Forgotten Realms 1. Prologue

_This story was originally Titled "Maiden of pain" and was solicited during an open call for writers by WOTC. I changed the name but little else to avoid any confusiuon, but this is basically my take on the story given the guidelines they gave me. Most charicters in this fic are original. A good rule of thumb is that if you can't find them in ANY Forgotten Realms supplement published since 1987 they belong to me._

_It is rated R for violence, depravity, darkness, and a couple other unmentionable things that start with D. It is very dark for a Forgotten Realms fic and should not be read by anyone._

**Reign of Pain:**

**Prologue:**

His red hair snapped like a sweaty whip as his head exploded away from the pillow. The unblinking blue eyes almost beamed horror and his breath gasped through hopelessly clenched teeth. His lungs burned as if he were inhaling black dragon breath and his heart was trying to dig a mineshaft in his chest. The sweat poured as his eyes finally snapped shut, disappearing into two wrinkles beneath his brow as he held his breath.

"Dartrick?" She murmured from where she slept next to him.

"I'm fine Shael." he managed. "I'm just getting a drink of water."

She had heard it before, and knew it not to be true, but she returned to sleep just the same. A part of her didn't want to know what kind of nightmare could chill the brave heart of a man like Dartrick Aliston. As he got to his feet and walked into the next room, her eyes slowly closed. She was asleep again before the door closed.

Dartrick was unaccustomed to quarters as comfortable as this one. More often than not his bed was a ratty winter blanket on the forest floor. This was the finest room in the inn, provided by the owner as a sort of home away from home for the man who had kept it from being burned to the ground by marauding orcs. It was the only payment that the proud Ranger would accept. Other than his parents ranch in Shadowdale or his cabin in Daggerdale, this was the only place he could trust an offer of shelter during the long, dark years of rampaging Zhentarim galloping through the Dales.

He lit a single candle and sat in a chair in front of the table with a locked chest under it. He quickly unlocked it and pulled forth a hand axe within. This was the weapon that he planned to kill her with. He had to make sure that it was free of rust and without a single dull spot along its edge. She was not worth the honor of the sword or the stealth of the dagger. The axe was perfect, flawless, more than able to slice skin and muscle. More than able to crush bone. More than able to leave her a wriggling, squealing amputee begging for death.

He spit, vainly hoping to wash the foul taste of hatred from his mouth as he polished the axe.

Next to the candle he saw the message that had arrived yesterday. He had only really needed to read three words of it to realize its importance.

"Talindra... Scardale... Anton."

His brother had chased her from Zhental Keep to Mulmaster; from Thay to Raven's Bluff. Now she was coming to him. He put aside the axe to read the account again.

_"...at the docks we attacked, but they slaughtered the Nightwatch. Without our allies, me and 'Paz had no hope. He didn't make it. I've lost them all, Dartrick. You're the only one who can stop her now." _

Cyon and Braergan died in Mulmaster, and Sylea in Thay. Now Topez. The Thief had been on the outskirts of trustworthy, but he had been his first traveling companion. Now he was dead in the gutter that he had spent all of his life trying to escape. She had cost him so much that it was beyond reckoning now. He had forgotten how much the bounty was and didn't care anymore. He doubted if he would collect it. All that he wanted was her, his axe, and some time to enjoy the company.

Shael turned over in her false sleep, just wanting this to be over.


	2. Death in the tall grass

**Chapter one:**

Men trembled at the sight of Talindra Thellis. Whether it was from lust, fear, or both she neither knew nor cared. It mattered not in the end, so long as they obeyed. The provocative cut of her spiked leather armor was as functional as it was appropriate to a priestess of Loviatar, although it was there that the similarity ended. Her willowy frame, silky blond hair, and fair skin gave her a delicate beauty that contrasted with the image of a priestess of pain. It was difficult to ascertain her half elven nature at first glance, which was as she would have it. When it came to Talindra, appearances could be as changing as they were deceiving.

She had been harried every step of her journey. She breathed a sigh of relief when she had finally seen the silver eagle of Sembia on the banner of the Scardale harbor's docks. She had seemed to travel half of Faerun in her quest, but at long last she was on her way home. Scardale was not home. No Dale was home, but Sembians endured here yet. To be among her people was the next best thing to walking the streets of Saerlun once more. She had enjoyed her brief stay immensely, but now that she was traveling down the coast she found herself immensely bored. She almost wished to encounter some sort of resistance just to break up the tedium.

She looked to where Randal rode beside her. She wished that his skills as a lover paralleled his skill with his blade. It was a pity, but at least the Zhentalar Lord had his uses. He looked to her very infrequently for a lover, his dark eyes always focused forward when in the saddle, never looking back in suspicion nor regret. She trusted him only to do always that which would benefit him and his city.

Mandrake the pathetic mage, however, she was questioning herself about. The spell caster from the Moonshae isles had claimed to kill the bard Anton Aliston in Raven's Bluff, but she had not seen it with her own eyes. She was once a priestess of the goddess of lies, and knew well the nuances of a liar. She did not trust him and planned to dispose of him at her earliest convenience.

Dorc the demented trotted behind her. He never removed his eyes from her bottom in the saddle no matter how near or far he was from the sight. She found this mildly irritating, as she could not tell if it were his manly desires or his taste for human flesh which drew his attention.

Vhaner the rogue was more predictable, as well as more dependable. He had put many of her foes in the grave. He was not as skilled with the dagger as his erstwhile partner Deneiri, but knew many ways to put it into an unsuspecting back nonetheless.

Deneiri stayed close to Vhaner as always, throwing a dagger into the air by the tip and catching it by its handle. As difficult as that could be while on horseback, she had seen more impressive displays of his skill. Along the sea of fallen stars the former pirate had earned the name "Daggermaster" among the cutthroats of the region. High praise indeed among that crowd.

She thought of them all as the best of the rest. Some of the others she missed more, but had not been worth the cost or danger of raising them from the dead. They had served her in both their lives and by their deaths. That was enough. In front of the party and shortly behind, mercenaries of the "Crimson Lion" company trotted along. They were a third drawer company if ever she had met one, but Scardale had a shortage of great mercenary companies such as the Flaming Fist. She had gone to the expense of an escort because she had a need for cannon fodder, and a shrinking circle of henchmen. Anton's relentless pursuit had seen him ally with everything from Harpers to Red wizards, Beast cults to the night watch of Raven's bluff. The unpredictable and indiscriminant war he waged had given her both respect and loathing for the man, even as his face had brought up entirely different feelings. He was so like his brother. She had no idea what to expect next, and wanted to be prepared this time. She had been successful so far, but Tymora was not her faith. The auspices of Beshiba had ever plagued her life, and she preferred to make her own luck.

* * *

The wilds of the borderlands between Sembia and the Dales were not pictures of majesty as much as the remnants of a former glory. The once great Elven woods were now forgotten clear-cuts populated by the seedlings and saplings of a new generation. The ghosts of fallen Cormanthor whistled sadly in the wind that blew beneath the Blackfeather Bridge. Underbrush that once would have been choked out by towering trees thrived in weedy sprawls. Twenty miles to the south lay Ordulin, once known as Moondale, and all of Sembia. Rauthauvyr's Road went all the way to Selgaunt, and thus he was unsure of her destination. All that he knew was that he had no intention of letting her reach it. This was where the ending would be, Dartrick had decided. One way or the other, it would savagely end in this weedy sprawl by the side of the road to civilization.

He had no idea that this day and place was only the beginning.

Laying on his stomach in the brush, legs making a v shape behind him, a passerby would need to step on him to see him. His chin rested on the back of one hand and the other on his longbow. From the position he could spring to a kneeling fighting position and fire in less than an eye blink. Looking to his left and his right, he saw that Shael and Largon had assumed the same position as he had directed. He had learned over the years that cover, concealment, and other ambush tactics were something that others needed instruction in. For him, it was as natural as breathing. He had been doing this since he was a child, both as a hunter and as a soldier.

Across the way he saw that Onlar the elf and Buchanan the halfling were doing much better. He knew that because he couldn't see them, and he knew where to look. Buchanan had settled his pugnacious self behind a thick stump while the slim Onlar had found cover in a tangle of bushes. He knew from experience that elves and halflings were well known for their ability to surprise their enemies. For the half elven woman to his left and the Druid to his right, it had been work.

He had only three days to plan this ambush, and had asked his brother Ethos and his cousin Chadrick for aid. He had been disappointed with the results of both requests. Both of them had magic powerful enough to transport themselves to the site of the ambush almost instantly. Still, both of them had concerns that far outweighed the threat of the rogue priestess. Ethos had sent him Largon Blackhawk, one of his students. While the young Druid did not have Ethos' power, he had proven invaluable. He had spoken with every animal and even some of the plants in this region, giving detailed reports of Talindra's movements. While she had magic that could defeat attempts at scrying, there was little that she could do about a bird, squirrel, or oak tree informing on her.

Chadrick's contribution to the cause had been twofold, although neither of them had been all that impressive. He sent his elemental familiar, a dust devil like the little wind wisps that Ethos used to conjure before he was powerful enough to summon full sized elementals. The tiny thing was nearly invisible when at rest, and when on the move was only as visible as the amount of loose dirt and debris would allow. It had come bearing a ring that enabled Dartrick to speak with it and was charged with a few spells that could be used once per day. Dartrick was angry at Chad because his recalcitrance left him without a Wizard. Perhaps that would prove to be an advantage instead of a setback, yet he knew that the enemy had two spellcasters. Dartrick had survived as long and as much as he had because he was a tactician at heart. He realized his tactical disadvantage in this battle, so had sought every advantage he could muster.

He had chosen his allies as well as he could given the haste and circumstances. Shael had been by his side for nearly a year. Buchanan was a long time friend. Onlar was a traveling companion of Ethos who owed him a debt of honor for bringing him back from the dead. Largon was also bound by his word to Dartrick's older brother. None of them were here for any selfish reason. They were not putting themselves in harm's way for gold or glory. They were simply here for a friend, and that was enough. The only exception to this proved the rule, as the one member of his party that refused to seek cover and ambush his foes. The swordsman known as Styngian sat on a stump whistling, waiting for the group to come along so that he could challenge them. He was here to fight for the love of fighting, and the grizzled veteran had insisted that he was too old to crouch in bushes. It was the most dangerous part of an ambush to be the distraction, but he was capable of taking care of himself. The old man was one of the most respected grandmasters with the sword in all Faerun.

