by Troy Denning
“Don’t worry,” Adon assured her. “It’s one thing to rifle unwatched packs and quite another to steal from beneath an attentive guard’s nose.”
“Let’s hope so,” Kelemvor grumbled, heading into the forest in the direction opposite Midnight. Though he did not say so, the fighter hoped that he would run across some sign of the thief.
An hour later, Kelemvor returned with nothing save a healthy dread of the nuts he would have to call dinner. Night had fallen quickly, and he had been unable to see any tracks or droppings. Even when he’d sat quietly alongside the trail, the fighter had heard nothing but the hooting of an owl.
Midnight sat beside a small fire, opening gummy husks with her dagger. In her lap was a pile of shriveled nuts that looked about as appetizing as gravel. Adon had gathered a sizable stack of wood and was using his mace to smash it into fire-sized sticks.
“No meat?” the cleric asked, obviously disappointed. He had already tasted some of the butternuts and was hoping that Kelemvor would bring back something else for eveningfeast.
“Plenty of meat,” Kelemvor answered. “All on the hoof and far away.” He grabbed his saddlebags and poked around inside, hoping the thief had missed a broken corner of corn cake. Save for a few crumbs, the sack was completely empty. Kelemvor sighed, then decided to put away his remaining belongings before they also disappeared. “Let me have my flint and steel,” he told Adon.
“In your sack,” the cleric replied, throwing a stick onto the fire.
“They’re not there,” Kelemvor said, turning the saddlebags over.
“Look again,” Adon snapped, irritated by the fighter’s failure to return with a decent meal. “I put it there a half-hour ago.”
Kelemvor’s heart sunk. “The thief has returned,” he announced.
Midnight grabbed her own saddlebags and turned them over. They were empty. She turned on Adon. “You stupid oaf, my spellbook’s gone!”
“You were supposed to be guarding—” Kelemvor stopped in midsentence and fought back his rage. Anger would not recover their belongings. “Forget it. Anybody who can rifle packs beneath your nose is no ordinary thief.”
Midnight studied the fighter in open astonishment. “You can’t be Kelemvor Lyonsbane!” It was not like him to be so forgiving. The fighter’s calm demeanor made Midnight feel embarrassed by her own anger. Still, she couldn’t contain it. Without her spellbook, she was powerless.
Adon was paying no attention to either of them. He snatched up the saddlebags containing the tablet and slung them over his shoulder. He felt like a fool for letting the thief return, but he could live with embarrassment as long as they had the tablet.
Though he had conquered his anger, Kelemvor wasn’t ready to give their possessions up for lost. He went to the edge of the campsite and carefully inspected the shrubbery. After several minutes of searching, he found a few crumbs of corn biscuit. The warrior quietly called his companions over and pointed out the crumbs.
Midnight started into the forest at a sprint, heedless of the noise she was making. Kelemvor and Adon quickly caught her.
“Slowly,” the fighter suggested, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“We don’t have time!” she retorted. “The thief has my spellbook!”
“He won’t get far tonight,” Kelemvor replied. “But if he hears us coming, we’ll never find him.”
“What makes you think he’s afraid of the dark?” Midnight snapped, twisting free of Kelemvor’s grip.
“Fan out and be quiet,” Adon ordered, taking charge of the situation. He knew Kelemvor was right about moving quietly, but he also thought it unlikely they would find the thief on the basis of a few crumbs. “We need another clue before we know which way our thief went.”
Midnight sighed and did as the cleric suggested. Ten minutes later, she found a ball of sulfur wax on the ground. It was one of the extra spell components she had kept in one of her saddlebags.
“It’s not much,” Adon noted, turning the ball over in his hand, “but it’s all we have to go on.” He traced a line from where Kelemvor found the crumbs to where Midnight found the wax. It led away from camp at an angle ninety degrees to the direction Midnight and Kelemvor had originally intended to go. “I’d say he’s out there somewhere. We’d better approach quietly.”
The trio began picking their way through the dark forest. Several times, a foot fell on a dry stick and snapped it, and once Adon tripped and could not contain a groan as he landed. Nevertheless, the heroes’ eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dark and they became more adept at moving quietly.
