The darkness didn’t answer. “Be a man,” said Moanda in disgust.
“‘H!’“ roared Kovost suddenly, no longer perplexed but inspired. “‘H,’ by all the gods!”
Halladon felt a thrill of hope. “Do you actually know what Osher meant?”
The dwarf gave him a savage grin. “Oh, I believe so, Elf-get. I should have figured it out before, but I was overlooking the obvious. No one ever saw the killer sneaking into or out of camp because he was here all the time, using magic to murder his comrades silently from a distance. He made sure to butcher Osher first lest the priest divine the evil in his heart, then did his level best to persuade the rest of us to ignore the clue our poor friend left us. ‘H’ stands for Halladon!”
The half-elf gaped at him. “That’s insane! You’ve seen my magic, paltry thing that it is. You know I can’t cast a spell that could kill someone without the sentries noticing.”
“We’ve only seen what you’ve chosen to show us,” Moanda said. “Who knows what other filthy sorceries you command?” Her broadsword with its eagle-head pommel whispered out of its scabbard.
“But why would I kill Perys and the others?”
“That’s an easy one,” Kovost said. “You want all the gems for yourself.” Behind him, Gybik was approaching. He looked less angry, less certain of Halladon’s guilt than the others, but he had his short sword in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.
Loath as he would be to strike at his friends, their demeanor was so menacing that Halladon could only wish he’d buckled on his own sword. But like his bow, quiver, and pack, it still lay next to his cloak and blankets. All he had were the dirk and pouch which never left his belt. “You’re wrong,” he said. “Think about it. I reached Osher’s body ahead of everyone else. Were I the killer, I would have wiped the ‘H’ away.”
“Maybe you didn’t notice it in time,” Moanda said. “At any rate, we see the truth at last, and your serpent’s tongue won’t convince us otherwise. Take him!” She and Kovost surged at him, with Gybik bringing up the rear. Scrambling backward, the half-elf rattled off a spell.
A quartet of Halladons, identical to the original in every respect, flickered into existence around him. Wheeling, he broke for the trees, his illusory twins aping his motions as swiftly and precisely as reflections in a mirror.
His comrades gave chase. Gybik’s knife whizzed through one of phantasms, bursting it like a soap bubble. A slash of Moanda’s sword dispersed a second illusion, and she snarled in frustration.
Halladon plunged into the pines. Kovost’s axe spun past him and for an instant, the half-elf grinned. The weapon wasn’t balanced for throwing, and the short-legged dwarf wouldn’t have hurled it if he hadn’t fallen behind.
Moanda and Gybik began to collide with the branches and trip over the gnarled roots which Halladon, with his superior night vision, was avoiding. By the time the remaining illusions winked out of existence, he’d lost himself in the night.
The wind howled and snow flurried down from the sky. A rampart of towering storm clouds, like a second tier of mountains stacked atop the first, veiled the midday sun. As he trudged along shaking, hugging himself for warmth, Halladon strained to listen. He didn’t think his erstwhile companions would attempt another ambush, but then, he hadn’t thought they’d mistake him for a murdering traitor either, and in any case, it wouldn’t do to catch up with them before dark.
After his escape, he’d felt a bitter rage at the way his friends had turned on him, but the emotion hadn’t lasted. He knew that Moanda, Kovost, and Gybik hadn’t wanted to believe him a murderer. With the company dying one by one, it was imperative that they figure out how it was happening, and the dwarf’s accusation had had a superficial air of plausibility. It should have come as no surprise that Halladon had failed to persuade the others of his innocence, especially since he had no alternative explanation of his own to offer, just as it was only natural that they’d taken up arms against the supposed author of their misfortunes with such dispatch. He understood why they’d behaved as they had, and he forgave them.
Which was just as well, because it was vital that he reunite himself with them. No doubt with malice aforethought, they’d taken his gear with them when they moved on, and, inadequately clad and armed, bereft of his grimoire, rations, and water bottle, he had virtually no chance of making it out of the Nether Mountains. Even if properly equipped he likely couldn’t survive the trek alone. The rugged, predator-infested country was simply too dangerous.