Thus was the stage set, and when an excited squirrel ran up to Largon and chattered in his ear, it was no surprise when only moments later the distant clop of hoof beats on the Blackfeather bridge alerted Dartrick to the approach of Talindra's party. He slipped his hand into one of his many pockets and it came out with a pair of hollow reeds, which he gently blew into. At the chirp that the birdpipes made, two chirps came in answer from the other side of the road and Styngian's whistling abruptly stopped. Hands quietly went to weapons, and eyes that had been bored and restful came to sudden life. None of them shared the Ranger's patience, and they were ready for a fight.

Dartrick's fingers moved to the arrows that he had laid out in front of him, ensuring that his elbow would not be seen in an effort to go to his quiver. It was time to see what they were all made of.

* * *

"Something is amiss." Randal muttered.

Talindra had learned to trust the dark warrior's judgment over the years they had known one another, and turned immediately to him to ask a silent question.

"I don't like this path." He said "Perhaps we should get off Rauthavyr's road at the Featherdale fork and travel through Tasseldale."

"I do not wish to stay in the Dales one second more than I have to. It seems to me that more and more of my enemies come from these cursed lands." Talindra sighed, thinking again of Anton and one other.

"We have to keep our eye on the prize." Mandrake rudely interjected "We must do whatever is necessary to reach our destination. It is too important to risk a longer journey."

Talindra shocked the mage with a withering glance "I seem to have forgotten the instance when I requested your council." She replied frigidly.

It was then that the opportunity for any such decisions was gone forever. The party rounded a corner where a lone old man in a long black cloak came into view. He was standing in the center of the road at the military position of parade rest.

"Halt!" The captain of the Crimson Lion troops yelled back to both his troops and those that he was escorting. He nodded to his lieutenant to ride forward and challenge the old man.

"Well met... traveler." the young man said with some distain as he approached the old man "You are barring the way of the fine people we are escorting, and we would know your intentions."

"Intentions?" The old man said with an impish grin "Only that you indulge an old man and give me a moment of your time."

In that moment the lieutenant's horse was chopped out from under him, its headless body rolling to the ground after throwing its rider. The mercenaries reacted as fast as they could, with the men to the rear of the formation galloping to the forward position, but by then the old man had already seized the fallen lieutenant and had his sword across his throat. The company of the crimson lion tried to ready their crossbows, but it was too late.

"Hold your fire!" the captain yelled, having no way to know that his order was going to be immediately countermanded.

"Fire!" Talindra commanded, with the force of a priestly spell behind the shout.

Even the captain had to admit that he would have fired also if he had a crossbow.

The mercenaries loosed their quarrels, turning the lieutenant into a pincushion as Styngian ducked behind him. He was only hit by one quarrel that traced a burning line from his wrist to the elbow of his left arm, which was holding his sword. To most swordsmen, this would be a disastrous injury, but Styngian was not left handed. He switched the blade from left hand to right as the lieutenant fell, and parried a quarrel from midair before finishing with a flourish of the blade that was his signature in his younger days.

"Charge!" Talindra commanded again, the magical power of this command so powerful that the both the mercenaries and Dorc spurred their mounts to action.

Crossbows clattered to the ground as swords cleared their scabbards, and even the captain charged without a thought. The dozen charging horses sounded like thunder as they bolted toward the dismounted swordsman, who looked to be not even a little impressed. It was at that moment that Dartrick's arrow struck the captain in the neck, dropping him from his confused mount. Then it seemed like arrows were raining from all directions, as four archers seemed to spring from the very brush to encase the riders in a killing box. Only Dorc had the total lack of sense to continue charging the old swordsman, but - even as the remaining mercenaries broke off the attack to form two flanks - it was far too late.

"Ambush!" Randal yelled, finally dropping his lordly disinterest and drawing his black bladed sword.

"Withdraw to the bridge to regroup!" Talindra shouted, but just as soon as she turned to do it she realized that it was impossible. Jagged spikes of stone had formed from out of nowhere, turning the road into an obstacle impassible by man or horse.

Mandrake blatantly ignored the order of the woman that he had grown to hate. Instead he lifted his hands to cast a killing spell. He had resented Talindra's displays of priestly power, and was going to show her how much easier it was for him to kill the old man. What good was a sword, after all, against a bolt of unerring fire that could incinerate the man where he stood? The luminescence of spell casting formed around his hands, gleaming off of his silver scull cap and golden tooth as it consumed the components, but it was there that his life ended.

The world erupted into noise and light, causing every horse on the road to rear up with a terrified chorus of whinnies. It was only a moment after Talindra and Randal hit the hard ground that she knew her horse had thrown her. As she rolled to avoid the hooves of the fleeing beast she saw the charred remains of her troublesome mage still fused to the corpse of his mount. It seemed that she had found a way to rid herself of him after all.

* * *

The lighting bolt that slew Mandrake was as much a surprise to Dartrick as it was to Talindra, blazing forth with a deafening crack that nearly knocked him from his feet. The natural concealment of tall grasses and rank weeds that he had been kneeling behind was burned away in an instant. It was at about the instant that Talindra hit the ground that he realized the lightning bolt had come from the Dust Devil. As he watched the swirling dust wink out of existence he understood that Chadrick had imbued the familiar with the ability to cast that spell, as well as the one it used to wisk itself back to his side. Depending on how this battle turned out, he would either have to thank him for killing the dangerous mage with that spell or sucker punch him for not telling him about it. He knew that no plan would long survive contact and combat, but one thing was for sure... the lightning bolt was the point at which his plan fell apart.

"Aliston!" Randal bellowed as he pulled himself to his feet "I'll rip your heart from your chest!"

Dartrick was unsure whether the big Zhent thought that he was himself or Anton, but was totally sure that it didn't matter at all to the dark warrior. Flecks of spittle flew with his curses as he charged forth, sword swinging over his head. Behind the Zhent he saw determined mercenaries crawling toward the side of the road under the cover of their shields. Five of them lay dead, bristling with arrows, but the rest had some fight in them. Talindra was taking her time getting to her feet, simply looking at him with an unblinking and inscrutable expression. Styngian evaded a fleeing horse and charged down the embankment that Dorc had rolled down after falling from his mount. Dartrick dropped his bow and drew his longsword just in time to meet the charge.

As a flurry of clanking blades surrounded his vision he realized that his chances of beating Lord Randal Scepter in a fair fight were slim. The Zhent was a killing machine, heavily armored yet moving nearly as fast as the leather-garbed ranger. The strategist in him realized that he had won victories. He had blocked their escape, killed their mage and both leaders of their mercenary soldiers, reduced their numbers, and divested them of their mounts. They were still outnumbered nearly 2-1, and the most dangerous of them still alive. This point became infinitely clear when Talindra muttered a few words and disappeared, distracting Dartrick so much that he did not parry the thrust that cut deeply across his ribs.

"Dartrick!" Shael yelled and whirled to fire her bow on Randal, but her arrow fell undrawn from her fingers as Vhaner pounced from the underbrush and drove his dirty knife into her back. He wrapped one arm around her breast and with an evil leer began to twist the knife. No one had noticed him slip away in the chaos, which was how he had always done his work.

"That's it, pretty... lets just take it slow." He said with obscene tenderness.

Largon had just finished casting his spell to heat the metal of a mercenary's armor when he whirled around to help his comrades. Two daggers struck him in the chest and a third buried itself in his stomach. He groaned and slowly slid down the small fruit tree he had been using as cover, his breath coming in raspy gurgles. From the middle of the road Deneiri the Daggermaster blew mockingly on his fingers, then reached to his daggers to finish the druid off as he strolled leisurely toward him.

It was total slaughter all around, as even the other side of the road had degenerated into a melee. Onlar and Buchanan had charged forth with their swords drawn, showing themselves more than a match for those wounded and dispirited members of the Crimson Lion. The mercenaries fought on, ignoring their flaming comrade. Styngian strolled up the embankment with Dorc's severed head and threw it at the feet of a big mercenary before running him through. On the other side Shael planted one foot firmly and bent at the waist, pulling the surprised thief over her shoulder and sprawling him ungracefully in the dirt. Deneiri whirled to defend himself from the ornery, cussing halfling who threatened to cut his legs off and sauté certain tender parts of his anatomy with the intention of feeding his canines with them. Onlar battled two mercenaries, his slim elven sword ringing against their steel.

Randal gave Dartrick another shallow wound and then came down with a mighty stroke that forced him to one knee. The chaos of the battle shattered all semblance of plan and order, becoming little more or less than an overwrought bar fight. Dartrick was a veteran of such chaos, though, and it was the presence of mind experience brings that saved his skull as two blades clashed mere inches from his forehead. Randal bore down on him with 250 pounds of muscle and plate armor, driving the ranger down and pinning his waist between his legs as he drove the swords closer to his face.

"You're the ranger, aren't you?" Randal grunted through a wicked smile "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to kill you?"

The struggle played out painfully slowly, causing the clanking and screams around to seem very far away. Dartrick's sweat stung his eyes even as Randal's dripped from his curly hair in fat droplets. The swords did not move an inch, but he could see the razor-sharp edge of the Zhent's blade beginning to shave a curly sliver of metal off of his own.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've had to hear your name? How many nights I've had to... hear... about... YOU!?" Randal's frustration buldged in his eyes, making him careless.

Dartrick suddenly released his resistance and twisted out of the way, causing the Zhent's blade to drive into the ground beside his head. With a quick twist of his arm he tore the handle from the dark warrior's grasp, seeing it fly end over end toward the road, but lost his own grip as well. The world became a cloud of dust as the two men grappled on the ground, each vainly trying to get to Dartrick's fallen sword. Dartrick felt the handle of his belt knife in his hand, and acted without hesitation or thought. Pulling the armored form close, he reacted exactly how he had been trained to fight heavily armored opponents. The flashing blade slashed and stabbed in the series he had practiced and memorized when he was 13 years old. Elbow, armpit, invert the grip, throat, groin, recover. Randal Scepter was in hell before he even knew that he was dead. If there had been any life left in him, it was driven out when Styngian's sword came down in a vicious coup de grace on his twitching form.

