off his threadbare tunic and breeches, he looked into the darkness down the packed dirt trade road. In one direction the way ran empty and arrow-straight much farther than the boy could see, almost until it reached the peaceful hamlet of Irath. In the other, it made a gentle curve around a tree-lined hill before striking north toward Waymoot. There wasn't the slightest hint of a horseman from either direction. How can Father tell someone's coming? Artus wondered. I can't even see as far as I can throw a stone. The boy glanced up, only to find the moon hidden behind iron-tinged clouds, swollen with snow. To one side of the trade road, past the thorny hedgerow, trees hunched like sleeping giants on a hill. On the other, fallow fields stretched for miles. Lights shone in the windows of a farmhouse, nestled atop a faraway ridge, but they appeared as tiny, flickering pinpoints. Artus would have mistaken them for fireflies, had it been summer. “Not enough light to see anything,” he whispered and tugged at his mask. After adjusting the tattered strip of cloth around his eyes, he squinted into the darkness once more. Curiosity quickly overcame the boy's fear as he tried to puzzle out just how his father had detected a rider. He cocked his head and listened for the telltale sounds of hoof-beats on the frozen ground. An owl hooted occasionally from a branch high on the hillside. At the farmhouse, a dog barked at some annoyance, yelping and whining in fits. But those were the only sounds on that lonely stretch of road- though the young boy's heart was pounding so hard he wondered childishly if someone might hear it, too, if they listened hard enough. Artus pressed a hand to his chest, hoping to muffle the hammering. Of course it wouldn't stop. He softly cursed his fear, but choked on the words; if he spoiled the job by making too much noise, his father would beat him for certain. There was nothing the Shadowhawk cared about more than his work, and Artus was suddenly petrified at the prospect of failing him. Scoril Cimber was the most famous highwayman in the kingdom of Cormyr, known as the notorious Shadowhawk. If Scoril himself were to be believed, that fame extended throughout the disparate countries and 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