Chapter II: Airs of Confidence

"Why did you come to me before visiting Lord Nasher?" She asked as they sat on the balcony overlooking a small garden in the Beggar's Nest. Her white sleeping shawl hung loosely about her copper skin; the air was surprisingly warm though the winter had not yet faded to spring.

She looks absolutely radiant, Dernhelm thought. The sun shining off her auburn hair, her powerful brown eyes, her muscles moving beneath the shear garment, the shape of her… His pulse beat a rapid tam-tam every time he looked at her. It had been too long since he had seen her – almost a week – and any time away seemed like an eternity. As he sat there watching her, studying her like he could not help but do, he redrew the painting of her beautiful essence on the canvas of his heart. He sighed.

"I came into the city and could feel you in distress. I told Daelan to tell Lord Nasher what we had learned and that I would be along shortly. I said I had important business to attend to first." He looked at her and sighed with that love-filled look of concern. "I couldn't concentrate knowing you were in distress."

It was amazing, she thought as he took up her hand and held it to his chest. Here the Hero of Neverwinter, Dernhelm the Great, was holding her hand looking so… small and helpless as he expressed his worry for her… for her. It showed her once again the depth and complexity of this man – a side that he showed to so few – it showed her why she loved him. She gave him a smile of thankfulness, that private smile she gave only to him.

She already knew what the scouts had reported. After she had calmed from her nightmares, her inquisitive nature told her that for Dernhelm to be back so soon, the news must not be as he had expected. She was quick to wring the information out of him. She was as concerned as he over the news, concerned but not altogether afraid. They had weathered such storms before, storms where the simple fight became a tortured morass of intrigue and dark magic. They would weather this storm like they had all the others, and while it wouldn't be as simple as she had hoped, she was confident they would overcome this new threat.

She was afraid though, and it had nothing to do with revelations of the plotting of some sinister ogre mage. She was afraid because without Dernhelm even speaking, she knew what he was going to do. He had done it many times before – Boreen Darkblade, Valeron, Morag, Heurodis, the Valsharess – and had come out relatively unscathed, but this time, she couldn't afford to lose him. She was afraid of even a minute chance. They had started a new life, he had brought her back from insanity and though she knew that Ao would always be with her, she realized how fully and deeply she loved him… and needed him.

For the first time she became afraid for his safety. Though he was her strong man, her army, her coiled serpent, she wanted to protect him. And she knew she couldn't. His course was sound and reasonable and he was oh so stubborn, but she knew she couldn't change him, wouldn't change him because of the love she had for who he was. She was just afraid for him for the first time in her life, and she knew she would just have to live with that fear.

She wished she could go with him to relive their adventures of fighting side by side in the wastes of Cania… But now she was with child and she had duties as Knight General and for both reasons she must let him go without her, with only her prayers and the protection of their friends.

Dernhelm turned to her then and gathered her into a warm embrace, pulling her warm body against his own. He was still in his travel-stained ranger's garb and it made light smears of road dirt and grime on her white robe but she barely noticed, overcome with emotion.

"Ari, don't be afraid," Dernhelm said softly. "I can feel your fear, but you know I'm doing what is necessary." He kissed her forehead and then raised her chin so she could look into her eyes. Her beautiful brown irises were quivering. "I'll be fine… I wish you could come with me."

She nodded but said nothing. She wanted to cry but she held back. It wasn't out of pride – they cried openly in front of each other when they needed comforting – she knew there was no assuaging her fear and that she simply had to deal with it. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to Lord Ao, committing Dernhelm to His care.

She pulled away and looked at him with a gaze full of love. He reached out a hand and placed it on her belly; she covered his hand with one of her own. They sat there for a long moment drinking each other through their eyes and saying nothing. Nothing could be said. The hands that covered the product of their love intertwined.

At last she stood and her posture became more regal and strong like she had looked when he had first fallen in love with her and he could see she had locked her fear away. She let go of his hand. Before his eyes without changing at all, she became who she was for the rest of the world to see: Aribeth de Tylmarande, Knight General of Neverwinter and Paladin of Lord Ao.

"I'll see you at Castle Never in two hours. We have preparations to make," she said, and turned to get ready. Unexpectedly, she winked back over her shoulder and spanked her practically bare buttocks like a seedy tavern wench. Warrior-woman or no, she would always be his wife.

He laughed until his sides hurt.

He had been let in without any hassle. The gate guards knew him by name; informally this was his city. As he walked down the corridors of Castle Never, he casually studied the trophies and murals accumulated over the last few centuries depicting the history of the Savage Frontier and the City of Neverwinter. It served to pass the time. He was in no hurry yet.

A rusted suit of armor next to a worn tome stood with reverence behind a glass enclosure, remnants of the founder of the city, Halueth Never. Beyond, several shining swords and armor were the only remaining artifacts of the first Neverwinter Nine, who at one time acted as the ruling council of Neverwinter. He had had a hand in recovering many of them and they held an almost familiar feel.