It was then that Dartrick realized the pain he was in. It was if it suddenly exploded from an invisible box inside his mind. He saw that Styngian's left arm hung limp and blood ran in streams to drip from his fingertips. Onlar lay dead, tangled with the corpses of his enemies, his sword far from hand. Buchanan bristled with daggers, driving his small sword into Deneiri again and again even though the Thief was obviously dead. Largon lay propped up against the tree where he fell, his lifeless stare taking in the horizon of the Featherdale lowlands. Blood pooled into muddy puddles everywhere. Shael kneeled and wheezed sobbing breaths as she gripped her sword with both hands. It was buried nearly up to the hilt in Vhanar's chest, pinning his recumbent form to the ground. It was too quiet.

"Talindra!" Dartrick hollered, pushing his pain aside once again.

"Dartrick..." Shael began softly.

"Where is she!?" he growled, grabbing the front of Styngian's tabard in a clenched fist.

"I saw those bushes part, and could swear that I saw something for a moment..." Styngian said and pointed, but Dartrick was already moving. He could see the disturbed brush right where he had said, and if he could find her trail he could track her to the ends of the earth. Behind him, Styngian slumped to the ground.

"Lets go get that whore." little Buchanan snarled, waving his bloody sword.

"No." Dartrick said.

"What?" Shael whirled around and gasped.

"You all stay here." Dartrick commanded as he took his hand axe from the rucksack he had concealed in brush, heading toward where the priestess of pain's trail began.

"She's mine." He said without looking back.


	3. The Pursuit

**Reign of Pain:**

**Chapter Two:**

Talindra had considered staying to fight by the side of her companions, but in the end had been able to see the way that it would end. The conflict was needless and messy, and it was her singular gift to be able to know when to cut her losses. In the end, not one of those individuals were essential to her plan. She suspected that if any of them had been in her position they would have made a similar choice. She could have helped them in any number of ways without putting herself in danger. The spell that hid her from the sight of others was of a nature that enabled her to cast spells that would benefit her party members without revealing herself. She could have healed their wounds or called the blessing of her goddess to strengthen their arms or their fortunes. That she chose not to do this was probably of no consequence to her goddess, and as likely as not pleased her if she were aware of it. There was another reason that she fled, of course, but that was something she would not admit even to herself.

Within a few minutes of her flight she stopped running, having gotten as far away from the road as she could without losing sight of the river Ashaba. It was possibly the only landmark in this wretched, flat farmland and there was no place to hide or lose a pursuer save the distant hills of Tasseldale, not far from the pool of Yeven. She had no intention of heading west, despite the sage advice that Randal attempted to give her before all hell broke loose. Her best option was to head toward Sharburg and charm some ignorant Dale farmer into giving up his wagon. Once back on the road, this time under magical disguise, her problems would be over. After all, Dartrick had no idea where in Sembia she was going, and Sembia was a lot of territory to cover. As long as she beat her pursuers to Ordulin, there was nothing they could do to stop her. The silvery amulet that hung around her neck, still marked with the symbol of Leira, kept her from the prying eyes of magic detection. She had never taken it off, and had no intention of doing so.

It was then that her heart sunk. Looking back toward the road she saw a lone pursuer following. It was too far to tell for certain who was following her, but from the accuracy with which he stayed to the trail she made through the weedy terrain she knew that it was Dartrick. She still had about an hour left in the lesser invisibility spell that she had cast when her last one expired, but the ranger was like a bloodhound, and on foot he would overtake her before she could make it to Sharburg. She could not allow that to happen. If he would not allow her to avoid this encounter, than she would have to make it an encounter at a place of her choosing.

* * *

Dartrick gulped down the healing potion as he walked. He did not have a great many of them in his possession, so he had to use them carefully. The warmth spreading across his abdomen mended all but an aching purple gash across his ribs, still clearly visible through his rent armor. The wound bled no longer, but he would have to be careful of it. There were many things in which he would have to be careful. He toed along, fully aware that he could not sneak up on his quarry, and had no choice but to shadow her until her magic failed. When that happened, he would chase her to ground like a deer caught in the open plain. Throwing the potion bottle aside, he wrung his hand around the heft of the shining hand axe. He had finally been given the time to think that he had lacked in the heat of battle, finally seeing the dead and the dying clearly in his mind. Onlar and Largon were clearly dead, and Shael and Styngian surely in peril from their wounds. That he had left them to the mercies of the wilderness so easily, especially Shael, troubled his thoughts.

_Leave it be _he told himself. _There is nothing that you can do about it now._

It was the distraction of these troubled thoughts that nearly doomed him. Had he been paying attention, he would have seen not only the trail he was following, but that one was coming from the same direction.

The darkly beautiful form that shimmered into existence behind him had already finished her casting by the time he whirled around to face the caster. His arm was cocked and ready to throw the axe when his body froze in place. Like a human statue, he stood rigidly immobile in an appropriate battle pose for a heroic memorial.

"Sometimes, things are entirely too easy..." Talindra Thellis sighed, sliding closer to him and gently placing one arm around his waist.

"Sometimes, they are very hard too." She said with a suggestive purr, scant inches from his face as she pressed to him.

Dartrick was unable to respond with anything but fury in his eyes.

"I've waited quite some time for this... reunion." She said as she put one finger to his bottom lip. "I'm sure that you have, too."

With that she rammed her fingers into his wound, speaking a simple incantation to her goddess that blasted Dartrick's guts with agony. The magic ripped open the wound healed by the magic potion and spurted rivulets of blood to run down alongside the stains of the last wound. Spurting gore ran down Talindra's arm to drip freely from her elbow. Despite the pain, Dartrick could react in no way. The world swayed back and forth although there was no possibility that he was.

"Was it worth it..." She purred, with her lips inches from his perpetually gritted teeth "To finally feel my tender touch once again?"

Dartrick screamed silently as she slid her fingers further into the reopened wound, nearly reaching the palm of her hand. She cast the spell again, causing even older wounds to wrench open, and the flow of blood became a abrupt gush that forced her to withdraw her hand.

"I apologize, both to you and to Loviatar, that I cannot make this last for more hours, or even days. I am afraid that a man of your... vigor would recover from my holding far too quickly to risk. I am going to have to kill you much more... expediently."

She placed her bloody palm flat over his heart and kissed his frozen lips with a cold peck before starting the incantation of her most powerful wounding spell, but less than a moment before she finished it the arrow struck her squarely in the back. Her eyes bulged in pain and surprise for a moment, but she did not scream. Pain was her area of worship, and she was not unfamiliar with it. She let go of Dartrick and nearly stumbled as she whirled to face her attacker. Shael the bard had faded into existence behind her, far out of the range of sling or spell. Not, however, out of the range of a longbow.

"How do you like your own tricks, whore!" Shael screamed as she loosed an arrow that struck home on Talindra's thigh. It was a glancing hit, but left a nasty slash that bled freely.

By the time the third arrow arched toward the priestess, it struck one of many images, causing it to fade out of existence. This simple spell had been saving Talindra's life since she was a fledgling adventurer with dreams of heroism and glory, and preserved her still. She called on a healing spell from her goddess as Shael "killed" another illusion, but was immediately rewarded with pain as her wound healed tightly around the arrow. The Lady bard cursed loudly and fired again, nearly hitting the priestess before she disappeared again.

"No!" Shael panicked, dropping her bow and running at a full sprint to where she could cast her spell. The gentle tone of her spell song cumulated in an eruption of multicolored dust all around Dartrick, but as the dust settled none of it revealed that the Priestess was anywhere near.

It was then that Dartrick fell like a marionette that had its strings cut, colliding with the ground so roughly as to kick up a cloud of the glitterdust.

"Dartrick?" Shael asked softly, cradling the wounded Ranger in her arms as soon as she was sure that the invisible priestess was not entering the cloud of glitterdust.

"Let go of me." Dartrick responded gruffly, forcing himself to his feet and clenching his hand over the grievous wound that Talindra had inflicted on him.

"You're hurt!" She insisted "Let me help!"

"Like you just helped by driving her off?" Dartrick snarled.

"I saved your life!" Shael growled back "Can't you see that?"

"I had her!" Dartrick yelled loud enough to cause an echo off the distant hills "All that she was doing was adding to the debt of pain that I already owed her. Her magic was failing, and she is much too vicious to finish me when she had the chance. The second the spell failed she would have been _mine!_ I told you that she was _mine_! In the name of all the gods why didn't you listen to me!"

Shael stood shocked. She had never seen Dartrick so angry, or imagined the quietly shy ranger capable of such a tirade. As upset as he had ever been regarding this woman, for all the nightmares and all the brooding, she had never seen this face before. It was the red and frothing face of madness.

"I saved your life." She said with deliberate resolve "If you can't see that she was going to have your living guts in her hands..."

"The only thing I see is disobedience!" Dartrick yelled "What of the others? Did you leave them to die so that you could defy my orders and ruin everything?"

"No!" Shael yelled back, now perhaps angrier than even Dartrick. "I came to show you this!"

Dartrick groaned as the scroll case Shael threw bounced off of his chest, perilously close to his wound.

"If you had not rushed off so quickly you would have found it with us when we searched the bodies. We know where she is going, and can beat her there if we hurry! We have her mounts and she is afoot! She has no chance of reaching Daerlun before we can!"

"Then I will beat her there." Dartrick said, abruptly calm and solemn once again.

Shael did not miss the singular insinuation in that sentence.

"You can't defeat her alone, Dartrick!" Shael almost screamed, still enraged "Didn't this encounter just prove that to you? Are you seeking her or are you seeking death?"

Dartrick was quiet for a moment, looking to where Shael's errant arrow was lodged in a rotten stump.

"Both." He finally said.

* * *

"Bardic bitch..." Talindra Thellis hissed as she made her way, with all haste, in the direction of Sharburg. The priestess was in an exquisite amount of pain from the wounds that Shael had inflicted on her, but dared not slow down for even a moment to heal them. It was only her training, honed through hours and hours of instructional torture at the hands of her superiors in the clergy, that had enabled her to remain conscious as she savagely tore the arrow free from where it had healed inside of her. She should have known better than to cast that spell, but the rapid succession with which the Bard had rained arrows upon her had forced her hand. That, as well as how quickly she had closed the gap between them to cast her spell, led the priestess to believe that her adversary had been hastened with magical speed. She was a more dangerous foe than she had anticipated, but then again Dartrick always had an affinity for dangerous mates.

