Disclaimer: Dungeons and Dragons belong to Wizards of the Coast. Everything else is mine.

Prologue

The docks of Varas were a calming place in the evening. The sun was setting over the ocean waves to the west, and the rowdiest of the sailors had already drunk themselves into unconsciousness. The steady creaking of the merchant ships drifting in the harbor, the distant sounds of people going about their business, and even the cries of the seagulls seemed to transform the Gateway to the North into a serene grove.

Gananir du'Varas felt the rays of the setting sun on his face and brushed a strand of black hair away from his green eyes. The quiet twelve-year-old boy had had a long day, studying under his foster father, and he was glad to finally have some rest, dangling his legs off the end of the dock in the cold water.

"Hey, Gan!"

Gananir looked over his shoulder in response to the voice. A brown-haired boy, in a coat far too big for him, was running down the dock toward him – his twin brother, Naminar.

"Nam! What are you doing here? I thought you'd decided to show Denera around father's study."

Naminar blushed.

"We got caught," he stammered, "Father sent her home, then sent me to tell you it's going to be sundown soon. He wants us both back at the house by then."

Gananir looked back out at the setting sun. He could just make out a ship silhouetted against it, on the distant horizon. While he would've liked to get a better look at it, he didn't have the time. He swung his legs back on to the dock and climbed to his feet.

"Come on," he said, "let's go."

As the two boys left the dock to return to their home, the ship continued its approach. After a short time, it was joined by another.

Storm clouds began to gather.

Varas's marketplace was normally a crowded place, but at this late hour most of the shoppers and shopkeepers had already returned to their homes. That made the cloaked figure making his way down the street all the more suspicious. His fair Leston features – the blond hair falling in long locks to his shoulders, and the bright blue eyes that were almost invisible in the evening light – made him even more conspicuous. It was unusual for a citizen of the Garantanian Empire to venture so far north, especially one of such obvious high station.

Everything about him spoke of power and wealth – the beautiful craftsmanship of his blue doublet, the stitching of the silver Imperial Dragon on his cloak, and most of all, the glimmering silver side-sword at his belt, so finely worked, and so lovingly cared for, that it almost seemed to glow in the dying light.

The Imperial stopped in front of a squat stone tower, built into the city's inner wall. There were two soldiers guarding the doorway, wearing the blue and green livery of the Sciraen Alliance on their tabards. One of them moved to intercept the Imperial as he approached.

"Halt!" the guard shouted, "Who goes there?"

"A friend of Sir du'Tylen," the Imperial replied.

The two guards looked at each other.

"You expect us to believe you?" the second guard asked.

"No, not really," the Imperial said, "but I do have to speak with him. If you want to take my weapon, I won't stop you."

He held up the sword, hilt first. The guard grabbed it and ripped it from his hands.

"Come along, Imperial. We'll soon see if you're who you say you are."

The guards opened the door. Before stepping inside, the Imperial paused and looked into the heavens. Dark clouds were waiting overhead.

"Looks like rain," he observed, "I see our enemy has a sense of humor."

He adjusted his cloak, and stepped inside.

Aranir du'Teveren looked over the flat of the two-handed sword. It was perfect. Finally.

He lifted up his master's claymore and lay it up against the wall of the armory, where it usually stood, and smiled. This was an important day, after all. After years of service as a page, he had finally been made squire to Sir Carolan du'Tylen himself. He would finally be able to carry a weapon of his own, to serve beside his master on the battlefield, to be the Will of Salvai.

"Sir du'Tylen!"

Aranir stopped. He recognized the voice – Sergeant Alonar du'Tyliran, one of the guards posted on the doors to the garrison. The call had come from the front hall. He put his ear up against the door to listen.

There were heavy footfalls – Sir du'Tylen's heavy boots as he entered the hall.

"What is it, sergeant?"

"There's a Garantanian here to see you, my lord," du'Tyliran said, "he says he's a friend of yours."

Several boots shuffled on the floor. There was a brief pause.

"Sir?" du'Tyliran asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Hello, Car," said a new voice, this one carrying the unmistakable accent of someone from the Imperial heartland.

"Sergeant, private, leave us," Sir du'Tylen ordered.

"But sir…"

"I said leave, sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

More shuffling. The soldiers had returned to their posts.

"You might want to deal with your squire as well, Car," the Imperial said, "he's best listening at the door to the armory."

Aranir panicked. He quickly scuffled away from the door, trying to find a hiding place. He didn't get far – the door was flung open, and Sir du'Tylen looked down on him. His elaborately crafted steel plate mail, the holy symbol of Salvai marked out in lapis lazuli on his chest, made him seem even more imposing.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't think…"

"Oh, please, Car. He didn't do anything wrong. Besides, we have more pressing concerns than an eavesdropping apprentice."

