city-states that made up the Heartlands, but even at seven, Artus could tell when his father was stretching the truth. And though the Shadowhawk was an overly proficient liar, it could not be denied many in Cormyr respected him as a master of his craft. Dozens of men from the Thieves Guild in the capital city of Suzail petitioned him regularly for apprenticeships. Scoril would accept none of them; if his craft was to be passed down, it would be through one of his two sons.
This cold Uktar night, it was Artus's turn to take up the mantle. His elder brother, Oric, had proved himself much more adept at robbing people. He was agile and as strong as many men twice his ten years in age. Yet Oric had also demonstrated himself incurably stupid time and time again-forgetting to disarm his victims or blurting out his father's name during a robbery. Never a patient man, the Shadowhawk couldn't bear these mistakes. So it had fallen upon Artus to become an apprentice highwayman. And even though he loathed the idea, he did his best to make his father happy.
Tonight, as on most nights, he failed.
'You're as bad as Oric!' The words struck Artus at the same time as the blow landed in the small of his back. The boy fell onto his chest, his ears ringing, his heart fluttering like a trapped songbird.
The Shadowhawk snorted. 'You're lucky there ain't no rider.'
'No rider?' Artus repeated.
'Course not.' The highwayman tossed a small pack at the boy. 'It was a test and you failed. What did I tell you about standing too long in the road during a jaunt?'
'That it's dangerous,' Artus replied. He sat up and slid his pack onto his shoulders, but kept his gaze carefully locked on the scuffed tips of his boots.
'And?' the Shadowhawk prompted, pulling the boy to his feet.
Artus buried one hand in his pocket. Drawing it out again, he opened his grimy fist to reveal a blue gem, which glowed softly with a magical radiance. 'And always keep this tight in one hand.'
'The stone'll protect you, keep you from being trampled. You remember that stiff I showed you in Suzail, the knuckler what got run over by the wagon?' The pained look on Artus's face, heightened by the weird radiance of the stone, was answer enough. The pickpocket's bloody corpse had taken up a vivid residence in his memory. 'Well, you'd look just as bad if a warhorse galloped over you.'
Scowling, the Shadowhawk brushed away the lone tear meandering down the boy's cheek. 'Oh, you're not 'urt,' he murmured. 'Right?'
'No, Father,' Artus said between sniffles.
'These jaunts are for your own good. There's always danger if you're going to be a scamp, and I've seen a lot of blokes get killed being careless.' He reached down and tucked the boy's tunic into his belt. 'But you've got something they didn't 'ave, right? You've got brains. That makes you better than the little brats what only earn their blunt as buzzmen, swiping 'andkerchiefs and 'ats from the swells in Suzail. You can be a scamp, like me. Maybe even a good one.'
The boy nodded and looked up at his father. The hood of the Shadowhawk's black cloak hid his stern features. That massive, shapeless cape had become a trademark of sorts for the highwayman, for it concealed both his face and his form. In the steady light of the gem, though, Artus glimpsed his father's hooked nose and the strange, predatory glint in his green eyes.
He'd seen that look many times on jaunts, but the first had been two years ago, when his father had beaten a fellow scamp unconscious on the road outside Suzail. The Shadowhawk, his hood knocked back in the fight, had stood over the man in mute triumph, assured the brigand was completely in his power. Now the gaze revealed how confident the Shadowhawk was his son had no ambitions, no dreams other than those he had instilled in him.
So intent was he upon Artus that the Shadowhawk didn't hear the oddly muffled sounds from up the road until it was too late. There was no thunder of hoofbeats, no clink and clatter of tack to warn of the approaching warhorse; the mount's magical horseshoes did their best to mask these noises. The barely audible creak of leather as reins and harness and saddle strained on the galloping destrier-this was all that alerted the highwayman to the threat at his back. He looked up just in time to see the massive white horse bearing down on him. Its rider, oblivious to the obstacle, stared intently over his shoulder.
'Tyr's eyes!' the Shadowhawk cursed and threw himself on top of Artus. At the same instant, the glowing gem in the boy's fist flashed brightly. A sphere of light welled up from the stone to surround the unfortunate pair huddled directly in the destrier's path.