She had not heard what the lovers had been quarrelling about as she fled, but she was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with the quality of his last anniversary gift. It did not matter to her, as it had served her purposes. The distraction the lady Bard had burdened Dartrick with had let her make good her escape, even beyond the reach of the spell that would reveal her invisible nature. Talindra was down to her final invisibility spell, with few other illusions with which to mask her flight, and she felt it was high time that she stumbled onto some good luck. She was seriously reconsidering the nature of her relationship with Tymora, as Beshaba had made it clear that she had a profound interest in her. A sudden feeling of ill-ease struck her just then, and made her realize that perhaps Loviatar was not pleased with that line of thinking.

It was just than that one of those strange happenstances that had plagued Talindra worked out in her favor. A lone rider was making way toward her as if to trample her, although there was no possibility that he could see her. As she forced herself to appear, the startled mount skidded to a stop as his shocked rider yanked the reigns. All that collided with Talindra was a healthy cloud of dust.

"What in the nine hells? What sorcery..." the unhandsome young farmer began.

"Silence." Talindra instructed, using her final magical command, then proceeded to invoke the charm that would enthrall this dim-witted farmer and bind him to her will. Once that was done, all that needed to be settled was whether she would ride side-saddle or not. The Farmer treasured her with a gappy grin as she saddled up behind him, and she wiped some perfume on her upper lip to mask the smell of sweat and dung. Somehow, this lacked the dignity of a great escape, but she would have to take it any way that she could get it.

* * *

In the days ahead, Dartrick rode alone.

The Ranger had known the countryside north of him like the palm of his hand, but as he approached the Archenbridge he realized that it would be best to stay on the main roads for now. He had known every back trail and shortcut between the fields of Sharburg and the clearing of the Archwood, but knew nothing of the Sembian lands that yawned beyond the bridge. This main road ran through Saerb, and where it met with the Way of the Mantacore was Daerlun. That was all that he needed to know. He had always distrusted main roads, and the Brigands who often called them home, but he would do what was needful. He had no idea whether or not Talindra knew about the letter that Vhanar had been carrying that gave away their destination. It didn't really matter, because that was where the plans that she had been hatching for years would finally unfold.

In the days of constant travel he had many opportunities to think back to his decision to drive on without his comrades, but had changed his mind several times on the subject. Just now he was regretting his words to Shael and the way that he left them all. For the entire day before, making better time through the Archwood than he would with them, he had been assured of his decision. However he felt tomorrow, riding through the streets of Saerb, it did not matter. It was far to late to turn back for them. At his heart, Dartrick had always been a loner. As many times as his cooperation and teamwork with others had been necessary, he was never comfortable with it. Riding alone, with none to worry about getting hurt save himself, he was more at ease than he had been in ages. He had too many weighing heavily on his conscience as it was.

As he approached the water flowing under the bridge, though, he realized that it was not a babbling brook. The wide waters were far from being a brook at all, but it did not stop it from babbling at him. He dismounted from his horse and peeked over the lip of the bridge to see what the fuss was about.

_"Dartrick? Dartrick? Down here! Yoo Hoo!"_

"Can't you think of a better hail and well met than 'yoo hoo?'" The Ranger sighed to the reflection in the water that was not his.

"_Ever dour as a Dwarf!" _The rounded and ruddy face laughed back at him. _"What did I miss?"_

"Nothing but death." Dartrick replied.

_"Oh? A typical Tenday for you, then." _the laughing face said as seriously as he was able.

"Is everything a joke to you, Daargar?" Dartrick asked, skipping a rock off of the mage's reflection.

_"Only your battle prowess... and your social graces... and your love life..."_

Dartrick cut off what could have gone on for some time with a scowl.

_"I'm sorry that I could not have been there." _Daargar said, as seriously as he was able.

"You would have killed us all, leaving us in twisted smoking piles... if you had not turned us into something unpleasant." Dartrick said bluntly. "They don't call you 'The Blunder of Westgate' because you've bested any Dragons lately."

_"Touché." _the mage conceded _"Were your sword as quick as your tongue you would not be crossing this bridge now, I suspect._

"Keep your suspicions." the Ranger shot back. "Why have you bothered with this sending?"

_"To give you a choice"_

"How cryptic."

_"Than let me be specific. I've come to tell you that ten miles north of Saerb there is a little hamlet that is being menaced by a beast that comes in the night. You can help them, or you can continue on..." _The mage shrugged.

"I have to continue on..." Dartrick began.

_"You have a choice to make." _The mage interrupted. _"just what are you fighting for, Dartrick? What kind of man do you want to be?"_

Dartrick looked away, in the southwest direction where Daerlun waited.

_"That's the thing about being a hero..." _Daargar said lightly _"there is always a choice."_

* * *

__

Shael and Styngian looked down at the twin bundles of cloth that had been their traveling companions, now mere meat wrapped to hold in their reek. The priest of Tymora that had been sent for was taking his own sweet time getting here, although Dartrick had the foresight to pay him an advance toward the cost of resurrections before they even set out on their ambush. He had gambled that at least one of them would survive to get the others raised. Still, the inn had been so ill at ease with letting a room to corpses that they insisted on housing them in the stables. At least the stench of the horses helped to mask their own ripe odor. All things considered, their stay in Feather Falls had been interesting.

"What are we to do when the cursed cleric finally does show up?" she asked the old man.

"I would have thought that obvious." the swordsman replied. "We go after Dartrick."

"He has made it clear that..." she began rigidly.

"He doesn't know what is good for him." he finished. "When a man chases the ghosts of the past, he loses sight of both present and future."

"You are full of wisdom today, aren't you Old Grump?" she almost laughed.

"Unfortunately..." he said solemnly as he looked again to the bodies before him "wisdom is often bought at a very dear price."

"I find myself wondering if Dartrick will find that wisdom... before he pays the price." Shael nearly whispered.

"He already has found it." he said "He only needs to pick it up and dust it off every so often."

Shael walked out of the barn to get some fresh air. When she had left her family and her friends in Elversult for her chance to wander the realms in one traveling show after another, she never knew that things would come to this. She had started out as a dancing girl, and then as a singer and performer. Soon she realized that she would end up like any one of the other assortment of hags and whores that if she did not listen to the song her independent heart was singing to her every night. She learned what she could of swordsmanship and spell craft in the course of her journeys, mostly in bits and pieces between performances, but by the time she met Dartrick she was a respected adventurer in her own right. They had met as equals, in the most unlikely of places; a cess-pit where the hobgoblins of the stonelands deigned to throw their prisoners until they could properly arrange a feast, execution, sacrifice, or other proper means of disposal. When he tumbled down into that pit he would end up being her salvation, but in truth they rescued each other. They had been doing it ever since... until now.

Styngian followed her shortly, looking much better after a few days of rest. The old grandmaster had suffered greatly from his few wounds, and Buchanan was still bedridden under a healer's orders from the injuries inflicted on him by Deneiri. If she listened carefully she could hear the halfling grumbling from his bed on the second story of the inn. Her wounds were grievous, including a punctured lung, but had been taken care of by a healing potion before she cast her haste spell and chased down Dartrick. If Largon had survived, they would have had access to his healing spells and expertise. Perhaps they would already be on their way to Daerlun together, ready to bring overwhelming force to bear on the priestess.

"Don't worry over him so." Styngian said softly. "The lad survived the Zhent's assault of Shadowdale when he was just a boy, the battle of the Golden Way when he was barely yet a man. Do you think that twisted refugee from a pleasure hall could possibly succeed where Lord Bane and Yamun Khan failed? She strode through this dale like she owned the place and we spanked her bottom."

Shael laughed despite herself.

"There are more than a dozen graves over yon hill to attest to the fact that men, elves, and beasts should think more than once when making an enemy out of that soft spoken ranger. Many more of those about these parts, I reckon. If you wish to worry over someone, I might suggest a certain blonde... but she be hardly worth the effort."

"You're right on that point." Shael conceded.

"So what are you to do?" The old man asked as he took a load off his feet on a nearby hay stack

"I'm going after him." She said "Whether he likes it or not."

* * *

The next tenday for Dartrick Aliston was an exercise in frustation. First he got lost in his quest for the village that the worthless mage had directed him to. In the Dales he had been able to know exactly where he was and what direction he needed to go in simply by examining the patterns of moss on a tree or which direction a river flowed. Here, he'd been forced to ask directions from a half-drunk woodcutter. That had cost him half a day at least. He had to remember to ask Daargar the next time he saw him how he could divine that there was trouble in this settlement when he couldn't even give proper directions to it. Then, he had been beset by a pride of highwaymen, which had been an adequate excuse to vent his frustrations by working their deaths. He had also found an enchanted blade in their possession. Nothing to shake the realms, but it had come in handy. His own blade had failed to sharpen on one side ever since Randal's black blade had carved off its fine edge.

Once found, half of the locals insisted that the beast was dead. Dartrick had a feeling, though, and upon staying it took no more than one night before another attack left a family residence in shambles and a child missing. For most of the tenday come and gone Dartrick had done what he does best, taking to the woods in search of the beast. On the third day his horse had been killed in the stable of the inn where he stayed, which was not a very subtle hint that he was getting too close. Every day he cursed as another day lost in his pursuit, but he knew that he could no more turn his back on these people than he could suddenly transmute himself into a dragon. This was who he was. The local hunters that had been tracking the beast up to this point, needlessly killing dozens of wolves, ridiculed him when he started following the tracks of a man. They were especially amused that the tracks kept leading back to the village. Dartrick, however, knew exactly what he was doing. Last night he had insisted that none of the hunters go out, but rather bar themselves into their residences. He had then set a chair in the middle of the main road and sat, the picture of wakefulness, with his gaze focused mostly upon the abode of one of the hunters. Salak had been the loudest of his ridiculers, and the tracks that were the source of the ridicule let right to his front porch. All that he had needed to do was wait.

Now that he was standing over the bloody, naked body of Salak with his children sobbing nearby and his wife sprawled over the body, he wondered why this was how a hero was rewarded.

"Gods curse you for a murderer and a coward!" Lilina, wife of Salak, screamed up at him.

"He was the killer." Dartrick said bluntly, the words sounding insensitive and hollow even to him.

"Liar! Murderer! To the nine hells with you who have taken a kind and gentle soul!" Lilina howled.