Obviously, he could only regain his comrades’ trust by revealing the true killer, and it occurred to him that he might now be in a better position to do precisely that. The foe was adept at concealing itself from whatever guards the adventurers posted. But perhaps a hidden observer, lurking just outside the camp, someone of whose presence it was unaware, would be able to spot it.
It seemed a promising plan. To try it, all he had to do was make it through the day.
His extremities grew numb, and his breath crackled in his nose. Occasionally he trudged past a hollow in the ground or in the escarpment beside the trail. He’d feel sorely tempted to huddle there to escape the freezing wind, but he didn’t dare let his friends get too far ahead. Instead, he imagined dancing hearth fires, steamy saunas, drafts of mulled red wine searing his throat and kindling a glow in his belly, and a feather bed heaped with eiderdowns with a warming pan tucked underneath.
It didn’t seem to help much. He promised himself that if by some miracle he survived this nightmare, he’d flee to sunny Chessenta where winter was a myth, and never wander north again.
By mid afternoon, the cold had reduced him to a miserable, shambling somnolence, his consciousness wavering in and out of focus. Once he roused to find himself plodding down the wrong side of the path, a mere inch from a prodigious drop. The danger jolted him back to full awareness, and that was when he heard the guttural orcish voices whispering from somewhere back up the trail. Thank Corellon he had sharp ears, and that sound carried well in the mountains.
It would be suicide to confront the creatures here, where there was no room to maneuver. Halladon ran, and though he tried to do so quietly, he heard the orcs immediately break into a run as well. They were hunting him.
After a switchback turn the way widened out into a promontory supporting a stand of stunted spruces. Panting, his heart pounding, Halladon hid behind one of the trees and prepared to cast one of the two spells left in his memory.
Three ores trotted into view. They wore ragged garments crudely dyed with ugly, clashing colors-muddy mauves, garish oranges, and mustard yellows. Deep cowls shadowed their swinish faces, protecting their bloodshot eyes against the hated daylight; had the sun been shining, they likely wouldn’t have ventured from their lair at all. Even from across the bluff, Halladon caught the sour stink of their blemishedolive flesh. Grateful that he hadn’t attracted the notice of a full-sized war party, he let them trot as close as he dared, then took hold of his piece of moss and whispered the incantation.
On the far side of the ores, white light flowered amid the branches of an evergreen. On a brighter day, they might not even have noticed, but on this gray, overcast afternoon the shimmer caught their eyes. Exclaiming in surprise, they pivoted toward the glow.
Halladon rattled off his final spell. Two slivers of azure radiance streaked from his fingertips and buried themselves in the closest ore’s back. The creature collapsed. Halladon sprang to his feet and charged. The remaining orcs began to blunder back around. The nearer one, a pot-bellied specimen with a necklace of mummified ears, caught sight of the half-elf rushing at it and its piggy eyes widened. It tried to swing its spear point into line, but was an instant too slow. Halladon thrust his dirk into the creature’s chest.
Knowing he had no chance of taking the last orc by surprise, the adventurer yanked his weapon free and whirled to face it. The creature, a hulking brute with delicately wrought bands of gold-perhaps plunder from some massacred caravan-gleaming on its corded, simian arms, threw its spear. Halladon dodged it by a hair. The orc whipped out a scimitar and rushed him.
The half-elf had to overcome the advantage of his foe’s longer, heavier blade, and he knew he’d only get one chance to do it. He retreated several steps while the scimitar, whizzing through the air, missed him by inches. When he’d taken the measure of the orc’s attacks-the creature favored a high, horizontal, potentially beheading cut-he faked another step backward, crouched suddenly below the arc of his adversary’s stroke, and drove his dirk into its belly.
With a grunt, the orc doubled over. Halladon stabbed it again, this time in the heart. The brute dropped.