The shout and the burst of magic from the gem snared the rider's attention, but not soon enough for him to do anything to avoid the pair. He wrenched the reins, but the warhorse half-jumped, half-stumbled over the highwayman and his son, its hooves rapping a loud and threatening drum roll on the arcane shield. The force of the assault knocked the magical bubble a dozen yards down the road. It rolled like a crazed billiard ball with the two robbers tumbling inside.
As soon as the danger had passed, the gem drew in the force shield, and the battered duo assessed their situation. The Shadowhawk had gained a few bruises and a throbbing headache from the tumble, Artus not even a scratch. The highwayman shook his head, the severe frown telling the boy quite bluntly this trouble was his fault and he would pay for it. The Shadowhawk probably would have meted out that rough justice, too, if the destrier and its rider weren't sprawled, unmoving, at the edge of the road opposite the hedgerow.
'I'll check him,' Artus said, adjusting his near-empty pack on his shoulders. If the jaunt went well, the sack would soon be full of coins and anything of value they might be able to fence in Suzail.
'Yeah, awright.' The Shadowhawk rubbed the welt on his arm roughly. 'Give 'im a topper if 'e's twitching too much.'
Artus shuddered. Robbing people at knifepoint was one thing. Bashing them on the head was another. He knew his father dfdn't kill people-'doing the out-and-out' the thieves at the guildhall called it-but the Shadowhawk never shied away from roughing up a swell who resisted too much or a tax collector who threatened to bring the law after him.
The moon struggled from behind the clouds, casting its wan light over the road. Fortunately, the rider looked like he was in no shape to put up a struggle. He lay face down, his arms spread to his sides, his breath wheezing from him in bursts. He'd fallen clear of his mount, which was for the best; the horse had landed in a heap. Its neck was twisted grotesquely, and blood dribbled from its nostrils and mouth. Deep, ragged gouges marred the destrier's legs- wounds it couldn't have received in the fall-but the shattered bone jutting from its foreleg was clearly a result of the collision. The boy was glad the poor beast was dead. Its rider would have had to kill it anyway.
Artus knew his father was watching him, so he steeled himself and strode confidently toward the unconscious man. As he did, he exchanged the glowing gem in his hand for his dirk. That would please the Shadowhawk, he was certain. Besides, the feel of the dagger in his palm took his mind off the white, staring eyes of the dead horse and the uncomfortable prickle of his father's gaze.
The rider was wealthy, of that there could be little doubt. As Artus rolled him over, the moonlight danced over the silver links of an expensive chain-mail shirt. The man's cloak was new and fur lined at the collar to keep out the winter chill. His boots were tooled from the finest leather, as were his gloves and belt. Unlike the thieves, the young knight had bathed recently and his hair was neatly trimmed.
Roughly the boy pulled the man's scabbard from his belt and tossed it aside. Then he reached for the rider's tabard, crumpled by the fall. Wrought of expensive Shou silk, the cloth was emblazoned with the Purple Dragon. Symbol of King Rhigaerd II and House Obarskyr, the Purple Dragon was worn by all who served in Cormyr's military. But the soldiers in Rhigaerd's employ sported white tabards. This man's was gray. And his cloak was not military issue. Artus had seen enough soldiers around Suzail to know that.
'What's the delay, Art?' the Shadowhawk growled. 'So 'e's a bloody soldier?' The highwayman eyed the man's warm clothes. 'Be a good lad and give me 'is gloves. Me 'ands are frozen.'
The boy peeled the gloves from the knight and tossed them to the Shadowhawk. 'Father, I…”
'Quit stalling! You'll be sorry if 'e wakes up. I'll leave you to fight 'im, you know.' The highwayman threw his own rat-nibbled gloves into the hedges and slid the new ones on. 'Grab 'is jewelry, if 'e's got any, and whatever blunt 'e's got in that stuffed purse, then check 'is nag for supplies.'
Quickly Artus pulled the gold ring from the man's left hand, a wedding band with delicate engraving inside. In the moonlight, the boy could read a name there:
