Cyric tried to calm himself. The dry afternoon heat was sweltering, and even the slight breeze he felt did little to assuage the bands of broiling, intense heat that assaulted the company as they trekked along the Ashaba. The heat pressed against Cyric’s flesh like scorching, oppressive hands, causing rivulets of sweat to pour into his eyes, obscuring his view of the prism momentarily.
Looking around at dozens of faces that he did not recognize, Cyric considered the fact that each of the Zhentilar rode to Scardale for the sole purpose of answering Lord Bane’s call. Nearly all of them would lay down their lives without a moment’s hesitation if the Black Lord called for them to do so. Incredibly, it was the Company of the Scorpions that these men had turned to for temporary leadership. The political maneuvering that Cyric had observed Tyzack perform to ensure his own supremacy surprised the thief. Cyric thought the leader of the Scorpions incapable of even conceiving of such well-thought-out plans, let alone implementing them.
The thief cleared his eyes and returned his gaze to the prism. The shards of light released from the earring seemed endless, and as each new shard died away, another took its place. Cyric thought of Tyzack. The man had to have a weak spot, a vulnerability that Cyric could exploit. What was it? the thief wondered. Ahead, Slater reached for the prism earring, caressing it gently. The thief smiled. Perhaps there was a simple way of finding out.
An hour later, Tyzack was off chatting with the commander of a fifty-man contingent from Tasseldale that was located somewhere near the rear of the sizable Zhentish advance. Ren had gone with Tyzack. Cyric moved up through the line and motioned for Slater to join him a few lengths ahead of the Zhentilar. Willingale, one of the Zhentish operatives from Harrowdale, had taken point a few hundred yards ahead of the troops, and Cyric told the others that he and Slater were going to replace him for a while.
“Why are we replacing Willingale on point?” Slater asked as she rode next to the thief. Cyric hesitated, and the flesh of the woman’s eyebrowless forehead wrinkled as she flashed her eyes wide open in a gesture that was meant to emphasize her confusion. “What is it you really want with me?”
“Am I that obvious?” Cyric asked as he looked away from the Zhentish soldier.
Slater grinned. “Don’t ask if you don’t want an answer,” she said.
Cyric chuckled softly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “By the gods, it’s hot!”
Slater frowned and tapped her fingers on the stock of her crossbow. “If this of your idea of small talk, I think I’ll take my leave,” she grumbled.
“I was merely making an observation,” Cyric snapped, turning to the fighter. “And I was wondering how observant you have been.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Cyric with mistrust. “In what regard?” Slater asked.
“I wish to know more about the Scorpions,” Cyric stated flatly, looking straight at the woman.
“I can guess why,” replied Slater, running her hand across her horse’s mane. “It’s Tyzack you really want to know about, right?”
This one’s brighter than I suspected, the thief thought. “Aye,” Cyric admitted, trying to look as innocent as possible. “His actions confuse me. So do yours, for that matter.”
Cyric saw that Slater was intrigued. “Explain yourself,” she said abruptly.
“You recommended me for second-in-command, when you certainly could have had it yourself. Why would you do such a thing?” Cyric asked, wiping more sweat from his brow.
Slater grinned maliciously. “Survival. People in that position do not seem to last terribly long in the Scorpions.”
Though Cyric tried to appear shocked, he was actually quite pleased. It seemed that Slater needed very little prompting to tell the truth. That could be a very useful little quirk. “Yes …,” the thief said at last. “I thought that something was odd about Croxton’s death. Was there someone before him?”
“Yes,” Slater said casually, swatting at a fly that was buzzing around her. “His name was Erskine.”
“What happened to him?”
“Dead,” Slater stated flatly. “What else?”
“Tyzack killed him?” Cyric gasped, perhaps a bit too melodramatically.
“Why?”
The warrior shook her head and shrugged. “Who’s to say? We were on our way back from Haptooth Hill. Tyzack, Erskine, Ren, and Croxton had gone off to forage for dinner. Everyone except Erskine returned. We were told that it was an accident. They had separated to cover more ground, and Ren placed a shaft in Erskine … by mistake. They buried him in a shallow grave, and we moved on.”
