sharp breaths as they struggled up the stairs.
Cyric hesitated as he decided which lie would serve his needs best. “He refused to join me. He said he ‘couldn’t interfere with justice.’
”
“Justice!” Midnight spat out in amazement.
“I told him he was a blind fool,” Cyric said, shrugging. The thief waited for a response from Midnight. When none came, he assumed the lie was enough to satisfy the mage—for now, at least.
At the top of the steps, Cyric saw the soft orange glow of torchlight from the hallway and wondered if he should warn Midnight about the dangers of the randomly solidifying doors. He decided against it and secretly hoped that the wall would reappear just as he pushed Adon through.
Shoving the cleric through the portal first, Cyric quickly hurried through the narrow passage. “Make haste,” he hissed into the darkness. Midnight dragged herself through the doorway and stumbled along behind the thief.
At the end of the corridor, Cyric looked out through a series of spy holes to verify that the boatyard was still deserted. Midnight helped to support Adon as Cyric unlocked the door with the key he had taken from Forester’s body.
The boatyard was quiet. Only the sounds of the gently lapping waves from the Ashaba and the conspiratorial creak of wooden boats rubbing against the dock helped to cover the plodding footsteps of the escapees as they followed Cyric. A host of blue-white torches illuminated the arched wooden ceilings of the boathouse and the vast array of craft docked nearby.
Making his way toward a twenty-foot skiff at the south end of the yard, Cyric imagined the boathouse in flames. The chaos such an event would create was exactly the distraction they needed to ensure their safe escape. With the destruction of Mourngrym’s small fleet, the repairs to the Ashaba bridge would be stalled and any pursuit of the escapees would be severely restricted.
Much to Cyric’s regret, however, they didn’t have time for such an elaborate operation.
Cyric stood before the boat and looked around quickly. “Can you spellcast, Midnight? We might need a diversion.”
Midnight shook her head from side to side. “I would need to study first, and my spellbook was left in Elminster’s Tower.”
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