muted squeak and went rigid. He would have used the spell in the barn but it could affect only one person. He listened carefully. The others slept on without stirring. The stink of the halfling's fear increased. Serrin inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma.
Another thought, and he brought into being a magical force, a physical manifestation of the power of his mind. With that invisible mental 'hand,' he reached out and slowly unsheathed the dagger at the halfling's belt. The halfling's increasing terror was palpable.
Serrin lifted the blade to the halfling's throat, let its edge linger there for a time, then hover before his eyes. The little creature's heart was racing, Serrin knew.
But not for long.
Sweat beaded on the halfling's brow. He was desperate to slip the immobilizing effect of Serrin's spell, but to no avail. Serrin's magic was too strong, the halfling's mind too weak.
Serrin removed the blade from before the halfling's face, floated it through the air, and brought it near his own bound body. Ever mindful of the other sleeping humans, he used the blade to silently slice through the cord and rope that bound him. He kept his unblinking gaze on the halfling throughout, promising with his eyes what he would do in only moments.
When he was free, he lay silent and still for a moment, letting the fear build in the halfling, letting the blood flow return to his pathetic human limbs. He kept his eyes on the little creature throughout. The sweat on the halfling's face glistened in the dying embers of the fire.
Serrin took the halfling's dagger in his hand and slowly sat up. The air was pungent with the stink of the halfling's terror. He could fairly feel the mind of the little rat struggling to slip free of the spell.
Vain. Vain. All vain.
Serrin unfolded himself and stood up, his movements as silent as a whisper. He stared down at the horrified halfling. Three strides away, the would-be torturers slept. Serrin cocked his head, studying the one-eyed human, so vulnerable….
But no. The halfling would make for amusing sport first. His terror had whetted Serrin's appetite.
He turned back to eye the little creature. He stepped forward, the dagger bare at his side. Sweat poured down the halfling's face. Veins pulsed in his forehead. Serrin kneeled down and took the halfling's face in his hand.
He pushed himself into the halfling's mind and found it a jumble of terror and frustration. Not a coherent thought to be found.
You're frightened, he projected into the halfling's mind, and savored the creature's shock at the telepathic contact. I smell it.
He leaned forward and ran his tongue along the halfling's jawline, just above the jugular, drinking in the sweat.
I taste it.
The pathetic little being actually tried to control its fear by praying. Serrin smiled. No god would help this one.
All at once, he decided to let the halfling see him, the real him, in his true form.
He mentally recited the words that allowed him to take other forms, and with that, he began to change, to grow. When his feeble human fingers had once more become his claws, when his mouth had once more become his maw, he gave the halfling a grin wide enough to swallow the little creature's head.
When the halfling's prayers turned to mental screams, Serrin smiled. He enjoyed the fear for a moment, then began to administer pain.
Cale knew that he was dreaming but could not wake himself. He sat in his favorite chair back in his quarters in Stormweather Towers. Strangely, flames consumed his bed, but he warmed his hands before the blaze as though it was a campfire. A chill breeze blew through his only window, sealed not with his usual shutters but with draperies-red curtains with green ovals. Odd, he thought. He had never had draperies in his room.
The breeze gusted, grew harsher, colder, and the curtains began to tear. Strips peeled off and blew around the room. He thought he could hear the whisper of a scream as they shredded. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and held his hands before the dancing flames.
'Chill wind blowing,' said Riven from beside him.
Cale turned with a start. He had not noticed Riven before. The assassin sat in Thamalon's favorite rocking chair, the one made from Archendale walnut. Strangely, Riven's right eye was the scarred hole. Cale would have sworn it was Riven's left eye that should be gone. This could not be Riven, could it? Tiny stars seemed to twinkle in the blackness of the empty socket. Cale leaned in closer to better see-
— and without warning, Riven leaped from the chair, grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed into his face, 'Wake up!'
Cale snapped open his eyes, heart racing. Beside him, the campfire had burned down to embers. He lay still and stared up at the cloudy night sky. What had the dream meant?
He heard a sound, like wet fabric being slowly torn, like curtains shredding in the wind. His skin went gooseflesh. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked across the campsite to Jak….
A horror stood over the halfling, flaying him alive.
'Jak!' Cale leaped to his feet, blade bear, holy symbol somehow already in his hand.
The creature uttered a surprised hiss and dropped into a hunched crouch as it whirled to face him.
To Cale's right, Riven awakened with a gasp, his hand going immediately to his unsheathed sabers, which lay beside him. He took in the scene in a breath.
'Dark!' he cursed, and scrambled to his feet.
Even hunched the creature stood taller than Cale, with warty green skin as creased and rough as old leather. Beside it Jak-held immobile by some spell, Cale assumed-looked as small as an infant. Arms as thick as Cale's legs ended in long, black nails; legs as wide as a man's waist ended in splayed, clawed feet. Veins, muscles and sinew pulsed and flexed with each movement of its powerful frame. A flat head, dominated by a wide mouth and row upon row of teeth, sat on a short, thick neck. Its face struck Cale as vaguely amphibian. Somehow, it reminded him of a toad. Its eyes were merciless gray slits-the easterner's eyes.
This was the easterner's true form, Cale intuitively knew. And he also knew, as he had known when he had faced the shadow demon Yrsillar, that this creature was not of Toril.
Jak's blood, black in the firelight, glistened on its clawed fingers.
'Everything feels pain,' the creature croaked, and winked at Riven.
It stuck its blood-soaked fingers in its huge mouth and slobbered them clean.
Cale roared and charged. Riven bounded over the campfire to join Cale's attack. As he did, the assassin shouted a word that recalled to Cale the syllables the assassin sometimes spoke in his sleep: 'Vredlaul!'
The utterance of the word staggered the powerful creature. It stumbled backward a step as though it had been punched in the chest. Cale closed, raised his blade high-
— and the easterner croaked a word of power and darkness fell. Utter pitch. Cale could see nothing. He swung his blade anyway but struck nothing. He froze, dropped into a crouch, and listened.
'Here,' he hissed, so he and Riven could get an idea of where each stood.
'Here,' answered Riven, from his left.
Cale advanced a step, blade held ready for a quick stab in any direction, ears peeled. He had an idea of where Jak was and stayed in that vicinity.
'Here,' he said again.
'Here,' answered Riven, a few steps ahead of Cale but still to his right.
Cale heard nothing. Where was the blasted thing?
As abruptly as it fell, the darkness suddenly lifted. Cale and Riven stood a few paces apart. The creature was gone.
Cale kept his gaze from Jak, at least for the moment. He could not allow himself to be distracted.
He signaled Riven in handcant, Invisible. Move on my signal.
Riven nodded understanding.
Cale waited only a heartbeat before giving the signal.
Both men exploded into action around the campsite. Leaping, lunging, blades cutting the air. Neither struck