He had planned the battle with Salak the werewolf so that the entire hamlet could witness it. He had forseen this moment, and had no intention at the time of swinging from the nearest tree. No one could deny the dozens of eyewitnesses who had seen him put four silver-tipped arrows into a ravenous wolf-thing, and then finish it off with the highwayman's blade. No one could deny that the beast had become the body that now lie under the sobbing woman.

"You killed him as surely as I did." Dartrick hissed "Do you expect anyone to believe that you did not notice his comings and goings, or of the wound that infected him in the first place?"

"I..." She choked.

"Had you spoken up, perhaps a bit of wolves bane or a cleric's prayer would have solved this. Instead, you left it to my blade." Dartrick whirled to the accusing stares of the assembled townspeople "You all did."

Leaving the highwayman's sword thrust into the ground behind him, Dartrick turned his back and walked away from the crowd, vowing to himself not to stop walking until he reached Saerb, where he would buy a new horse... and a new sword. He hoped that the blade he left behind would serve them as a reminder. He had no desire to pick up that particular sword again, besides, after the work that it had done. In a romantic tale or a minstrel's tavern song the hero that slew the beast unfailingly got a huge chest of treasure and the hand of a beautiful maiden (more importantly, the rest of her to go with it). After all of these years, Dartrick knew the truth of heroism. The life of a hero provided two rewards, only one of which was to be looked forward to. The first was death in a distant place, and the other was the one that he was enjoying right now... the peace and quiet of the road. Behind him, the sobs of the newly made widow faded into the sounds of the birds in the trees.


	4. Aronal's day

**Chapter Three:**

Aronal Hydran loved life.

He woke in the morning in the type of luxury that most in this area of the realms would find unthinkable, merchant lords in all corners of Daerlun looking to him in envy and rage. He slept between silk sheets from the unapproachable eastern realms, with a blanket fashioned from the hides of Raashmani minks. On each side of him was a woman that was among the most beautiful of the realms, both of which he had entertained the previous night. Nothing but the best for Aronal, and twice as much of that best as any man could ask. The smell of his breakfast was what woke him first, being prepared before him in the very corner of his bedchambers by one of the many neophytes that served him to earn his favor. Although most of his meals were prepared in the enormous kitchens of his estate, he loved the smell of baking bread and frying eggs in the morn. It was the last indulgence left to the boy he once was, who came of age in a one-room family dwelling smaller than this bedchamber.

"Aronal..." one of the two priestesses who shared his bed sighed as he rolled out from between the sheets "Come back to bed... the roosters have not yet even crowed ."

"Ah, but I have never been one to listen to a cock, have I?" He said with a joking wink "It is an early rise for a high priest of Sune, to match the late night revelry, I suppose."

The priestess with the shiny black hair and pale green eyes blew a kiss at him and rolled over to go back to sleep, while the other just made a sort of cooing sound and watched him walk over to the neophyte. The young, shy woman averted her eyes from the approaching high priest, which she probably would have done even were he not naked. She was poorly treated, he knew, like most of the neophytes were. He was sure that she had not been taught how to request so much as the simplest blessing, but had been instructed thoroughly in the care and maintainence of the middens. While the senior priestesses were allowed to wear luxurious dress of red and gold that were customized to emphasize all of their best features, the neophytes were forced to wear simple habits of a dusty scarlet. They faced especially severe penalties for being seen without their uncomfortable wimple outside their common quarters. Aronal permitted the priestesses their catty rites of initiation, but did not bother with them himself.

"Good morn, milord." She said in a mousy voice as he approached, trying to focus on cooking the eggs.

"And so it is." He responded, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her to him. He quickly sniffed behind one ear to inhale the scent of the perfume she was not permitted to wear, and let his hand wander upward along her belly. The young girl nearly spilled the eggs, but did nothing to stop him. The High priest was probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and she would do anything for him. Just as abruptly as he had began, though, he withdrew. Walking back to one of his legion of dressers, he pulled forth a red chamber robe and tied it with a golden sash. Stepping into green slippers, he prepared to begin his day.

"Wazi!" he called briskly.

The chamber door to his manservant's quarters opened, and the eastern man who had attended him these last couple years approached him with that bizarre combination of servile haste and simple grace that he had become known for. Wazi wore his customary outfit, which Aronal had always thought of as resembling pajamas, but he knew that his butler/bodyguard had more than one weapon improbably conceiled in those loose fitting folds of clothing. Aronal knew little of where Wazi came from, but had always had a taste for things of an eastern flavor. Since the end of the horde war it had been an advancing trend in Sembia to have far-eastern artwork and clothing as a way of displaying wealth and social status. Aronal, however, had trumped them all with his acquisition of Wazi's services. The man had been more than a trophy, though, doing everything from saving him from an assassin's blade to hand picking and preening his master's nightly companions.

"Master?" Wazi began with his customary one word question.

"Which vestment should I wear this morn?" Aronal asked, looking out his window to his splendid view.

"I believe that the fifth from the right in your second wardrobe should convey the message you wish to convey today." Wazi said articulately, and without hesitation.

Aronal opened the wardrobe he indicated and pulled forth the clerical vestement. It was of orange colored velvet with red silk trim. Its top was tight over the shoulders with a low neckline, crossed with a diagonal sash of stunning mauve. It came with a kilt with an opposing diagnal cut, in the Mulhorandi style. Altogether, an attention grabber. In that, Wazi was absolutely right. This morning was a morning when he wanted the undivided attention of the assembled clergy.

"What of this afternoon?" Aronal asked, viewing the selection help in front of his chest in one of the dozen golden-edged mirrors that surrounded his chambers. The still young looking and fair skinned blond man who looked back from the mirror with sparkling blue eyes smiled.

"Perhaps the martial uniform?" Wazi suggested "The farewell parade for the High Berghan's expeditionary force is at high sun, and everyone who is anyone will attend."

"Yes. As always, you are correct." Aronal said with a smile, looking at his sembian military dress uniform.

Once his companions for that night were politely shown the room where they could prepare themselves for the coming day, Aronal threw aside his robe and stepped into the central pool that dominated his chambers. The ever warm waters caressed him, and Wazi sprinkled soap flakes and wildflower pedals into the pool as if he were preparing a soup. Drying himself and donning his red silk ceremonial robe, Aronal kneeled before his personal shrine to the goddess of love and beauty. He had recited the tenets of faith many times in his life, but this day felt them more strongly than ever.

"Beloved Sune, mother of love, hear now these tenets of your faith. I believe in the beauty that radiates from the core of a being, revealing their soul. I believe in romance, as love will conquer all. I will follow my heart, where you have poured your love, and will use my love to awaken it in the hearts of others. I will encourage the growth of beauty by protecting it and serving as an example to those who would know beauty. I will never forget these or any other teachings of our faith, and will tolerate no encroachment of the hideous upon the faith. This I swear by your name. Blessings be eternal."

Once done with his prayer he sat down to breakfest at a simple table near the kitchenette where it had been prepared. He had dismissed the neophyte, but Wazi stood silently by. The food was surprisingly good, and he asked Wazi to request the neophyte for another morning. Perhaps he would even ask her name, if just for future reference or to drop it a few times into the right ears. Sniffing the single rose that was the centerpiece of the table, Aronal took a moment to reflect on just how good life was.

* * *

The house of Firehair was a site of beauty unrivaled in the realms. The high arch of the chapel ceiling was supported with marble columns that seemed to caress the ceiling more than hold it up. The artwork that splashed over the entirety of the domed structure depicted scenes of beauty and love that would melt the hard heart of a frost giant or give pause to a rampaging red dragon. Above it all, in the center, was the visage of Sune Firehair painted by the blind artist known as Lonek Silverbow, said to have gone blind after seeing the true face of Sune's avatar during the Time of Troubles. Directly beneath this smiling face of unspeakable comeliness was the alter, an edifice of formidable height. With the ingenious acoustics of the temple, the speaker could be heard throughout the stadium-sized stretch of pews that seemed to stretch all the way to Cormyr.

Thauna Maskalar had stood here many times over the decades, spreading the message of Sune to both the converted and those seeking the beauty that was Sune, but this was both the greatest and saddest day. She had adventured long and hard, seeking beauty and grace throughout the realms, but had settled here to do the duty that she had been groomed for by the goddess herself. She had grown too tired, though, of the politics of the temple and the endless revels that the younger priests insisted upon. She had announced months ago that she was stepping down as High Priestess of Sune, and today was the day for her hand-picked successor to step forth.

"Assembled Beloved, I present to you High Priest Aronal Hydran." Thauna said wistfully.

The assembly stood as Aronal approached the pulpit, and raised both their hands in the Sunite gesture of welcome. Once the matron of the temple introduced him they had all looked up in admiration. It seemed that Aronal's preparations had born the fruit that he had intended. This was the day that he had been anticipating for a very long time. A day he had been working for his entire time in the service of Sune. The next few words he spoke could very well determine his success or failure, but he approached without the slightest sign that his nerves were getting the better of him. Some took his confidence for arrogance, as others had made the mistake of taking his kindness for weakness.

"Assembled Beloved," He began with the customary opening "The blessings of Sune be with you."

"The blessings of beauty are everywhere." They all said in unison.

"Today we assemble here in the house of beauty itself to celebrate the dawning of a new morning. Our High Priestess, Beloved Thauna Maskalar, has earned the reward that is awaiting her as a tireless servant of our goddess. As you know, she has chosen me to assume the burden of her duties as she reaches the clearing at the end of her long forest. All of us wish her the best and the brightest of life, and I have no doubt that her stature among us will never be eclipsed as she assumes the position of Heartwarden of the faith. Stepping out of the hierarchy has ever been a privilege of the highest ranking of us, but the length of time that Thauna has endured in this position shows the dedication and heart that this woman is possessed of."

_Enough of the flattery, Arony. _Thauna silently prodded into his mind, using the pet name she had for him since he was much younger.

"On this new day," he continued "I wish to assure you all that I will strive to continue the excellent example that Thauna has set and always keep first in my mind the security and prosperity of all worshipers of our great goddess. That I am the one that you can all turn to regardless of how hard things are, or how much things have gone wrong. It is a sad fact that life is not all beauty and love, and that we all need someone that will listen. I will be that man for all of you, for you have pledged your lives to advance love and beauty in the world. I love and honor all of you, who have answered Sune's call and not given in the dark and unpleasant nature of the world. From beautiful Evergold does Sune smiles on us all, and one day when our time on this world is done we will stand beside her amidst that splendor. So it is said."

