Next he cut the purse from the man's belt. It was heavy, and Artus couldn't help pausing to glance inside. Atop the mound of silver coins lay another ring-gold and encrusted with gems. It, too, bore the dragon of House Obarskyr.
Artus froze. A cold dread spread from the ring to his suddenly numb fingers, up his arms, and finally to his heart. Only one young man would carry such a signet ring. The boy looked at the knight's face. He was the right age, just a little older than the Shadowhawk. And it was said in the Thieves Guild he often rode out of the royal castle in Suzail, disguised as a wandering cavalier, a sell-sword meting out justice as part of a brave band known as the King's Men.
'Prince Azoun,' Artus whispered.
The purse slipped out of his fingers, rebounding off his leg before hitting the ground. The coins jingled musically as they scattered over the road. 'The prince,' Artus said, turning to his father. 'We've got to-'
But something else had captured the Shadowhawk's attention. He fell to his hands and knees, head cocked curiously. 'Something's coming,' the highwayman said. Artus thought he heard an edge of fear in his father's voice. 'It ain't on the road, though. More like …
The road trembled beneath Artus. He tried to stand, but the packed earth under his feet shifted, sending him sprawling atop the unconscious prince. Frantically he reached for the gem in his pocket.
As Artus's fingers closed around the blue stone, something burst up from the dirt next to the dead horse. The boy caught a glimpse of it-shaggy hair and beard, all wild and unkempt and matted with soil. That mop seemed to be the entirety of its head and upper body, until it flexed its stubby arms and slashed the air with long black talons.
The creature plunged back into the ground then, just as another surfaced momentarily on the other side of the horse. Together the two creatures circled the unfortunate mount, a track of disturbed earth forming around the corpse. Before Artus could cry out his amazement, a hole swallowed up the entire warhorse.
'Run!' he heard his father shout, but the words seemed to come from very far away.
Brightly the gem in Artus's hand flared to life. The force wall flowing from it pushed his fingers apart, as it always did, and spread out to encircle both the boy and Prince Azoun. Artus felt the globe sink as the earth gave way, opening a wide maw for him. He looked with staring eyes at the still form of Azoun, past him to the translucent blue floor of the sphere. At any moment, the dirt beneath it would fall away and they would be swallowed up, just like the dead destrier.
Then the rumbling beneath Artus stopped. All was silent for an instant as the globe settled in the shallow sinkhole. Nearby, where the horse had been taken, clots of dirt shot from the burrow. They rained down on the road in a soft patter. On the other side of the road, the Shadowhawk crouched near the hedgerow, neither fleeing nor lifting a hand to help his son. Like Artus, he seemed frozen by fear.
'Whatever you do, boy,' came a strained, quiet voice, 'don't let go olthat gem.'
Artus nearly did just that at the unexpected words from the prince, but Azoun reached out and gently steadied the boy's trembling hand.
'W-What are they?' Artus stammered.
Reaching up to gingerly prod the bloody wound on his forehead, Prince Azoun said, 'Zhentarim assassins. Magically altered dwarves, I think. Voracious little beasts called groundlings. How-Ooch.' He pulled his fingers away from the gash. 'How long can you keep that force shield up? I think it's blocking the groundlings' tracking sense.'
'It stays up by itself, but only as long as we're in danger and the gem's touching my skin. I mean, I can't control it other than that.'
'One of the groundlings must be right below us,' the prince observed. 'Close, too, if it's triggering the shield.' He reached for his sword, but found his belt empty. 'Where's my blade?'
The boy gestured to the weapon, which lay in the road, well out of reach. Then he flinched, as if he were expecting a blow for his mistake.
'It's all right,' Azoun said kindly. 'Just give me your dagger.'
The prince took the small, rather dull knife and rolled onto his knees. The movement caused the thing in the ground beneath the force globe to stir, and the sinkhole grew deeper as the groundling blindly expanded its burrow. The sphere of magical energy sank into the earth, far enough that Artus could barely spy his father as he huddled near the hedgerow.
The boy soon regretted even that limited vista.
From the wide burrow that had swallowed the prince's horse, a coarse laughter began to echo. The hacking was soon accompanied by the sickening crack of still-warm bones breaking. Limb by limb, rib by rib, the destrier's remains flew out of the burrow. The gory missiles landed in the grass, bounced off the force shield, even buffeted the Shadowhawk. The bones had been stripped of most of their flesh by the assassins, the tack and saddle chewed almost beyond recognition.
That was more than enough to panic the highwayman. With a single glance back at his son, the Shadowhawk sprang toward the hedgerow. He fixed his cold eyes on the hillside beyond. The trees, leafless in the Uktar wind, promised safety with their high branches. If only he could reach them….
As soon as the highwayman moved, three tracks of churning earth shot across the road-two from the horse's grave, another from beneath Artus and Azoun. The groundlings burrowed furiously after the Shadowhawk, like sharks in bloody waters. They converged on him just before he reached the row of thorny bushes at the road's edge. Clawed hands burst through the topsoil and closed around his ankles. Talons sharp as swords tore deep furrows in the highwayman's boots and painful scratches in the skin below.
The Shadowhawk screamed once before he disappeared into the burrow.
The force globe vanished when the groundlings went after the highwayman. Prince Azoun hit the bottom of the sinkhole with a grunt of pain, then reached out to stop the boy from running. Artus ducked the prince's awkward grab, leaped from the hole, and raced to save his father.
'They won't kill him!' Azoun shouted. 'They're after me!'
Artus wasn't listening. When he reached the burrow where the Shadowhawk had vanished, he stuffed the blue gem into his pocket and grabbed a more suitable weapon- a fist-sized wedge of stone tapering to a point at one end. Kneeling before the hole, he whispered, 'Father?'
His knees had barely touched the road before two squinting red eyes appeared in the blackness. Artus didn't wait to see what the groundling would do. Savagely he lashed out with the stone. The Shadowhawk had trained the boy in knife-fighting, but his years in the roughest alleys of Suzail had given him less orthodox fighting skills, too. In his hand, the stone might as well have been a warhammer, wielded by a young dwarven warrior from the halls of Earthfast.
The blow landed on the bridge of the assassin's snoutlike nose, shattering it noisily. The groundling howled and clutched at its face. Artus attacked again, this time planting the stone squarely atop the creature's shaggy head. The sound of a skull fracturing resounded in the burrow.
For an instant, Artus felt a surge of relief. Then the groundling burst from the burrow once more, crazed with pain and fury. When he saw the flash of the creature's teeth, the boy realized what a horrible mistake he'd made.
Certain of his doom, Artus braced for the attack. He didn't close his eyes or turn away; fright had locked his arms and legs. The sole thought running through his mind was how stupid he'd been for putting the magical gem in his pocket.
Like a diving falcon, a silver blade flashed out of the night and pierced the groundling's back, right between the shoulder blades. The assassin's dirty paws went limp on Artus's arms. The thing puffed out a last stinking breath and was still.
Artus stared in horrified amazement at the groundling. Short and stocky, it vaguely resembled the dwarves who sometimes passed through Suzail as itinerant sell-swords or miners or metalsmiths. Yet its features had been twisted by the Zhentarim's dark sorcery. Whatever stunted ears it had were buried in wild fur, its eyes reduced to nothing more than narrow slits. Artus had bloodied the long, fleshy snout, probably even broken it, from the awkward bend near its bridge. Even in death, though, the bristles on the snout's tip twitched spasmodically. The creature stank of rotten meat and fetid water. Sticks and decaying leaves, worms and crawling weevils, dotted its hairy flanks and the crown of its head.
'Get to the trees!' Prince Azoun shouted.