This time, they left Croxton for the crows with the dead Sembians, Cyric thought. He didn’t even merit a shallow grave. “Maybe they were telling the truth,” the lean thief suggested.
Slater bit her lip, then let out a deep breath. “Erskine was a troublemaker. He had known Tyzack for many years, even before the formation of our company. The man was loud and stupid, and he took liberties no one in the company would ever dream of risking. Erskine courted death until, one day, it came to collect him. We were all glad to be rid of him.”
“Why are you willing to tell me all this?” Cyric asked after a moment. The thief felt he knew the answer, but he wanted Slater to say the words aloud and commit herself to the course of action they would imply.
The woman looked at the thief for a moment, then glanced back at the Zhentish following them. “Because Tyzack is weak” Slater stated without emotion. “He’s not a warrior. His dreams consist of a comfortable place somewhere in the bureaucracy of the Black Network. His reticence to engage in battle has cost us days of travel. By the time we reach Scardale, the war may be over. If not, our task will be to protect Tyzack’s life at all cost.
“The other Zhentilar, the ones who follow brave leaders, will be awarded the glory and honor of conquering our enemies for Lord Bane. If I can help it, I will not be denied that opportunity,” Slater growled and put her hand back on her crossbow’s stock.
“What do you mean to do?” Cyric said, again trying to look innocent.
“Don’t be coy!” Slater hissed. “Your talents do not lie in the art of deception, no matter how much you believe they do.”
Cyric looked ahead. They would soon catch up to Willingale, the point man.
“I know you, Cyric. You’re a thief. You’re a murderer. And you’re ambitious,” Slater growled. “Lie to the others, if you want. Not to me. I can help you … and help myself by doing so.”
The warrior gripped the mane of her horse as she said, “The time to act may not come until we are in the thick of battle in Scardale. All we may have to do is allow ourselves to be distracted long enough for an enemy sword to take Tyzack’s head off.”
“Good,” Cyric said, dropping his facade of innocence. “And if the opportunity comes sooner?”
The woman narrowed her eyes again and looked at the thief as if she was seeing him for the very first time. “Then we will take it,” Slater said. “Afterward, you will give me my own command. Thirty good soldiers would do. That way, if your blood turns out to be as thin as Tyzack’s, we will not find each other in opposition. I will take my soldiers to battle. You will do whatever you wish. Agreed?” The Zhentish soldier looked directly at Cyric’s eyes now, waiting for his reply.
“Agreed!” Cyric said after a moment, returning Slater’s stare.
Willingale was almost within hearing range, so Cyric let the conversation die. And as the Scorpions approached, the heavyset Zhentish soldier turned and signaled them to hurry to his side. “Glad you came out here, sir,” Willingale said to Cyric. “You’ve saved me the trouble of coming back to report.” He pointed. “There’s something on the horizon.”
The thief followed Willingale’s finger and saw a bright, steady light in the distance. The pitted, mountainous rise to the right flank of the Zhentish forces provided no cover for the troops from whatever was creating the light. In fact, there was absolutely no sign of natural protection wi
thin three hundred yards in either direction.
“It could be a trap,” Willingale said, scratching his chin. “Our enemy could be waiting in the ribs off the spine of that rise. The rifts could hold a hundred men or more.”
“Perhaps,” Cyric answered. “But why alert us to the danger?
Why not just lie in wait, then take us by surprise? There must be some other explanation.”
“It could be just some natural reflection of the sunlight … or even some manifestation of the chaos in nature,” Slater noted, reigning in her horse. “The light never seems to change.”
“We’ll ride back and inform Tyzack,” Cyric said to the point man. “Keep watching, and let us know if you see anything else, but don’t go any farther. When the company catches up to you, you’ll get new orders.”
Willingale nodded as Cyric and Slater turned and rode back to the main body of the Zhentish army. The female soldier remained silent for a moment, then noted, “An ambush would give us just the opportunity we’re after, Cyric.”