Soon, the telltale glimmer of a campfire danced off the tree trunks ahead. The companions slowed their pace and crept up to the edge of a clearing.
Two dozen halflings, mostly women and children, sat in a circle. They wore the same simple cotton clothes as the dead halflings from the village. A matronly woman was using Kelemvor’s dagger to slice corn cakes into bite-sized portions. Three juicy rabbits, each large enough to feed the entire camp, roasted over the fire.
Several halfling children huddled together beneath a tent made from Kelemvor’s heavy cloak, while an old man poured wine down his throat from the thumb of Kelemvor’s glove. Although the camp did not appear cheerful, neither was it melancholy. The halflings were resolutely continuing their lives under adverse conditions, and Kelemvor could not help but admire their determination.
Adon signaled the fighter to circle around to the left side of the camp, then instructed Midnight to circle around to the right. The cleric silently indicated that he would stay where he was.
Kelemvor moved to obey and, seven steps later, put his foot on a stick. It cracked with an alarming pop. The halflings turned toward the sound, and the adults grabbed nearby large sticks to serve as weapons.
The warrior shrugged and stepped into the clearing. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, holding his empty hands in plain sight.
The matronly halfling stared at Kelemvor in astonishment and fright. The others stepped away, brandishing their weapons and chattering between themselves in their own language. The children began to cry and ran behind the adults.
Kelemvor kneeled, hoping to appear less intimidating. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated.
A moment later, Midnight stepped into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. She said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice was comforting and melodious. The halflings looked startled, but they did not flee.
A shrewd look of comprehension crossed the matron’s brow, then she turned to Kelemvor. “What you want? Come back to finish job?” She held the stolen dagger toward the fighter.
Adon stepped into the light, taking advantage of the opportunity to say, “No. We’re not the ones who—”
“Phaw!” the woman spat, turning Kelemvor’s dagger in Adon’s direction. “Tall Ones all the same. Come to loot rich halfling cities.” She waved the weapon menacingly. “Not take Berengaria without fight. Cut off—”
“Please!” Adon cried, pointing at the dagger. “That’s our knife you’re using to threaten me!”
“Mine now,” Berengaria replied. “Spoils of war, like tent—” She waved at Kelemvor’s cloak. “—and wineskin.” She pointed at his glove.
“We’re not at war!” Kelemvor interrupted, his patience strained. Considering how close they lived to Hilp, these halflings seemed remarkably wild and uncivilized. Perhaps they weren’t welcome in the city, for halflings were commonly considered to be a race of thieves. Apparently, it was a well-earned reputation.
“We at war,” Berengaria snarled. She nodded at two old men and they stepped forward, bearing spears folded into two pieces. Despite the old men’s trembling arms, Kelemvor was nervous. Their spears were woomeras, a special weapon he had seen used to good effect. The woomera was simply a three-foot stick with a groove along the length and a cup at the end. The halfling warrior placed his spear in the groove, then used the stick like an extension of his arm, launching the spear with incredi
ble speed and accuracy. In the proper hands, the weapon was as accurate and powerful as a longbow.
Adon stepped forward, careful to keep his empty hands in sight. “We didn’t destroy your village. We’re your friends.”
“To prove it,” Kelemvor added, “we’ll make a gift of the dagger, the tent, and the wineskin.” He pointed at the items as he mentioned them.
Adon frowned but said nothing. The “gifts” Kelemvor had named belonged to him, and it was his business if he wanted to give them away.
The matron studied the heroes for a long time, shrewdly appraising their words. “Gifts?”
Kelemvor nodded. “To help your village recover.”
“What you want in return?” Berengaria demanded, squinting at the warrior.
“The book,” Adon said. “And Kelemvor’s flint and steel. We need those to survive.”