Sir du'Tylen sighed and turned around.

"What is it, Kell? What are you doing here? What's going on?"

"Deos has betrayed us."

Gananir opened the door to the small house on the north edge of Varas. It was a deceptively simple one-story cottage, hardly the type of home with which wizards were typically associated

"Ya! Ha!"

Behind him, Nam came walking up the steps, thrusting and twisting with a long stick as if it was a sword.

"Thrust! Parry! Counterthrust!"

Gananir sighed and opened the door to the hall.

"Grow up, will you?"

Naminar responded by sticking his tongue out.

"Hey," he said, "just because I don't like being stuck in a musty old room filled with books doesn't mean I…"

"Boys!"

Gananir and Naminar both turned to face the hall. An older man in a dusty green robe, with graying dark brown hair and a thick beard, was standing in front of them. They knew he was, of course – their foster father, Renan du'Tylen.

"Oh, thank Zarath you're alright," their father said, "come, we have to leave immediately."

The heavens opened up, and it began to rain.

The rain beat against the hood of Kell Detevenn's cloak as he walked along the battlements of Varas's Sea Wall, Sir du'Tylen at his side. His old friend's new squire was trailing just behind them, clutching the hilt of the short sword at his waist tightly with both hands. It was a narrow, crowded walkway, filled with the cannon crews preparing for the coming attack.

"How many?" du'Tylen asked.

"At least five hundred Zyrian marines," Kell replied, "With naval support."

"Salvai's blood! Our forces can't hope to match that."

Kell nodded.

"Our only real chance is to hope that Renan manages to get the boys out of here safely on their own. I'm… sorry."

"I just don't understand," du'Tylen said, "why would Deos do this? Siding with Karas… it goes against his Oath, his goddess, against everything he stands for! It doesn't make any sense!"

He slammed his gauntleted hands down on the parapet.

"It's not important," Kell said, "we have to buy time for the citizens to evacuate and for Renan to get the boys to safety. They're the only ones who meet the demands of the Prophecies."

du'Tylen shook his head, then looked up at the horizon. The ships were visible now – only pirates and the Zyrian Republic raised black sails, and no pirate had ever had so many ships.

"Damn it, Deos," he muttered, "why are you doing this?"

Lord Commander Deos Nexar cut a striking figure in the midst of the storm, his wild, ragged red hair blowing in the raging wind, his ice blue eyes seeming to flash in the darkness, his elven features sharp and slight. His breathing was in time with the staccato beat of the rain against his ebon plate mail armor.

He was filled with many conflicting emotions as he surveyed the hundred elven soldiers assembled on the deck of the Lethal Grace – sadness at what he had to do, disappointment that the plan had failed, but most of all, apprehension. Whatever happened here to night, history would be irrevocably altered. It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter where he turned, the end would come.

At least this way there might be survivors.

He didn't let his apprehension show on his face. Instead, he raised his Hunter's Axe – a gift from Mother Miranna herself – and shouted into the heavens,

"Open fire!"

The ship was shaken to its foundations as the forward cannon opened up behind him. The explosion was echoed as the other ships opened fire. The roar of cannon fire rose to rival that of the storm.

"Soldiers of the Republic!"

The marines stood ready, attentive.

"Behold, the Sciraen Alliance, a place of darkness and deceit! Not only have they aligned themselves with the heretics of the Garantanian Empire and the taintbloods of the Confederation, but they have harbored an evil beyond even these. For there, upon the horizon, lies the last refuge of the Dark Ones upon Elysion!"

The thunder and cannon fire seemed to punctuate his cries. A plume of water rose up from the seas as a Sciraen cannonball struck the surface. Deos ignored the spray of water on his face and raised his axe into the air once more.

"Tonight we strike a mighty blow for Our Lady Miranna! Tonight, we make history!"

Fires burned from the wreckage of the buildings on the wharf. Kell felt the rain embrace him and fingered his sword. So, this was what it all came down to. The final test had begun.

The two sides had reached the breach in the Sea Wall almost simultaneously. No sooner had the Sciraen soldiers closed the gap than the Zyrians had rushed to break it.

A tide of black armor swept over the defensive line. Kell was making his attack before the enemy ever reached the Sciraen forces. His sword lashed out and ripped into a Zyrian soldier's chest, piercing the chain mail armor and driving through his heart. With a flick of his arm, Kell brought the sword back into the open, then swung it around to catch another Zyrian in the neck.

He worked back through the advancing tide, the tip of his blade leading his charge. If he could find Deos, if he could stop him…

"Kell!"

Kell stopped. So, the traitor had finally shown himself.

"Deos."

The elf slowly approached the knight, the soldiers parting around them in silent acknowledgement of their honorable duel.

"Why are you doing this, Deos?" Kell shouted, "What possible reason could you have to…"

"I might as well explain night to the sun!" Deos spat back, "Prepare to die, human!"

Deos came charging, his axe raised over his head for the strike. Kell raised his sword to block, then swung it around and brought the tip of the blade back in for a counterattack. Deos wasn't fast enough to block the strike, but it deflected off the surface of his heavy plate armor.

The elf took a step back to make room for his next swing, then came in hard, ramming the blade of his axe past Kell's guard. The Leston dived out of the way and rolled up to the elf's side, cutting with his side-sword. The sword struck armor again, and this time Deos was ready. He forced Kell off of his body with his shoulders, swinging the axe to catch the swordsman in the chest as he was flung backwards.

The axe swung short, but Kell was thrown to the ground, his sword held above him in a futile attempt to stop a killing blow. The elf had him at his mercy. Deos stood over the prone soldier, axe at the ready.

"You're an old friend, Kell," he said, "so I'll do you one small favor. Flee the city. Get of out of here, now, and I'll let you live."

The swordsman nodded. Deos smiled and swung his axe over his shoulder.

"Good. Get out while you still can, Kell. By night's end, Varas will be gone."

Aranir clutched his short sword tightly with both hands and struggled to keep up with Sir du'Tylen. The knight was making his way through the tide of Zyrian soldiers like a wolf through a herd of sheep. The squire could barely keep up.

Aranir tripped over the body of a fallen Sciraen, and went crashing into the pavement, his sword flying out of his hands. Damn it, he had to pull himself together.

The squire pushed himself off the ground, trying to ignore the stinging in his arms. Knights didn't notice such minor injuries. He swept his damp hair away from his face, and cast around for his sword.

Nothing.

He scrabbled across the ground, trying to grab the sword before one of the soldiers noticed a young boy crawling around their feet. The spray of the rain off the cobblestones stung his eyes, and the sounds of battle and pain from the crash dulled his concentration. He closed his eyes for an instant. He had to fight through this.

He opened his eyes, still barely able to see. He probed out with his right arm, and finally touched something besides stone. But it wasn't his sword.

It was leather.

Aranir slowly looked up, dreading what he would see. Above him stood a man in black armor, ragged red hair matted to the sides of his face, and a sharp, severe glare.

"Are you one of Deltak's sons?" he asked.

"Deos!"

The man spun on his heel, and Aranir managed to look around behind him. Sir du'Tylen was standing before them, his sword grasped in both hands, ready to bring down on the elven warrior. Aranir slowly backed away.

"Leave Aranir out of this, traitor," the knight said, "he has nothing to do with any of this!"

"Car," the elf said, "I don't want to have to hurt you. Tell me where the boys are."

Sir du'Tylen shook his head.

"Why, so you can bring their broken corpses to Karus?"

The elf spat in disgust.

"Me, work with him? Nen'portatos!"

"Spare me the lies, Deos," du'Tylen said, "I'm through listening to you. It's time for you to face justice."

The knight moved first, bringing his sword down. The elf struck the blow aside with his axe, then tore forward, the weapon working its way forward with impressive force as du'Tylen struggle back across the pavement.

Despite his frail elven frame, Deos was easily keeping the upper hand. The elves of Zyr strove for perfection in all things, and Deos had been mastering the art of the warrior for over four hundred years. du'Tylen may have been stronger, but even the righteous strength of Salvai was not enough to defeat the four century lead Deos had on him.

Inevitably, it happened. du'Tylen barely blocked an axe strike in time, and was thrown off balance. Deos took the opening, and struck the knight's chest, the force of his axe crushing the knight's breastplate in on itself. Sir du'Tylen was knocked to the ground by the force of the block, sprawled out over the body of a fallen soldier.

"This is your last chance, Car," the elf said, "tell me where the boys are now."

The knight spat, blood spraying from his mouth with the spit. Aranir could barely moved, paralyzed as he was with fear.

"Never," the knight said, "and may Eternity lock you her grip for what you've done!"

"So be it."

The elf raised his axe, and something inside Aranir snapped. He couldn't just stand by and do nothing while this Zyrian demon murdered his master!

He reached out and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find – the fallen spear of a Sciraen soldier. He hastily pulled himself to his feet and, with all the strength he could muster, charged Deos with the spear.