Dented helms taken from orc generals from previous uprisings stood in glass cases further down the hall, and the sheer number of them reinforced the urgency as well as the familiarity of the current situation – it had happened before and yet Neverwinter still stood. In another cabinet, the sash worn by Desther hung on a small hook, the words "A Traitor's End" carved beneath it.

Most of the artifacts were so obscure that without labels, few would remember why they were even on display. It mattered little because only the aristocrats, a few guards, and the cleaning staff ever got a chance to view them. A few pieces however, required special attention.

To his left, a young-looking tapestry drew his attention as it always did as he walked down the hall, and he turned to study it. The image was bisected in two, one side dark, filled with shadows and lighting, the other side light illuminated by a yellow-threaded sun. On the dark half, plague-ridden bodies lay strewn haphazardly about the streets of a ruined silver city. In the foreground, a beautiful yet shadow-shrouded female elf stood, a black blade that seemed to sap the light held in her right hand, a ball of dark shadow clenched in her left. Her look was terrifying, and shadowed tan-stitched people ran from the fury of her coming. In the background, a misty, almost obscured figure stood, with leathery, lizard-like skin, cords of shadow attached to the female elf, like strings on a marionette.

On the light half, the City of Neverwinter stood with its silvery stone walls blazing as if a living entity holding back the tide of darkness. The tan-and-silver armored soldiers held their swords defiantly against the shadow, gleaming in the holy sun. In the foreground, as if leading the army, stood four figures, one more forward and larger than the rest. The larger figure in the foreground held aloft a shining greatsword, its blade radiating a holy light. Around his head, a halo of light gleamed, and fire lit his footsteps.

It was the worst likeness of him that had ever been made, he thought, and he always grew angry when he saw it. It was like some twisted version of hero worship immensely exaggerating his influence in the events of the age, and giving him some completely false and holy character. He felt a moment of sorrow as he studied the other figures, recalling painful memories. The figures in the rear were clearly caricatures of Lord Nasher, Sharwyn, and Daelan Red Tiger. About their feet lay two bodies, those of Tomi Undergallows and Linu La'Neral.

When he had first seen it after returning to Neverwinter, he had wanted it destroyed. Lord Nasher had been surprised when he had unveiled it and Dernhelm had nearly knocked over the guards in an attempt to tear it from the wall. The figure reigning death from the dark half was none other than his own wife, Aribeth. He had tried to keep her protected from seeing it but she was adept at knowing when he was keeping something from her. When she found out, she immediately went to Castle Never. He remembered waiting as she spent hours standing before the tapestry, wanting to hold her and comfort her from the blow this mural must have caused as it brought up buried memories. After a long while, however, she turned to him and told him she wanted the hanging to stay.

At first surprised, he had started to object, but she had calmed him with her words. He could remember them clearly.

"I want this painting to remain. It speaks the truth, at the core, albeit covered by artistic exaggeration. It is history of which I was a part. It does not hurt me anymore now that I have Ao's forgiveness, but it serves as a reminder about how wide is the path that leads to destruction."

A single tear escaped from his left eye as he closed his eyes remembering. He sighed. They had been through so much, both of them. With a prayer of thanksgiving to Ao, he turned and continued to walk down the hall, composing himself as he always had to when viewing the wall-hanging.

As he approached the door to the meeting chamber, a black panther sat outside the door as if on guard, at rest on its hind legs as it kept vigil on the hall. Vaash the panther had been a gift from Dernhelm to Lord Nasher upon returning from Waterdeep, much to Lord Nasher's surprise. Dernhelm had given it to him as a symbol of the time Lord Nasher had kindly treated and protected Aribeth while she was in prison. This panther was a vicious guardian to those who would threaten. It had been the perfect gift and Lord Nasher and grown quite attached to it. It followed him everywhere and Dernhelm had even once caught him rolling on the floor wrestling playfully with Vaash, but both pretended as if nothing had happened. Dernhelm laughed, remembering Lord Nasher's embarrassment.

Vaash tilted his head up and Dernhelm scratched it behind the ears; it rumbled with pleasure. As a ranger, he loved all types of animals, and they likewise seemed to have a general affection for him. Dernhelm gave the panther one last pat on the head and reached past him for the door to the meeting chamber.

Suddenly Dernhelm stopped, sniffed the air, and then he caught the panther by the muzzle, turning its head so he could look into its eyes.

"Good," Dernhelm said to the panther with a grin. "But not good enough. Try again next time, Nathyrra."

