Next to the armor lay three fine leather saddles. They were magnificently crafted, but far too large for any normal steed. As Durrock waited for his fellow assassins, he busied himself with checking the armor and tack.
Within five minutes, two more assassins quietly entered the empty, cavernous warehouse. Durrock nodded a silent greeting to the two men and moved toward the armor. The other assassins followed. Soon all three were fully clad in the frightening, deadly mail.
"Summon your mounts," Durrock said flatly as he placed a thick metal chain around his neck. A glowing black pendant hung on the end of the chain, in the shape of a small horse with glowing red eyes.
In unison, all three assassins held up identical pendants and slowly repeated a series of powerful commands. Bolts of red and black lightning flashed across the room. A swirling blue cloud appeared in the center of the room, high in the air, accompanied by a wave of noxious-smelling mist.
Three sets of glowing red eyes appeared in a rift in the cloud, and the assassins could hear the sound of heavy, thunderous hoofbeats. Their mounts were approaching.
First one, then another, then a third gigantic black horse leaped through the swirling rift and landed heavily on the floor of the warehouse. Fire flashed from the horses' hooves, and the creatures' nostrils flared orange. The huge ebon steeds reared and bared a set of perfectly white fangs.
"You are ours to command!" Durrock cried, holding the pendant out toward one of the nightmares. "Lord Bane has given us the tools to call you from the Planes to do our bidding!" The nightmare mounts reared again, breathing clouds of smoke from their nostrils.
The nightmares whinnied nervously as the assassins moved toward them, but the horses could do nothing to prevent the humans from saddling them. The special magical pendants Bane had provided for Durrock and his men gave them complete control over the strange otherworldly beasts.
Durrock wheeled his nightmare around and spurred it toward the huge double doors at the front of the warehouse. The nightmare reared up and gave the doors a mighty kick with its flaming hooves. The doors burst open, and the three assassins raced out into the street. At the sight, the nearby villagers gasped and shrieked. Several fainted dead away.
Durrock laughed and pulled up on his nightmare's reigns, and the creature leaped into the air. Within a few minutes the scarred assassin and his lieutenants were racing across the sky, the nightmares' hooves pounding flaring gouts of fire into the air as they flew toward Blackfeather Bridge.
Earlier in the day, Cyric had made the decision to portage the skiff around the dangerous rapids that lay ahead, where the horseshoe curve of the Ashaba led southwest and sprouted two tributaries before finishing its arc and traveling northeast. Midnight gazed at the violently churning water and felt relieved that they weren't going to attempt the passage. Fallen trees groped over the shoreline, their branches half buried in the water. The trees looked like gnarled gray hands with thousands of skeletal fingers. Large, craggy rocks rose up out of the water in the distance. Clouds of froth gathered before the rocks, calling attention to areas where the flow of the river was temporarily slowed by the stones.
Heavy woods stood sentinel on either side of the Ashaba, but there were occasional clearings on the shore, left, perhaps, by fishermen or other travelers. Cyric guided the skiff toward the eastern bank, where a small clearing was visible. As the heroes approached shore, the thief barked out orders for his companions to get out of the boat and guide it toward land.
Cyric jumped out of the boat, too, and together the three heroes dragged the skiff to shore. Beyond the small clearing lay a path that followed the bank of the river. Obviously they weren't the first to choose not to brave the rapids downstream.
"We'll have to carry the boat awhile," Cyric grumbled as he pulled his pack from the skiff. "That path should take us to the edge of the woods. We can follow the Ashaba for a little ways, then cut overland through Battledale and get the boat back into the water beyond the bend." The thief paused to wipe sweat from his eves. "Is that simple enough for everyone to follow?"
Midnight flinched. "You don't have to treat us like children, Cyric. Your meaning is quite clear." The raven-haired mage grabbed the sack containing her spellbook and slung it over her shoulder.
"Is it?" Cyric said, then turned his back on the mage and shrugged. "Perhaps…"
Placing her hand on Cyric's upper arm, Midnight gave a gentle squeeze, then rested her forehead on his shoulder. "Cyric, I'm your friend. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me about it if you need to talk."
The thief pulled away from Midnight's comforting touch with obvious repulsion, as if her fingers were the legs of a spider. He refused to look at her. "I don't need to talk to anyone," he snapped. "Besides, you wouldn't like what I had to say."
Behind Midnight and Cyric, Adon trembled and climbed into the boat. The cleric pulled his knees up to his face and closed his eyes. Midnight took a step back toward the skiff, then stopped as she saw the thief's back tense, as if he were preparing to attack Adon. Instinctively, the mage stepped in front of the thief, blocking the quivering cleric from view.
"Cyric, you can say anything you want to me," Midnight pleaded. "Don't you know that by now? When you were wounded, on the ride to Tilverton, you told me so much about yourself, so much about the pain and the heartache that's driven you. I know your secrets, and I — "
"Don't badger me!" Cyric hissed as he moved closer to Midnight in a rage. The hawk-nosed man pointed at Midnight with his right hand, his fingers thrust forward like daggers. The mage backed away slowly.
"I–I wasn't," Midnight whispered. She looked into Cyric's eyes and shuddered. There was something in the thief's eyes that frightened her, something she had never noticed before.
"I know your secrets, too," Cyric growled. He stood only a few inches from the mage. "Don't forget that, Ariel!"
The mage stood perfectly still. Cyric had learned her true name on the journey to Shadowdale. With that information, in league with a powerful mage, the thief could, if he chose, hold dominion over her soul. Midnight knew she should have been afraid, but she was simply angry.
"You know nothing about me!" Midnight cried and turned to the boat. Adon stood up and held his hand out toward the mage.
"I know you," the cleric said softly and moved to Midnight's side. He pointed to Cyric, who was still glaring at the dark-haired magic-user. "I know you, too, Cyric."
The thief narrowed his eyes, then looked away and walked to the clearing. "We have a long journey. We should go now if we're going at all." After a moment, the thief cleared his throat and spoke again. "Are we going, Midnight?" he asked.
The mage trembled. "We're going. Let's go, Adon."
Smiling at the mage, Adon gathered the remaining gear and got out of the skiff. Both he and Midnight turned to Cyric, who was still standing a few yards away. The thief muttered something, walked to the skiff, and grabbed the bow. Midnight and Adon took hold of the stern, and together the travelers flipped the surprisingly light craft upside down and held it over their heads. They followed the path through the woods, parallel to the river, for nearly an hour, speaking only when necessary.
As the thief had suggested, the heroes soon broke from the woods to take the more direct route past the rapids. Soon, they were in view of the low, rolling hills of Battledale. For hours they were surrounded by lush green rises as they carried the boat over the soft ground. The hills in the distance seemed to melt, losing form until they became a hazy, greenish white wall on the horizon. A soft wind whispered over the dale, and occasionally a sound from the river made it to their ears.