"So it is!" The congregation sounded off.

"May the blessings of beauty and love kiss you all." Aronal said with a smile.

"Sune's kiss heals all!" They responded, unusually excited and happy in the recitation.

Aronal stepped down from the Pulpit and into the embrace of Thauna, who kissed him ceremonially and touched his forehead with the fire rose. The rose, although its stem had been cut over three decades ago, had never died. Over the years its bright red had discolored into fiery oranges and yellows in a flame-like pattern, and it was warm to the touch. Aronal kissed Thauna back, his tongue touching hers in a more intimate kiss than they had ever shared. This brought the crowd to their feet and filled the house of Firehair with hoots and whistles. They pulled back from the embrace and she touched the rose to his heart before tucking the stem into the small hole that had been poked into the breast of his tunic. Now that he wore the fire rose, he was officially the high priest of the house of Firehair. The cheers filled the temple, and both Thauna and Aronal needed to hold back tears. The years that they had known each other had not always indicated this conclusion.

"Go in peace, Thauna." Aronal said confidentially.

"Don't worry about me." She smiled "You're the one in trouble now."

* * *

That afternoon Aronal mulled over those words that Thauna had gifted him with at the parting of the ceremony. Watching the soldiers march by in lock step, raising their right arms in the traditional salute to the assembly during the pass in review, he found himself drawn farther into his past. He was resplendent in his red military dress uniform; a ungainly and uncomfortable thing of sharp creases, hanging metals, and inelegantly placed hanging cords. The senior officers of the guard to his left and right wore ones that bore much more attractive and honorable accessories, but the fact that he could stand side by side with them and seem a peer showed how much of the military was still in him. The priest showing up in uniform had been a surprise to the career soldiers, but it was one of the privileges of an honorable release from service that a Sembian soldier be permitted to wear military dress during military parades. If anything, the assembly had been incredibly pleased with the choice.

Standing on the balcony of the Berghun Hall, looking down on the spectator-lined plaza and parade grounds, Aronal felt very old. Nearly a thousand young men marched in the parade, and all of them were to leave on the morrow for the western campaign. The many smooth and unlined faces that stared at him as each element executed an eyes-right and salute combination plucked at his heart. Perhaps it was simply that the priesthood was softening his heart, or maybe it was something else entirely. These were not the hardened, professional soldiers of the guard, but rather the reserves that had been lightly trained over the years and intensively drilled in the three months since the High Berghun got word of the trouble in the west.

"Do you think that these young men are ready, High Bergun?" Aronal asked, turning to the man on his right dressed in blindingly polished brass plate armor that would certainly be exchanged for something a little more steely before this man's spurs ever touched a mount.

"What do you mean?" Algor replied mildly. "Do they not look prepared?"

The Merchant leader of Daerlun, High Berghun Algor recently ascended to his position upon the death of his predecessor, a spindly old man named Halath Tymmyr who had ruled from his death bed for many years. Daerlun had become so used to the old man that Algor's young , vibrant, and militant style of rule was not as much a breath of fresh air as a shock to the system. His comment caused Aronal to smile even as it caused Allathrast to grimice. There was no doubt that Aronal, Algor, and Allathrast were the three most powerful men in the city right now. Some of the merchant lords referred to them as the Trio of As. Even so, the surly Captain of the guard was pledged to Algor's service, even as he watched his influence wane from the height of power he enjoyed while serving Tymmyr.

"You know what he speaks of, High Bergun." Allathrast spoke bitterly.

"I know what you would speak of, but this is hardly the time for it." Algor said through the clenched teeth of his frozen smile, barely moving his lips.

"What better time than now, when your folly is right in front of your face?" Allathrast persisted.

"Folly?" Algor said, still smiling "Is it folly to defend our borders from the Hobgoblins that have fled the chaos in Cormyr for the coffers and larders of our lands?"

"They are yet on the other side of the vast swamp!" the captain of the guard hissed.

"We have been through this. They threaten the Way of the Mantacore." Algor sighed.

"We have not yet..." Allathrast began, but was cut off by Aronal.

"Excuse me," Aronal interjected "but what has this argument to do with troop readiness?"

"We will discuss this further in private." Algor said firmly, his tone leaving no room for contention.

Aronal turned to one of the phalanx of lady warriors that made up Algor's personal guard, and silently praised his host's taste and style. He recognized her as one of his lovers from not more than a week ago. He gave her a wink and smiled at the flush that it brought to her beautifly stern features. It was obvious that there were some unresolved issues between the High Bergun and his captain of the guard, and he resolved not to get involved in them. After all, what had war to do with beauty and love? He had his fill of war in his youth, and now it was time to get back to the pursuits that were more befitting a priest of Sune.

* * *

Wazi's choice of a cloth-of-gold outfit for the revel was something that Aronal thought to be ostentatious, but deferring to the easterner's judgement had reaped huge rewards. The evening revel celebrating his ascension to high priest of the temple had been a succession of increasingly beautiful women dropping less and less subtle hints of their readiness to share his bed that night. He could have taken one, or all had he the notion. He refrained from such decisions, though, because the revel covered the entire Wild Wood, and he had been circulating from pavilion to pavilion in a relentless quest to make sure that every single celebrant was able to spend a moment with the new high priest. He had seen enough old friends and lovers to fill a novel in itself, and enough new faces to fill a second volume, but it was only at the very end of the night that something very extraordinary happened.

The high priest of the goddess of love fell in love himself.

She was a vision that evoked the goddess herself. The most vibrant red hair he had ever seen fell loose and unfettered, curled in tight ringlets, to the upper cleft of her posterior charms. Her purple dress was cut in two daring, plunging necklines that ended at her navel and slightly below where her hair swung. Her beauty was on display, and she walked as if she did not care who noticed. She was precisely what he was looking for, what he had been looking for. When she turned to look at him he was stunned by the color of her eyes. He could not immediately put a name to that dark color. Brown? Gray? Green? Hazel? All of these and none of them. Somewhere in the hinterlands between colors, like the shade of the oak leaves of a deepest wilderness glade in earliest autumn, before the leaves have a notion to change.

He felt his own feet walking more than he willed them to do so, as he saw her draw closer more than actually doing so of his own accord. Despite this feeling of uncommon inertia, the words came from his lips as easily and smoothly as they always had.

"Well met, my dear." He said "I don't believe that I've had the pleasure."

"I am new to the city, and to the clergy." She said with perky nervousness as she crossed her hands and rolled her eyes with a smile. "I assure you that I have a letter of introduction, and I was going to present myself more formally tomorrow..."

"No need to explain. I understand perfectly. " He assured her with a smile. "Anything can wait for a party, correct?"

She smiled radiantly at him.

"You are the high priest Aronal?" She asked "No one is talking of anyone but you."

"I'm flattered, but hardly interesting enough to so dominate conversation, I think. I am much more interested in you." He said directly.

"I am Fayel, an Acolyte of the shrine of Saerloon." she said formally, then more informally "I requested a transfer here because I was wickedly bored with that entire scenery."

"Well, I sincerely hope that the scenery here is more to your... liking." He said genuinely. He was aware that there were conversations and people around them, but they could have all been directed at him and he would not have noticed. She was enchanting.

In the next hour they talked relentlessly, spanning the length and the breadth of the wildwood arm in arm. It came as no surprise to anyone that Aronal had been the first to share the company of the beautiful new acolyte. He had an enviable ability to find new companions, even among priests of Sune. At the grand gazebo they danced the Strut, a fashionable and less-than-courtly dance that the upper crust of Sembia had recently claimed as their own. His left hand clasped her shoulder, and his right encircled her waist, while both of hers rested on his chest, as they Strutted to the rhythm of the large band's smooth music.

"I am enjoying myself immensely, Aronal." She said, on his insistence that she dispense with the more formal address everyone else was using.

"It pleases me greatly to hear you say that." Aronal said with his winning smile firmly in place.

"I'm afraid to say that I must be going, though." She said, a sense of melancholy falling over her.

"But the night is still young." He said, trying to keep a sophisticated tone and bearing.

"I have an early start tomarrow, as it is my day of introduction." She insisted, pulling away from the dance and taking one hand in hers.

"Well... then I am assured to see you in the morrow." He said with a tight lipped smile.

"Most assuredly." She said with a wider smile that hinted at a girlish giggle.

"It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and will be greater still to meet you again in the morrow."

"The pleasure will be all mine." Her reply was sultry, and she drew close, but seemed to reconsider and withdrew just as suddenly.

"Tomarrow?" He laughed.

"Tomarrow." She replied.

He watched her go, as frozen as when he had first saw her, until she was swallowed by the crowd. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and turned to present his face to the world. Love? No, most assuredly not. After all, was he not a High Priest of the Goddess of love. He was the one in control of love, not the other way around. At least, that is what he told himself as he mingled back into the vast crowd of the Wildwood.

Fayel sauntered out of the Wildwood and into the city proper, murmuring thanks as a valet throwing an all-concealing cloak over her revealing dress. The streets of Daerlun were as much a part of the festival as the temple grounds were, and a young lady could not be too careful. Not that the woman who wore this visage had every cared overmuch about caution. As she walked in the darkness her features shifted and changed with the spell of illusion that she wore. It was not her true face, but rather another that would serve her better in walking down the street. Now dark-haired and nondescript, plainer than her true form, she would not get a second glance from anyone. That, for now, was her main objective.

"How went it?" The unsurprising voice came from the darkness.

She turned to the mouth of the dark alley that the voice had come from, flicking her hand to beckon him forth. The troublesome mage had too much of a liking for the shadows, and she relished any opportunity to drag him out of them.

"It went better than anticipated." She said once he had drawn nigh.

His disfigured face looked pointedly at her with his one good eye. His command over illusions were a match for hers, and could have assumed a more pleasing appearance with but a few words, but he had ever refused to do so. The stubbornness of the man was much more ugly than his face.

"Was he everything that you imagined?" The black-garbed mage asked with a perverse smile.

"So much more than even he knows." Fayel replied.

It was then that her illusion abruptly expired, as such things were not eternal, and her true form looked face to face with the ugly mage.