The panther growled at him, a teeth-bared snarl that remarkably sounded like a laugh and before his very eyes, the panther began to change and grow. Within moments a small drow stood before him, her snow white hair in a glimmering tumble about flawless black skin. Her pale pink lips were fixed in a smile as she regarded her taller friend, her chin resting in his hand. Dernhelm released her as if burned and quickly averted his eyes. She always liked to tease him about his modesty; she wasn't wearing a stitch. Her body was decidedly shapely and Dernhelm could barely help but be aroused, but he trained himself to stare past her.

"Like what you see?" she asked demurely, swaying her hips and shaking her small breasts at him. She loved to torment him; she truly had no shame.

That's not correct, Dernhelm thought. Her culture views nakedness differently than ours, and she knows it. That's why she torments me so. His eyes were boring holes in the wall beyond her. He tried to keep his features from showing any emotion but she must have seen the stern set of his jaw. She laughed, a sound like sparkling water falling over a step in the riverbed. It was musical.

With a flick of her fingers, a leather robe appeared about her shoulders covering her from head to foot.

"How do you do it?" she asked, partially still laughing at his heated cheeks, and partly filled with curiosity. "That polymorph spell should have been perfect… You can look now."

"Indeed," Dernhelm said, cautiously fixing her with a glare which finally softened into a humorous grin. "It was almost perfect."

"How so?"

"You didn't smell like a cat that licks itself clean," he said touching his nose conspiratorially. "It's all in the nose." He chuckled.

She sighed.

He turned to her and grinned. "Also, Vaash doesn't have lavender eyes."

He laughed as he heard her curse, loudly. Clapping her on the back, he opened the door and stepped into the chamber.

The chamber consisted of a large rectangular table with twelve chairs around it, five on each long side and one on each end. Torches in iron stanchions with mirrors behind them provided ample light for the large room, and two guards stood at each of the room's two doors. As he passed between the guards on his side of the room, he clapped them both on the back in greeting, having fought alongside them when Desther's false Helmites stole the cure for the plague.

On the near side of the table, four of the Neverwinter Nine sat with their backs to him, a chair set aside for invited guests in their middle. On the opposite side, five of the lords sat facing him with grim looks. At one end on a slightly elevated platform sat Lord Nasher, his long grey hair loosely braided and hanging over his left shoulder as he reviewed some papers. The other end of the table was reserved for the Knight General, Aribeth, who had not yet arrived. They all turned to look at him when he entered with Nathyrra.

In one corner of the room Daelan Red Tiger stood talking with Sharwyn who had recently been named the unofficial spymaster for the City of Neverwinter. Dernhelm officially held the title but Sharwyn had the real contacts, acquired over years of being a bard. Keeping him in the fore allowed her to work more effectively in the shadows.

It was the second person talking with Daelan that drew his attention, however. A tall female nearly six feet in height stood dressed in a loose fitting white tunic and pants, a long knife with an ornate hilt belted at her waist. As he entered the room, she gazed in his direction.

The woman staring at him was human, in her earliest thirties, with a squarish jaw, and deep, fierce azure eyes. It was the eyes that captivated him. Eyes of determination and strength, the blue irises nearly crackled with electricity. Her skin was suntanned, a copper color that fit her face perfectly. He could tell that she spent much time outdoors. She was beautiful in a rugged, natural way, like a snow-covered mountain, all craggy peaks and peaceful snow. She reminded him of Aribeth, of the strength he had first seen in her, a proud bearing and indomitable will. He could feel it in this woman.

And he could also sense the subtle pulse of the Harper bond, that magical connection forged between all fraternal members to encourage unity and to protect against spies and false claimants.

On her head was a helmet seemingly of pure gold with a small bridge that came down to protect her nose. Though simply worked, with the outline of a dragon on the bridge, it identified her as a first tier graduate of the military academy in Phlan – no small accomplishment. The helm fit flush with the sides of her head, and light brown hair poked out from beneath.

But then, his good-natured smile faltered.

Her face was grim and her eyebrows were fixed in a scowl. He could feel her grimness even through the Harper bond – an amazing feat as the bond could not carry anything but the subtle identification and the strongest of emotions. He sighed. While he had never met this woman before, he felt a strange kinship for her as he did for all members of his order; therefore he was particularly affected by her dour attitude. He was about to introduce himself, but his attention was quickly diverted from the woman as Lord Nasher spoke.

"Dernhelm, at last you are here. I trust everything is fine?" his deep baritone echoing in the large room. He stood from his chair and walked over to Dernhelm. Lord Nasher possessed a mane of silver grey hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and similarly grey mustaches and eyebrows. Anyone could tell from his bearing, however, that this man was still strong both in arms and in character. A breastplate of gold and silver covered a shirt of chainmail and a long cloak of azure blue was chained about his neck with gold chains. A broadsword hung from his left hip. Never one for creature comforts, Nasher routinely wore his battle-garb – albeit heavily ornamented, expected for one of his station – whenever he had the chance and especially for city matters, fearing that a life of linens may soften his adventurer's muscles.

