Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

“It attacks in the dark,” Kovost said. “We could travel by night and sleep by day.”

The long-legged scout shook his head. “Not in this country. I understand that you and Halladon see better at night than we humans, but there’s still an excellent chance we’d take the wrong path or blunder over the edge of a precipice.”

“Now that we know the killer’s tracking us,” Moanda said, “let’s lie in wait for it.”

“That’s worth a try,” Perys said. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll simply have to try to shake the creature off our trail, set up camps that are more difficult to sneak into, and maintain the double watches with especial wariness.”- he looked at Halladon-”Unless you can do something more with your sorcery.”

Feeling useless, the half-elf shook his head. “As I’ve told you, I’ve only mastered a few spells, and I don’t see how any of them could help.”

Moanda made a spitting sound.

“H,” muttered Kovost, his brow furrowed. “Damn it, what was Osher trying to tell us?”

“I’m afraid that what Perys said still holds,” Halladon said sympathetically. “I don’t see how you can possibly guess it.”

“The Soulforger smite you!” snarled the dwarf. “At least I’m trying to help!” Shocked by his comrade’s outburst, Halladon stepped backward.

“No!” Kovost bellowed.

After burying Silbastis, the adventurers had marched about two leagues, then wasted precious hours lying in ambush for a foe that never came. Afterward, they pushed themselves hard to cover as much ground as possible. Despite the weariness their pace engendered, Halladon had at first been too apprehensive to sleep well. But the next two nights had passed without incident, inspiring the brittle hope that the company had outdistanced its nemesis, and this evening exhaustion had finally dragged him down into a profound slumber.

Still, when Kovost’s shout jolted him awake, he comprehended instantly that someone else was dead. Groggily, he disentangled himself from his covers and stumbled over to where the dwarf and Moanda were standing. Gybik joined them a moment later.

The companions regarded the inert form at their feet. To all appearances, Perys, like Silbastis, had perished without ever waking. Once again, there was little blood on the ground.

His boyish face contorted with anger, Gybik rounded on Kovost and Moanda. “What’s the matter with you? You knew this fiend was skulking about. You were supposed to check on us!”

“We did,” Moanda said. “Again and again. I… I don’t know how it got to him without us spotting it.”

“‘H,’” said Kovost, gazing at his feet. His fist clenched on the haft of his axe as though he thought he could pound the solution into his skull.

Shivering, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to pick up his mantle, Halladon crouched beside the body. As he’d expected, he didn’t find any tracks.

“None of us will reach Sundabar,” said Gybik in a fey voice. “We’re all going to die in these awful mountains. Unless…“ He dashed to his pack, tore it open, scooped out a handful of gems, and brandished them at the night. “Take them back! We don’t want them anymore!”

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.