"We need to find some means of extending your intervals with His Excellency without such an obvious use of the art." The mage stated blandly "If our plans are to bear fruit, the soil must be more fertile."

"Find me the spells that I need to extend the durations, and I will take care of any fertility that need be involved." She said dryly.

"You should not take this situation lightly. Sune's followers are not vigilant snoopers like Helm's cronies across the way, but they are not fools either." The ugly wizard spat at the mention of the all-seeing eye, some old animosity evidently bubbling over into saliva.

"Karthas...you and yours are instrumental to this plan, but do not think that you can lecture me as if you are the rudder that steers this vessel." She said imperiously.

"I know, I know..." He said with a dismissive wave "I am but one of the sails that propels it along to its inevitable conclusion."

"Very much so." She assured him.

"What of you, my dear? Are you in control of your own destiny?" Karthas asked.

Stepping out of her own shadow, Talindra wrapped one arm around the shoulder of the ugly wizard. He smiled back at her with the one side of his mouth that still moved.

"Destiny is a thing for Tymorans and the Beshibites to argue over." Talindra insisted "I put my faith not in such things, but in the Maiden of Pain."


	5. Arrival at Daerlun

**Chapter Four:**

Beauty floated away from him. Blurry and indistinct, and he could not even tell if she was walking.

"Three pains." The horrible voice said to him, sounding as if it was gurgling from the fetid water at the bottom of a forgotten well.

He heard the world filled with a howling, tinny scream that he could not believe any human being could ever be brought to emit. Crackling bolts and a sizzling ozone stench filled the air. Flames and a charred smell like burning pork. The stillness and relentless grip of unyielding ice, and then a horrific thawing. A glow of healing magic, and the cycle began anew again. Beauty's back was turned to him, without so much as a look back.

It was only then that he realized that the scream belonged to him.

* * *

"It isn't very often that I've caught a Ranger sleeping." A sophisticated and articulate voice woke him from his well earned rest.

Dartrick had rode hard and long without sleep in order to reach Daerlun, but it was only now - with the city's lights in sight - that the man finally fell to the fatigue of three days hard riding. All that he had managed to do was tie up his mount and collapse onto his bedroll in full armor. He thought that he had traveled far enough off the trail that his hasty camp would go undiscovered, but he was wrong. That much became obvious when he woke up with the blade of a long sword pressed against his throat.

Looking up the blade of the sword with blurry eyes, Dartrick saw a hooded figure smiling down at him, with an expression that would seem benign were there not steel at his throat. Although he could only see the lower part of his attacker's face, he could discern from those features an elven heritage. Perhaps only his practiced eye could have caught it. A modicum of elven blood flowed in Dartrick's veins as well; a gift from his own half-elven mother.

"I have questions." Dartrick said calmly.

"As do I, but go ahead." The cloaked man said cheerfully.

"How did you know that I am a Ranger?" Dartrick said.

"Who else would sleep all alone in the forest with no campfire, tent, or naught but the animals to guard their rest." The mysterious intruder laughed. "Next question?"

"Why aren't I dead?" Dartrick deadpanned.

"You are not dead because I do not wish you dead." The man said arrogantly "Nor do I wish such a fate upon myself, so this is how we find ourselves in this position."

"So what are your questions?" Dartrick asked after a moment of contemplation.

"Oh, they are not for you." The half-elf said, removing the sword from his throat with another peal of cheerful laughter "I simply said that I have some."

Dartrick was up in a moment, Dagger in hand when he realized that he was surrounded by a squad of men in green cloaks. It seemed that his sneaky visitor had brought an entourage.

"Put that away." He said with a dismissive wave as his green cloaked henchmen raised short bows with wickedly barbed arrows at the ready.

"Should I take his weapons?" One of the green-cloaked soldiers asked the hooded half elf in an aristocratic accent. Dartrick immediately decided that he did not like him.

"I hardly think that is necessary." The half elf sighed.

Dartrick sheathed his dagger. He had lived a long time by his wits and his instincts. He had the feeling that this situation would not be improved by any belligerence on either side.

"Who are you." Dartrick asked of the hooded man, but the half elf simply smiled.

"I could ask the same of you." The half elf said as he pulled down his hood, revealing long red hair shot through with streaks of blond, pulled back into a tight pony tail. Some half elves looked somewhat ungainly because of their shared heritage, but he had seemed to get the best features from each parent. He had the arrogant expression of a man that knew how handsome he was.

He could tell just by looking at his dress that the half elf was a formidable individual. Not only was his sword a beautiful work, but was almost certainly enchanted. He seemed to wear no armor, but a pair of silver bracers at his wrists attested that he was not without protection. The high boots that he wore were in the style of lost Cormanthor, and any boots that old that had not decayed to nothingness were certainly the storied Boots of Elvenkind. The neutrel gray cloak was certainly the companion to the boots. With all of these magical items a man could feel secure sneaking up on a sleeping dragon, had he any skill in stealth at all. He found it unsurprising that the man had crept up on him so easily.

"I am no mystery. I am Dartrick Aliston, Ranger of Shadowdale."

"No mystery indeed. I have heard of you." The half elf said as he sheathed his sword and motioned for the surrounding bowmen to put away their weapons.

"What do you know of me?" Dartrick asked warily. His hands were not all that far from his weapons, but neither were his adversary's.

"Dartrick Aliston, son of Marek and scion of a long noble line of heroes. Bane of Bane and thorn in the side of the minions of Zhental keep. Defender of Shadowdale during the time of troubles, Veteran of the battle of the Golden Way, and one of the major players in the fall of the Zhents in Daggerdale. Good with a sword, better with a knife, and very deadly with a bow. A peasent hero with noble blood, and - despite what you might say - a mystery to many. All these things I have heard."

Dartrick stood silent, not giving him any confirmation of his information, but he was impressed.

"As for myself, I am Baron Tobias of Coveton." the half elf said "I will understand if you have not heard as much about me as I have about you. I am far from home on a religious pilgrimage. These are my personal guard, hand picked from all my Green Cloaks. They are the elite of my elite, if you will."

"What would a nobleman such as yourself be doing waylaying sleeping travelers." Dartrick said harshly.

"Practice." Tobias said with a smile, slapping his midriff "A noble life can dull the skills as well as it thickens the middle."

Dartrick could see no thickness in the lithe half elf, but offered no argument about such insignificant attempts at humor.

"You do not laugh much, do you?" Tobias said with some concern.

"No." Dartrick said after a moment of consideration.

"It must be your dreams..." Tobias said.

"What?" Dartrick said gruffly, wondering what the man was saying.

Tobias' expression scrunched up momentarily, as if realizing he had said too much, then explained "When I came upon you, you seemed to be in the midst of a most disturbing dream."

"I wouldn't know. I never remember my dreams." Dartrick lied.

"Indeed?" Tobias seemed surprised. "Oh well, none of my business."

That made Dartrick raise an eyebrow.

"Are you headed to Daerlun?" Tobias asked pointedly.

"Yes." Dartrick admitted.

"Excellent!" Tobias said, throwing his arms up suddenly. "Then we travel together."

"Do I have a choice?" Dartrick asked.

"No. I suppose not." Tobias mused, walking to where the road met the woodline.

"Get moving." Said the Green Cloak that Dartrick disliked.

Dartrick fixed his steely gaze on him, and it was the Green Cloak who turned away first.

* * *

Riding with the Baron had not been an altogether bad experience. He and his men rode well, and kept out a wary eye for brigands. Tobias told him a great deal about Coveton, a small barony that was not far from Daggerford or the dwarven settlement of Illefarn. His barony had been granted to him by the Duke of Daggerford for an undisclosed act of heroism. He had not been born to the nobility, but had little to say of his life before. He let him know of the respect that the Aliston name carried in the Waterdeep region and northwestern Faerun. It seemed to Dartrick that it was the Baron's singular attempt to butter him up.

Half a mile outside the city gates was the Mantacore inn, and it was there that Tobias brought them to a sudden stop.

"Why do we halt?" Dartrick asked.

"To make ourselves more presentable, wash off the travel dust, and stow away our arms. The city guard are notoriously picky regarding who they let in, and looking the part of the adventurer can hurt your chances. Also, nobility does not pull much weight in Sembia. A noble name will not so much as buy you a flagon of ale. Much more it is the appearance of wealth that matters.

"Then this is where we part ways. I am afraid that I have not the time for appearances." Dartrick said, secure enough that he could make such a bold statement.

"If that is the way that it must be, but I assure you that it will be easier if we stick together." Tobias told him without reservation.

"My... business is too urgent, I'm afraid." Dartrick admitted.

"Very well." Tobias said, offering his hand for the first time.

"We were well met." Dartrick insisted, clasping Tobias' arm in the adventuring way.

"We will meet again." Tobias insisted. It sounded to Dartrick as much of a threat as a promise.

* * *

"What do you mean." Dartrick asked pointedly, staring daggers at the frilly guards who crossed their halberds before him. Behind them was the chief guardsman who had ordered them to bar his path.

"You can not pass, adventuring filth." the guardsman said, holding his nose. "Neither your threats nor your tomb-looted gold given in bribe will convince me to let you pass."

"Why not?" Dartrick fumed.

"Because you have no business in Daerlun, or dare I say in Sembia." The guardsman said, waving through another merchant caravan. "You bring only swords, blood, and tears of widows. Continue down the way of the Mantacore, dog, for I hear they welcome your ilk in Cormyr."

Dartrick did not budge an inch.

"Have the death screams of your countless victims deafened you, curr?" the foppish chief guardsman exclaimed, pulling forth a perfumed rag to cover his nose.

"I do not wish violence." Was all that Dartrick said in response.

Suddenly he was aware of a sword point pressing hard into his back, the second time this day he had found himself surprised and at a disadvantage.

"If wishes were fishes..." one of the Halberd-wielding guards chuckled as more swords settled on various parts of the Ranger's person, perhaps a dozen in all.

"You should have turned back from the city when you had the chance. Now, you submit to Sembian justice." The haughty chief guardsman muffled from behind his perfumed handkerchief.