Berengaria frowned in concentration, but the children began giggling and she said, “Done. We all—”
Midnight, silent until now, let out a cry of anguish and rushed to the fire. Pulling his sword, Kelemvor leaped past Berengaria and her two old men. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“My spellbook!” the raven-haired mage yelled. “They burned it!” She snatched Kelemvor’s sword, then started poking at a wide strip of shriveled leather in the fire. Kelemvor knew the book was where Midnight stored her spells when they were not committed to memory, so he could understand why she was so upset. Still, he grabbed his sword away from her and put it back into its sheath; fire was no better for a sword’s temper than it was for a spellbook.
Midnight stared into the fire, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gone,” she whispered.
“It’s not so serious,” Kelemvor said, trying to comfort her.
Midnight whirled on him, her hands clenched into fists. “Serious!” she screamed. “You oaf! Those were my spells—without them, I’m nothing!”
A pall of silence fell over the camp. For several minutes, Midnight stared at Kelemvor as if the fighter had burned the spellbook himself. Finally, she hissed, “Was burying those halflings worth this?” She turned away and stared into the fire.
A moment later, Berengaria approached Adon. “We still have deal?” she asked timidly. “We still friends?”
Adon nodded. They had nothing to gain by punishing the halflings. “We’re still friends. You didn’t understand.”
“She might not have realized what the spellbook was,” said a clear, masculine voice. “But that’d be all she didn’t understand.” A gaunt halfling male stepped into the clearing. His skin was the color of ash, his eyes were rimmed with red, and a sloppy bandage circled his forehead.
The other halflings backed away from the newcomer, whispering amongst themselves. He knelt beside the fire and picked up two roasted rabbits. “Have these,” he said, giving one to Adon and one to Kelemvor. “There are plenty more where they came from, and it’s only a fair trade for all you’ve lost.”
Kelemvor accepted the rabbit, but made no move to eat it. The warrior had an uneasy feeling about this halfling, and it was not just because the others feared him. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Atherton Cooper,” the halfling replied, his gaze never faltering from the fighter’s. “But most call me Sneakabout. Now eat up. Berengaria has not been a good hostess this night.”
“Yes, please do,” Berengaria added. “We can always catch more coneys.” The matronly halfling put the dagger away and smiled.
It did not escape Adon’s notice that Berengaria’s Common had suddenly improved. It was clear to the cleric that the halfling had been playing them for fools.
“You’ve known all along we didn’t attack your village, haven’t you?” Adon demanded. “You were stealing our gear while we collected your dead!”
“That’s correct,” Berengaria replied, wincing. Then she turned to Kelemvor and added, “But that doesn’t negate our deal. What’s done is done. Besides, our need is great.”
The green-eyed fighter grunted and took a bite from the rabbit. He had no intention of demanding back what he had offered to the halflings, for Berengaria spoke the truth about their need. Nevertheless, he didn’t enjoy losing his possessions through guile and trickery.
The warrior chewed slowly, considering Atherton Cooper. Sneakabout was taller and thinner than most of his race, and there was a certain menace to his manner. The tall halfling was the only able-bodied male in the camp, and that in itself was suspicious. Still, Sneakabout was the only halfling who had not stolen from or lied to the heroes, and Kelemvor was determined to treat honesty and respect in kind.
“Where are the other men?” the fighter asked between mouthfuls of rabbit. “There weren’t many in the village, and there are fewer here.”
“Gone to massage their vanity while their womenfolk starve in the forest,” Sneakabout replied.
Berengaria turned from Midnight, whom she was trying to comfort, and added, “The menfolk were hunting when the Zhentilar—”
“Zhentilar?” Adon interrupted. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, I’m sure,” Berengaria replied. “They wore the armor of Zhentil Keep, didn’t they? Anyway, the men were gone, or there would have been a different story to tell in Black Oaks. Now our warriors have gone to track down those sons-of-sows!”
“And to get themselves killed,” Sneakabout added bitterly.
Berengaria glared menacingly at Sneakabout. “They’ll be fine without your company,” she snapped.
Sneakabout snorted in reply. “They’ll be outnumbered, outsized, and outwitted.”
