While the town of Spearwater and all the characters encountered over the course of the story are original, all other references to locations, characters, and lore of the Forgotten Realms setting are copyrighted by Wizards of the Coast and are used without permission for the sake of creating a tribute to the setting.
Eleint 21, Year of the Snow Winds (1307 DR)
A tree had just stepped on Miliar Summerstroke.
Her full-plate armor, made of well-polished steel engraved and painted with Lady Firehair's infamous curls, slowly bent beneath the aged oak's onslaught, pushing back into her chest and driving the air from her lungs bit by bit. Though she hacked furiously at the wood the plant-creature showed no sign of feeling any pain, and she was discovering firsthand why no lumberjacks used swords.
To her left, her Gnomish companion Filmus was struggling to slide a new stack of bolts into his bizarre crossbow as three snarling wolves advanced on him; seeing that he wouldn't be able to reload in time, he raised one hand and, twisting it in a series of bizarre patterns, squeaked out a few words of command. A wall of fire sprang up between him and his attackers, causing them to leap back with startled howls; Miliar wondered how long it would be before they discovered that the illusion gave off no heat.
On her right, her brother Simmin was trying to hack through the thorny vines that were twining themselves around his legs, squeezing ever tighter and slowly tearing through the leather pants he wore. Though his knife was sharp enough to cut the skin with the merest touch, it seemed to do little against his leafy assailants. Freeing one arm for a moment, he pulled a little bottle from his jacket and uncorked it, carefully directing the contents away from himself. Liquid as clear as water flowed out, but whatever it touched began to hiss and bubble. The vines recoiled, but several bushes rose up on their roots and rushed at him, bowling him over and sending the acid flask flying from his grasp.
It bounced, spilling its endlessly replenishing contents onto the ground and burning up the grass, then slowly rolled to a halt not far from the compressing Paladin's left arm. Giving breathless thanks to Sune, for the goddess of beauty had just beautified an ugly situation, she wriggled her shield off of her arm and carefully took it up. Silently invoking a red-gold light, she threw it with all of her strength, the glow following the crystal vessel as it traveled swiftly upward.
The throw was aided in both aim and potency by the magic she had called, and the vessel shattered among the oak's upper branches, sending jagged chunks of quartz and huge droplets of acid in every direction. Miliar's left arm lunged for her shield, only barely bringing it in front of her face in time to catch the deadly rain. The tree shuddered and, as though off balance, fell backward. It hit the ground with a resounding crash, roots splayed as if they had been ripped from the earth.
Gathering her strength again, Miliar managed to lift the tree's "leg" enough that she was able to shift out from under it. The acid had dealt it horrific damage; smoke curled up from its blackened limbs. It was regrettable that she had been forced to destroy something so beautiful, but it was for the sake of protecting other such things. Strapping her shield back onto her arm, she lifted her sword, somewhat blunted from all the time it had spent assailing the very solid tree, and charged at the wolves which were menacing Filmus again.
A crossbow bolt took one through the eye, and it crumpled to the dirt with a stifled whimper. Miliar's sword came down in a powerful hacking motion at another, but it leapt back, snarling and flinging flecks of spittle as it moved. The third one was behind her, she knew; with perfect timing she threw an armored elbow backward to meet its leap, breaking its jaw and sending it down to the dirt. Without even looking at it she stomped on its neck, ending its suffering. The other wolf howled mournfully, its cry joining with a very human one expressing the same grief.
The noise was cut off when a throwing knife embedded itself in the animal's throat; Miliar cleanly severed its head with an upward flick of her blade. Turning, she nodded her thanks to Simmin, who stood on the ruins of the bushes he'd incinerated with the wand in his belt, a second knife in hand. The trio advanced on the wall of thorns that blocked them from their true enemy. Simmin drew his wand again and flicked it at the barrier; instantly it burst into flames, and Miliar crashed through it shoulder first, splitting the now-brittle plants. She pointed her sword at the hunched figure beyond and spoke, her tone dour and final.
"Rhassag Alecti, I find you guilty of crimes against the people of Cormyr, among them murder and willful destruction of seven grain storehouses. It has already been proven that no prison can hold you; I must sentence you to death. Have you any last words?"
The druid looked up, his eyes wild, his hair matted and filthy beneath the green hood of his robe. Miliar's lip curled in disgust; this was the madman who had attacked and killed thirteen men and women in their fields and five soldiers of the crown, in addition to ensuring that many more would starve during the winter. She had offered him forgiveness, undeserving of it though he was, and he had escaped to kill again. And yet the expression on his face mirrored her own: zeal and determination were written on them both.
"I suppose it's fitting that you avenge your people just as I've avenged mine," he murmured, meeting her fierce gaze without flinching, "though the despoilers you failed to protect deserved their fate more than you'll ever understand." His face twisted into a sneer as he raised an accusing finger. "You people. You multiply and burn and cut and reap and leave so little for the rest of the world. I have acted to preserve the cycle. Whatever you do now, I will go to the woodland spirits as a hero."
Sickened, Miliar stepped forward and brought her blade to his throat. It was not the way of paladins to execute unarmed prisoners, but so long as this man lived he would continue to slay innocent people. The choice was clear and simple; the struggle and pleasure of life was pure and beautiful, and she was sworn to protect things of beauty. Her arms tensed, sending a tremor along her blade, and a line of blood appeared on the murderer's neck.
"A king is born this day,
Great and beloved he will be,
A dragon him will slay,
And this land fall to enemies.
For each who bear his name
A single year shall pass
Then hun'grers come again
And bring balance at last."
One swift stroke of her sword and the druid ceased speaking, his head gone from his shoulders. For a moment, all was still. "What do you think he meant?" Simmin's softly spoken question broke the ominous silence. "I don't know," Miliar replied, "but he and whatever foulness he was planning have met their end." Flicking the dispatched criminal's blood from her sword, she turned and walked away.
Many miles distant, in the royal palace in Cormyr's capital city of Suzail, a midwife held up the newborn Crown Prince Azoun IV for his mother to see.