“At the expense of how many of our fellow Zhentilar, or even our own lives?” the thief asked gruffly. “There will be better opportunities than this. Besides, we have another problem—Ren. He blends into the background so well that I hardly notice he’s around. Yet he seems to be Tyzack’s true second-in-command, no matter who holds the actual title. Any plans we make will have to take his interference into account.”
The thief and the warrior arrived at the front line of the Zhentish advance. Tyzack and Ren were waiting for them. The leader of the Scorpions trembled with barely controlled rage.
“Would the two of you like to explain yourselves?” Tyzack screamed. The dark-haired man waved his fist in the air as if he were shaking dice.
Cyric looked to Slater, then back to Tyzack. “I don’t understand. What did we do that requires explanation?”
“Spare me,” Tyzack growled. “Word came to me that the two of you left the ranks, and so I was forced to come to the front and investigate. The penalty for desertion is—”
The thief’s features turned as hard as stone. “Am I your second-in-command?”
Tyzack flinched. “What has that to do with anything? You will be treated exactly the same as any other Zhentilar.”
“You’re wrong,” Cyric snapped. “As second-in-command, it’s my duty to see that your policies are followed to the letter when you are not present to enforce them.”
The dark eyes of the Zhentish leader narrowed.
“Willingale was staying far too close to the main body,” Cyric continued, pointing toward the soldier as he spoke. “He is not a Scorpion and does not know your views about serving as point man for the Zhentilar.” The thief paused and smiled. “Of course, we both know that if Willingale was close enough for our men to see him too clearly—which he was—then he was far too close to be an effective scout. Slater and I informed him of his error.” Again the thief paused. This time, however, he turned to look at the Zhentish woman. “That’s when he pointed out the strange light on the horizon—right, Slater?”
Ren leaned close to the company’s leader and whispered something in his ear. “What strange light?” Tyzack asked as soon as Ren had finished speaking to him. “What’s causing it?”
Cyric forced a look of bewilderment onto his face. “We don’t know,” the thief said. He related what he and Slater had seen—and their personal views of the situation—to Tyzack. “I instructed Willingale to hold his position until you caught up with him.”
The black-haired Zhentish leader ran a hand through his tangled hair and grinned a wolfish smile. “All right,” he muttered, motioning to Ren. “Let’s bring the company to a halt. It may be nothing, but someone is going to have to investigate before we can ride any farther.”
The Zhentish leader then turned to the hawk-nosed thief. “Cyric, since you seem to have unlimited amounts of initiative today, the task of discovering the nature of the strange light goes to you … and Ren. Slater will remain with me. Your climbing skills may come in handy. Scale that southern rise and follow its path until you can tell what’s producing the light.”
Cyric’s heart skipped a beat as he stared into Ren’s narrow face. The man’s eyes were cold, emotionless. Ren stared back at Cyric as if the thief were a corpse that didn’t have the sense to lie down and allow itself to be buried. In short, Tyzack’s orders were a death sentence, and both Cyric and Ren knew it.
“Be careful up there. With all the gaps and rifts, it would be a shame if either of you had an accident,” Tyzack said, still grinning evilly. Ren nodded and gestured for Cyric to lead the way.
“Of course,” Cyric said cheerfully, pretending that the Zhentish leader’s orders had no particular significance. Yet, as the thief kicked the sides of his mount and prodded the beast forward, he growled, “Good-bye, Tyzack … Slater.”
Ren followed close behind the thief, and the two men were no more than a hundred feet away from the Zhentish column when Tyzack and Slater both screamed. Cyric turned, confused … until he saw the shining, diamond-shaped sliver of steel approaching from the east, tumbling end-over-end as it pierced the air, heading directly toward the main body of Zhentilar—toward Slater and Tyzack.
The hawk-nosed thief drew his dagger and tossed the weapon in one fluid motion. Cyric’s knife sailed through the air and passed the deadly shard, which was only slightly larger than the dagger itself, an instant too soon. The flechette continued on. Suddenly the sound of metal striking metal echoed through the air. Although it was a small sound, very high-pitched, Cyric started as he heard it.
Ren had tossed one of his own daggers and deflected the steel shard from its path. Slater and Tyzack were safe.