Kelemvor agreed with Sneakabout, though he didn’t say so. Even if the halflings caught the raiders, the Zhentilar would cut the inexperienced warriors to shreds. The soldiers of Zhentil Keep were vicious sneaks and backstabbers who would never fight unless assured of an easy victory.
After a thoughtful pause, Sneakabout glumly noted, “I wish I were with the fellows.”
“Why aren’t you?” Adon asked, watching the halfling suspiciously, still not comfortable with the demihuman’s sinister bearing.
“They wouldn’t have me,” the halfling answered, shrugging.
“It was his fault they came in the first place!” grumbled Berengaria, pointing a gnarled finger at Sneakabout’s face. “He had his own pony and a magic sword. That’s what they wanted!”
Adon turned to Sneakabout. “Is that right?”
The halfling shook his head and looked at the ground. “Maybe,” he mumbled. Then he lifted his gaze. “But I doubt it. They wouldn’t have needed to raze the whole town to get what they wanted—they caught me on their way in.”
The halfling’s red-rimmed eyes grew hard and distant. “Say, you wouldn’t be going north, would you? I’d sure like to catch those Zhentish pigs!”
Kelemvor swallowed a bite of rabbit and said, “As luck would have it—”
“Kelemvor!” Adon hissed sharply. “We’ve got our own trouble.”
Sneakabout drew himself up before Adon. “Without your spellcaster’s book, you’ll need all the help you can get. I’m as fine a scout as you’ll meet outside of Elventree.”
Adon shook his head firmly. “I’m afraid—”
“He can ride with me,” Kelemvor noted flatly, his voice a throaty growl. “Where’s your sense of courtesy, Adon?”
The young cleric glared at the warrior for a long moment, once again irritated by Kelemvor’s refusal to listen to him. At last, he decided not to argue the point, as long as the fighter was willing to yield something to him. “Then we leave at dawn!” Adon said, summoning his most commanding voice.
Kelemvor would not be bullied. “No. The halfling dead—”
“Will be buried by halflings!” Adon finished, pointing at Kelemvor with a grease-covered finger. “You don’t care about these people! You only want to prove your curse is gone. Don’t you think we know that?” He glanced at Midnight, who was still staring at the remains of her spellbook. “Your test has cost us too much, Kel.”
The cleric put his hand on the raven-haired mage’s shoulder. He looked at the fire and added, “I just hope we can make it to Waterdeep without Midnight’s spells to aid us.”
The four companions left Black Oaks at dawn—hungry, cold, and wet. During the night, the orange fog had changed to a chill drizzle that continued to fall through the morning. Breakfast had been nonexistent. The halflings had eaten the last of the corn biscuits the night before, and in the gray morning light, the greasy hare looked appetizing only to Kelemvor.
Adon took the lead, suggesting they travel north to Eveningstar, then rethink their route to Waterdeep. Sneakabout made the mistake of saying he knew a shortcut, so Adon insisted that the halfling ride with him to act as a guide. Neither enjoyed the experience. Despite his loss of faith, Adon’s conversation was no less pedantic, and Sneakabout was not a tolerant listener.
Kelemvor, his brow gloomy and troubled, followed next. Twice, he tried to apologize to Midnight for losing her spellbook. Each time his voice failed him and he barely managed a croak.
Midnight came last, still too upset to speak. There was a hollow knot of panic and sorrow in her stomach. Since her sixteenth birthday, she had carefully recorded every spell she could learn in the book, and it had become almost an extension of her soul. Without it she felt barren and worthless, like a mother without children.
Still, all was not lost. Midnight still had several spells firmly committed to memory, and she could copy these down in a new book. Some were so common that, given time and the help of a friendly mage, she could easily relearn them. With a week or two of research, the raven-haired mage might be able to rebuild others. But a few, such as the phantasmal force and plant growth spells, were so alien to her way of thinking that she could never reconstruct them. Those spells were gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.
All in all, the situation was not as terrible as it had at first seemed. Unfortunately, that realization had not yet diminished Midnight’s anger. She desperately wanted to blame somebody for the book’s destruction, and since Kelemvor had been the one who had led them to Black Oaks, he was the easiest target.