Looking from guardsman to guardsman, Dartrick realized that he was not in a survivable situation, not that he hadn't been in worse. Few of the guardsmen looked formidable enough to worry about, and often in a fight the arrogance that numbers brought became an easily exploited liability. Some men would attack, some would hold back, most would get in each other's way. He was past the point where the disadvantage of being outnumbered plunged back toward advantage, yet the few guardsmen that seemed the most seasoned fighters of the bunch were the ones that had the points of their swords against his ribcage. They met his brief glance of appraisal with a knowing nod, not the satisfied or stupid grins of their compatriots. There was no doubt in his mind that these few veterans were the ones who decided upon these tactics, not the fop before him. Nor would it surprise him to know that some of his blood mixed with theirs upon the earth of the Golden Way. They all had a way of recognizing each other, without words or deeds, and knowing what one another was capable of.

"Give up your weapons." Came the steady voice of the most grizzled veteren, the one that had surprised him with the sword directly in his back.

Dartrick turned his head to look back into a single hard gray eye, the other covered with a patch that sported the all-seeing eye of Helm. That the man venerated the god of sentries and guards was unsurprising, but Dartrick thought that he would have been better served had the patch been inscribed by the holy symbol of the blind god Tyr. He would feel much better about "submitting to Sembian justice" in that instance.

"Take them." Dartrick said after a brief pause, not caring if it was taken as a challenge by some. Far more dangerous was attempting to reach for his weapons in a cage of pointed steel.

The eye-patched guardsman nodded to one of the others who looked too young to shave. The quivering scarecrow of a guardsman carefully lowered his blade and reached for the sheathed sword and dagger on the Ranger's belt. Dartrick made no move to stop him, and even nodded toward the rucksack that was strapped to his saddlebag.

"There are more in there." he said simply, as the young guardsman helped himself to the Ranger's belt pouch, perhaps exceeding his mandate for the look it earned him from his obvious superior.

"Could I have your name, good sir?" The one-eyed guardsman asked gruffly, lowering his sword now that the ranger was disarmed.

"Dartrick Aliston." The Ranger replied without reservation "Might I have yours?"

"Grimwald." The man said simply.

"That was a brilliant manuver, distracting me with this fool while your men surrounded me." Dartrick said with respect, gesturing to the fop with the handkerchief.

The snorts of suppressed laughter among the men was nearly deafening.

"Strip this dog of his armor, and throw him in the moat. Be glad the law does not permit taking your impudent tongue as well!" The dandy guardsman huffed, nearly trembling with rage. "Your horse and all items carried are now property of the city, and your person would do well to leave with all haste!"

"He's the one in charge friend." The one eyed man said with a bizarre wink of his good eye "Pity though that may be."

* * *

Dartrick hit the filthy water head first, but had the presence of mind not to get a mouthful of it. It was surprisingly deep for a moat, which often was little more than a muddy ditch, and Dartrick was totally submerged. After a moment, he broke the surface and began to tread water with practiced ease, avoiding flotsam that did not look at all wholesome. He looked up the six foot slope that he had just rolled down, at the squad of soldiers who began to turn away. The one-eyed guardsman looked down, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. It was if he had never seen a man handle the situation that he had found himself in with such dignity. He gave him a single gesture that was nearly a salute, and turned to walk after his men.

"Curses and blasphemy." Dartrick muttered without elaborating, his strict upbringing showing in his refusal to use stronger language even while floating in the murky stink of the moat.

"Mayhap the next time I give advice, you would do well to lend me your ear." an infuriatingly familiar voice called down to him.

Dartrick turned to see an immaculately dressed Tobias, no weapons evident and flanked by guards that were also decked out in finery that lacked the scars of battle.

Dartrick simply scowled.

"Now then, I am not here to say that I told you so... but I should let you know that your situation is not hopeless." Tobias said with a smile.

"How so?" Dartrick asked.

"You see that grate over there?" Tobias said with a wave, indicating a huge sewer grate from which greenish water spewed.

"Yes." Dartrick said.

"The sewers of Daerlun are of olden design, large enough to ride a horse through. If you can squeeze through that grate, which should not be no great feat as you are without armor and are covered in a coat of slime, you can access the city even more easily then had they let you in. Unlike us, you will have bypassed customs, tax men, and other such scribes that will lighten our purses as efficiently as brigands."

Dartrick looked to the grate doubtfully.

"Oh, and this might help." Tobias said with a flick of his wrist. A shiny dagger plunged into the embankment within easy arms reach.

Pulling it free from the earth, Dartrick saw that it was not any ordinary dagger. It was his dagger, which the guard had just taken from him.

"How did you get this?" He asked the smiling half-elf.

"Lets just say that the lad who took it is wondering the same thing." Tobias said as he turned to leave "Good luck and keep that head above water. I'll see you again."

"Somehow I believe you." Dartrick muttered before he clenched the dagger in his teeth and swam toward the sewer grate.

Perhaps Tobias had exaggerated about the size of the sewer's passages, yet they were large by any standard. At first Dartrick had been forced to walk at a crouch, but now he was fully upright with an inch or two to spare before the slime-encrusted ceiling threatened to once again bump his head. His belt had been taken along with his armor, so the only thing holding up his pants was the drawstring in the woolen garments and the slime that plastered it to his body. His long-sleeved shirt, which had somehow lost its chest lacing, hung open nearly to his navel. He looked a fright, and he needed to watch his step because his hard-soled boots had been taken also. As a consequence of all this, his dagger was still clenched in his teeth for lack of another place to store it.

The stench was overpowering, and he had already vomited once. He had simply wiped his chin and drove on without shame. With an empty stomach he felt better about being down here. Every so often he was hit with a dry retch, but simply spit and moved on. This was the third time in his life he had needed to stalk through rivers of human waste in order to get into a city, and he hated cities in the first place. He could only hope Daerlun was more welcoming than Zhental Keep and Hillsfar had been. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, why he had ever wanted to be an adventurer in the first place. He did not, nor had he ever, really considered himself one. He had not needed to look for adventure, for his father had passed onto him what the old man had derisively called the "luck of heroes." Adventure, it seemed, had a way of finding him.

Perhaps because of his mothers heritage, or perhaps because of sheer practice, Dartrick saw in the dark much better than most men. It came as no surprise, therefore, when he rounded a corner and found a half dozen beady rat eyes staring menacingly at him. The rat-like humanoids were as familiar to him as crawls through the sewers. Wererats were distant cousins of the wretch that he had killed north of Saerb. Although not all Lycanthropes were of an evil nature, these were among those that were. His dagger was in his hand in an instant. The six did not look any more surprised to see him than he was to see them. They stood in one line, completely blocking his progress. They were all armed, being among the few shape changers who commonly used human weapons, and looked ready for a fight.

"No need for violence, human." The big one with the wickedly spiked mace hissed "We have already eaten, and you look too stringy to be tasty anyway. Perhaps we may do a bit of commerce?"

From the look of the others, with their short swords and axes at the ready, they did not share that sentiment. Dartrick's hatred for Lycanthropes had always prevented him from successfully parlaying with them, so he did not even attempt to do so this time. Without a word, he assumed a defensive position and waited.

He did not have to wait long.

"Stop!" The big leader yelled as a smaller, far more rash ratman charged with a high pitched squeal. He came in swinging his short sword, not knowing that he was already dead. Dartrick grabbed his sword arm by the wrist and severed the wererat's bicep at the inner elbow with a flash of enchanted steel. The ratman squealed as his unfeeling fingers popped open and his sword clattered to the ground. The next thing the beast knew, he was being choked by his own crippled arm in a fast wrestling hold. He was stabbed again and again, but barely felt the thrust that ended his days.

Dartrick whirled around with the beast's sword in hand. He was unsure if it would do permanent damage to his lycanthropic foes, but it was better than nothing. While he had been killing their comrade, the others had more prudently formed a semicircle and advanced slowly.

"That rash fool..." the leader of the wererats lamented.

"Don't lose any sleep over him." Dartrick said.

"No one comes to my domain and slays my servants with impunity!" the big rat hissed "We may not hunger now, but your flesh may sate us just as well once it has spoiled for a day or two!"

With that the wererat waved his arm to the two on his right, a snarl escaping his twisted visage. They charged with their swords swinging, but the Ranger was waiting.

* * *

When Dartrick crawled out of the sewer he was covered in wererat blood, but eternally grateful that not one of the wretches had bitten him. Luckily enough this lot had taken to using weapons and killing one another in a civilized manner. In his life he must have killed hundreds of the scum, and all manner of lycanthropes had joined them in hell. The rat men were the most feeble of their kind and in a way they were more pitiful then terrifying. The worst thing about them was the concept of becoming one of them, but he had avoided that. He had not, however, avoided the wounds that their weapons inflicted. His life's blood was draining out of him from a couple of grievous wounds and he needed to get them cleaned and bound. He also needed to find a place to stay out of sight in case the watch decided to check up on him and found that he had illegally entered the city.

He found shelter in a dark alley, not looking any different from a half dozen indigents that crouched there. The difference was that he smelled like the sewers, but that was not truly too much of a difference. He lay against the wall, camouflaged by filth, and finally started to relax. His pulse stopped thumping and his breathing slowed. It was all a part of shoving it back inside. That part of himself that had kept him alive down in the sewer was not a part to let free on the streets of a city. It was a nearly mindless, inarticulate rage that only repeated the same words over and over again in the cadence he had been taught when he was seven years old. Before his father let him lift a blade for the first time he had to repeat it endlessly memorize every note of it. The song of the blade, a deadly quiet song sung only in your mind. A song of slashes, parries, and thrusts.

_Kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with cold hard steel kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with nothing to feel kill kill kill without mercy blood blood makes the green grass grow kill kill kill without mercy kill kill with a heart of steel kill kill kill without mercy..._

So the song quieted, and he closed his eyes and focused on the pain in his leg and side. The were the two most serious wounds and they would become inflamed and ooze pus in no time if he did not get to a healer. This was what his mind said, and what every instinct told him, but he did not know that one of the wererats had coated their blade with a poison as foul as Talona ever concocted. He did not have enough time left to live for the infection to set in. Almost paralyzed, he stared at the city bustling around him. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was how much he hated cities.

_Next: How does Dartrick survive? What are Talindra's foul plans? What has befallen Shael and her companions? What is Tobias' angle? Will Aronal realize the danger he is in? How does The blunderer of Westgate fit in, and why would anyone want him to? To be honest, I don't know because I haven't written any of that yet. If anyone is interested in me continuing this story let me know! Thanks for reading and I look forward to your reviews._


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