Deos was faster than him. The elf turned on his heel, grabbed the spear, and flung Aranir and his weapon back as if they were nothing more than ants.

"Aranir," du'Tylen croaked, "run! Get out of here!"

Aranir pulled himself back to his feet, using the spear as a crutch. What had just…

"Go! Now! Or by Salvai, I'll..."

The rest of du'Tylen's cry was lost as he coughed up a fresh stream of blood. The elven warrior turned towards Aranir.

"Is this your price then, Car?" Deos asked.

"Run, you Endless-damned idiot! Run!"

Aranir wasn't sure whether it was his master's admonishes or his own fear the caused him to turn and run, but he did, gripping the spear tightly with both hands as fled, and knowing, with every fiber of his being, that he had left his master to die.

"How much longer is it going to be?" Nam whispered.

"A few hours at the rate we have to deal with your whining," Gananir answered. He loved his brother, he really did, but honestly, Nam could be such an idiot sometimes.

"Both of you, quiet," Renan insisted, "we're here."

The three passed out of the alleyway into a small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings and the forth by the city walls. A small door in the wall no doubt led to a staircase leading up to the ramparts.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Naminar asked.

"There's a secret escape route out of the city here," Renan answered, and made for the door.

He had managed to get it open with someone behind them spoke.

"Ah, there you are."

Gananir and the others slowly turned around. Behind them was one of the enemy soldiers – a big man, in black armor, with pointed ears and ragged red hair.

"Yes, Deos," Renan answered, "here we are."

"You should've come to me, Renan," Deos said, "I didn't enjoy doing what I had to do to Car to get the information out of him."

A look of concern crossed Renan's face.

"What the hell did you do to my brother, traitor?"

Deos shook his head.

"He's dead, Renan. I'm… sorry, I suppose."

"Damn it, Deos, we were friends! We had a plan! How could you let this happen?"

"Shut up!" the elf shouted, "You know nothing! Nothing!"

He charged, his axe raised above his head, ready to cut the wizard down.

Renan was fast in reacting. In one fluid motion, he unclasped the spell book chained to his belt, and opened it to the necessary page, the strange blue glow in his eyes matching that of the runes on the page.

"Nel sol!"

Lightning crackled from his fingertips, racing across the courtyard and into the breastplate of the charging warrior. It seemed to arc about his body, then vanished.

"What the…"

Renan didn't have time to finish his exclamation, as Deos's axe made contact. The wizard was cut down within a second.

"Father!" Gananir screamed.

As Renan's body crumpled to the ground, Deos stepped forward, gripping his axe and smiling.

"So," the elf said, "which of the little Dark Ones wants to die first?"

Gananir looked around wildly for a way out. Nam was pressed up against the wall, paralyzed with fear. Father… father was…

There was only one thing to do.

Magic hadn't worked on the big elf, so Gananir used the only weapon available to him – the knife strapped to his belt. He drew it, and, shouting a war cry at the top of his lungs, charged Deos.

The last thing he ever saw was the axe coming up and through his chest.

Nam wanted to scream, but his lips couldn't move. He wanted to run, but his legs refused to obey. His father and his brother, both cut down before his eyes.

Deos began advanced slowly, an almost maniacal grin spreading across his face. Nam couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't even scream. He was going to die. He knew he was going to die, that there was no way he could escape it, and that made it even worse.

"Deos!"

The elf turned on his heel at the voice, and Nam watched a figure in a cloak step out of the shadows.

"Kell," Deos spat.

"You should've… killed me when… you had the chance…"

The cloaked man was badly injured. He stumbled as he walked, and when he spoke, his sentences were punctuated with coughs of blood.

"Stay out of this, Kell."

"Heh… just like you, Deos… never knowing when you've lost…"

The man raised his sword and pointed toward the door.

"Get out of here, kid."

Nam needed no second urging. He bolted for the door, slammed it open, and sprinted down the stairs beyond.

Kell held Durandal in both hands, breathing heavily. He didn't even have the strength to hold his own sword correctly, Gods damn it!

Behind Deos, Deltak's son made a dash down the stairs. Good. Kell didn't want him around when things started getting messy.

He stepped forward, holding his sword out in front of him, and, cautiously, started to circle Deos.

"It's over, Deos."

Deos shook his head and spat.

"Like the hells it is!"

He rushed Kell, axe swinging wildly in the air. Charging straight forward, unable to change course. Kell took the opportunity, darting past Deos's flank toward the door and the stairs.

Kell turned on his heel and took a step back onto the first step as Deos spun around. The elven warrior charged, and Kell was forced back down the steps, frantically parrying Deos's axe.