The thief forced his body to relax as he focused his attention on Ren. The Zhentilar was, quite possibly, Cyric’s equal with a blade, and that knowledge made the thief thankful that they had been temporarily recalled from their “mission.” Cyric knew that it was up to him to make the reprieve permanent.
His original plan had been to kill Ren on the skeletal ridge, then escape over the southern side of the rise and head for the Ashaba. But without a horse or supplies, his chances for survival were slim. Should Tyzack turn vengeful and order just a few Zhentish soldiers to track him down, his chances were downright dismal. And returning to the advance with Ren dead would have been out of the question, too. Tyzack would have executed Cyric on the spot. So, since the mission to the ridge was a no-win situation, the thief knew that he had to find a way to turn the current situation in his favor.
Slater stared at the ground six feet before her, where the two-foot-long sliver of steel had fallen. She looked at Cyric and saw the frustration in his face, then turned to Ren and said, “My thanks.”
“I am here to serve,” the blond Zhentilar replied, his voice low and scratchy.
Tyzack was staring off at the horizon. “What was that?” he asked, visibly shaken.
Ren leaped from his mount and reached down to grab both his dagger and the diamond-shaped metal shard. The blond man picked up his knife, but there was a hissing sound the moment Ren’s hand touched the steel sliver. The Zhentilar drew back, holding his right hand in his left.
“Damn!” he growled. “The sliver burns!”
“There must be a sorcerer involved,” Tyzack hissed as he tried to regain his composure. “I see no one near, and nothing could have thrown that shard all the way from the rise. It’s simply too far away.”
The thief instinctively thought of Midnight, then chided himself for the foolish thought. The mage would never be stupid enough to confront a three-hundred-man regiment of Zhentilar. Then a thought occurred to the thief. “If it was a mage, it might explain the light in the distance,” Cyric noted aloud.
Suddenly a shadow passed over the Zhentish forces, and an audible gasp erupted from the troops. As Cyric looked up, his hand moving onto the hilt of his dagger, the thief saw a swirling mass of glittering light hovering above them. Squinting, Cyric realized that,
although he was looking full into the sun, a curtain of steel fragments hung in the sky, blocking his view. Sparks of light refracted from the myriad surfaces of a storm cloud formed from metal shards.
“What is that?” Tyzack cried, his voice cracking. The Zhentish leader reached over and clawed at Slater’s shoulder, trying to get her attention. The warrior shrunk away from Tyzack’s touch as she controlled an urge to grasp the man’s hand, yank him from his mount, and cut his throat as he fell.
Instead, Slater yelled, “Don’t touch me!” and shoved Tyzack’s hand away.
“Tyzack!” Ren murmured, disquiet showing in his ragged voice. “What are your orders?”
A single shard fell from the heavens like a drop of water dripping from the tip of an icicle that had begun to melt. Tyzack tore his gaze from the skies and covered the back of his head with his arms, then he thrust his face into the mane of his horse. From a hundred feet behind the black-haired leader, there was a scream.
“It got Sykes in the leg!” someone shouted.
Some of the Zhentish soldiers had begun to break ranks, scattering across the flat, open field. “There’s nowhere to hide!” someone screamed, and a ripple of panicked cries arose from the troops.
Cyric watched the leader of the Zhentilar quake and moan in fear. “Ren’s right!” the hawk-nosed thief growled as Tyzack slowly raised his head. Contempt for the coward raged within Cyric as he cried, “You must give an order!”
Tyzack was about to speak when another shard fell from the sky, this one sailing toward the front of the advance, where the Scorpions had gathered. Praxis was struck in the shoulder by the sliver of metal, and he howled in agony as the sharp tip exited the back of his arm.
“I’m—I’m burning!” Praxis screamed as a grayish black mist rose from the wound. The soldier tried to pluck out the shard, but the effort only caused him greater pain.
Cyric and Ren turned to face the rest of the Zhentish army. Both men shouted for calm, then looked at Tyzack, waiting for the man to speak. Discord was spreading through the ranks, and individual leaders were trying to take control of the individual factions within the force.
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