When Deos took a step to fast, however, Kell saw his opportunity. He rammed his sword forward, straight through the gap between Deos's pauldron and breastplate, and into his shoulder. Kell forced the elf to the ground.

"Why are you doing this, Deos?" Kell demanded.

For the first time that night, Kell saw something that he thought might be regret in his adversary's eyes.

"We were fooled, Kell. Miranna showed me the Final Prophecy, the one those bastards hid from us! We have to…"

"Oh, is that all?"

Almost immediately, Kell regretted what he had said. The look of fear and regret in Deos's eyes turned first to one of confusion, then to bitter realization, and finally to pure, seething anger.

"You knew?"

The elf flung his arm forward, the force sending Kell flying down the staircase to the bottom, barely managing to hold onto his sword. Above him, Deos climbed to his feet.

"Of course, it all makes sense now! You were never really on our side, were you? And to think I actually used to admire you! It makes me sick."

"Deos, listen to me, this is far more complicated than…"

"I don't have any more patience for your lies, Kell. Your judgment has come."

He started walking down the stairs. The fury didn't show itself in his movements. His pace was cold, calculating, and methodological – but behind it was the mind of a man who wanted nothing more than to bring about his enemy's painful end.

Kell pulled himself to his feet and out the lower door behind him. The staircase tunnel through the outer wall had originally been a secret escape route – it led to a bridge across the moat on the city's southern wall.

Kell planted his feet firmly on the stones of the bridge, ready to take the charge. His hair whipped at his face in the raging wind, and the rain splashed off the blade of his sword. He allowed himself a brief glance to his rear – the stone staircase leading up to the top of the outer bank, and, at the top…

Oh, no.

"Why are you still here?" Kell shouted at the boy at the top of the outer bank, "I told you to run!"

Oh, this was just great. There was only one way out. The last ditch effort. At least this way the kid would have some time to get away. Ahead of him, Deos took his first steps onto the bridge. It was now or never.

"Hey kid, catch!"

Kell turned around, and threw his sword at the boy.

Nam had only moments to react. As the sword flew towards him, he dove to the side, trying to desperately to get out of the way. The sword narrowly missed him, the fine edge of the blade drawing a cut across his right cheek. He hit the ground with a thud, and hastily pulled himself to his feet.

The knight was standing in the center of the bridge, holding a small bag and what looked like a matchlock pistol. On the far side of the bridge, the elf was advancing slowly. Nam didn't want to look directly at him. He was scary.

The knight threw the bag into the air.

"Freedom, Unity, Honor…"

The elf charged, axe raised above his head, ready to cut the knight down. The bag started to fall.

"…to these Three Pillars…"

The elf was almost on top of him. The axe began its descent.

"…I now resign my soul."

The bag came down first. Nam heard the click of a matchlock striking a spark, the brief burst of flame as it met the powder in the bag, and the world exploded.

The force of the blast flung Deos back. It was painful, but not nearly as much as the impact of his body against the stairs. No. He had to pull through. By Miranna's will, he had to…

He opened his eyes, and saw the broken remnants of the bridge and the back of the boy running as far from the city as his legs could take him.

Deos collapsed, and tears mixed with the blood on his face.

Nam struggled up the hillside, the dirt turned to mud by the rain. He clutched the side-sword in his right hands, using it as a crutch to climb up through the broken terrain.

He was a wreck. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding, but the blood was caked against his face. His entire body seemed to be coated in some mix of red and brown. Worst of all, not all of it was his blood. He could still see Gananir, risking his life to defend his brother.

And poor scared little Nam, hanging back and letting Gananir do all the work. It was just like it had always been – Nam played at being a hero, but Gananir was the one who really rose to the occasion. He shouldn't have been the one to die, damn it!

Nam flung himself down on the hilltop. Let the Zyrians kill him! They'd already killed everybody worth saving.

Something sharp poked him in the back. Well, that was quick.

"Hey!"

Nam rolled over. The rain stung his eyes, but he could still see. It wasn't a Zyrian at all. It was a boy, his age, maybe slightly older, holding a long spear.

"You don't look like a Zyrian," the boy said.

"My name's Naminar du'Varas," Nam said, "I'm on your side."

The other boy smiled, lowered his spear, and held out his hand. Nam grabbed it, and the boy pulled him to his feet.

"Aranir du'Teveren."

As the two boys made their way southward across the plains of western Schengor, Nam examined the sword. It was fairly simple as side-swords went, with a cross hilt more suited to an old broadsword than a modern weapon, though the blade was certainly sharper than any broadsword Nam had ever seen. The most intriguing detail, however, was a name, etched into the blade near the hilt.

Durandal. Unbreakable.