Dernhelm genuflected before Lord Nasher, face to the floor, before speaking.

"Everything is fine my lord. At least, that which I needed to attend to before coming here. I apologize for the delay."

"Nonsense," Lord Nasher said in a friendly tone. Grabbing Dernhelm by the shoulder he made him rise. "Bowing is for servants, not old friends. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"As many times as I come and see you," Dernhelm replied with a grin as he looked into the warm smile of his friend. They shook hands, Lord Nasher's gold backed gauntlets providing an odd contrast to the worn hunting gloves Dernhelm wore.

Lord Nasher took Dernhelm by the elbow and led him back to the Harper. Her azure eyes regarded him impassively. "Might I introduce to you Tarlin Misonere, High Courier, newly arrived out of Icewind Dale. She happened to be passing through after bringing missives to Bryn Shander. She inquired at the palace if we needed any safe correspondence and I figured it might be beneficial for her to be at this meeting."

Dernhelm smiled because he believed not a word of it. Her presence was too coincidental in light of their circumstances for her to just "happen to pass through," and the fact that he could sense the Harper bond in her, as could Lord Nasher, gave it the lie. While it was possible that a High Courier had also sworn allegiance to the Harpers – Nathaniel Sethan had done so thirty years previously to their organization's great benefit – it was such a rare occurrence that he would most assuredly have heard of it.

Curiosity therefore kindled within him to know the purpose of her 'coincidental' presence; he suspected, however, that such answers would be slow in coming as they always were. In any case, he was unconcerned. Their common affiliation precluded any malevolent intent on her part, and if Nasher saw a need to safeguard her true identity from the others in the room, he would continue the ruse in his typical relaxed and jocular manner.

"How is old Jensin Brent?" Dernhelm asked jokingly. "Content with his little piece of paradise amidst the icy hell of the frozen north?"

"That he is," she replied flatly, her voice strong and sure as a command without a hint of emotion.

"And what color is it now, I wonder? Mauve?" Dernhelm continued the jibe. For some reason, he found himself intent on breaking her dour demeanor.

"It was pastel yellow and orange not two months ago, but who knows what changes it will go through before I return his way?"

"Oh, assuredly," Nasher interjected.

But Dernhelm was not finished.

"His taste in color is as bad as his taste in women," Dernhelm said, his arms extending quite far from his sides to give the impression of corpulence. He lowered his brow and pursed his lips like an ape. Inside, he couldn't help but laugh at his own joke, but she was having none of it. The only outward change to her face was a slight squinting of her eyes as if she was actually angered.

Lord Nasher, however, clapped him on the back with a laugh – he knew the truth of Dernhelm's jape – and then looked about the room. "And where is that wonderful wife of yours? We need to get down to business."

"I am here my lord," Aribeth said as she entered the room, the guards snapping to attention as she passed. She was clad from head to toe in her form-fitting white leather suit with a high collar, the garb she wore when conducting official business with the nobility. As she walked, every muscle in her body stood defined and it was hard not to be awed by her physical strength and radiance of determination. About her shoulders was a sky blue cape that billowed behind her as she walked. It was hooked about her neck with a silver chain. Ashalandar, her longsword, was belted in a silver scabbard at her left hip, and was balanced by a short sword that glowed with a soft white light on her right. Her auburn hair fell in a gleaming wave about her shoulders.

Dernhelm could not help but be aroused. Though she was not far enough along for the bulge of her pregnancy to be reflected in the garb, this would not have affected his desire in the slightest as it did some men. His wife was an image of pure beauty, power, and sensuality. He had once commented that the outfit could do nothing but arouse the men and that he didn't find it appropriate for her to wear it where others could see. She responded by saying the things that noble ladies were supposed to wear did nothing more than make them objects, 'a pair of breasts that could talk;' this dress showed off her cleavage as much as it did her strength, and as fit as it showed her to be, it gave most men pause. As Dernhelm watched her walk to them, her muscles moving beneath the taut cowhide, he couldn't help but agree. Any man that considered her an object would only do so once.

"Plus," she commented once, "If the enemy… or the politician… is looking at my bosom, they aren't looking at my sword."

"Now that we are all here, we can begin to discuss the preparations for the attacks that are sure to come," said Lord Nasher.

"I have plenty of questions. But, before we get too much involved in discussions we could at least sit down and get comfortable. I imagine we will be here for a while." He guided them to their seats.

Two extra chairs were brought in. Dernhelm sat in one next to his wife and Daelan took up a position behind him to his right, his huge double-axe resting against the wall close to hand. The other was placed next to Lord Nasher for Tarlin, the woman still as grim as when they had first met. Sharwyn took up the position between four members of the Nine. Wine and cheese were brought for all the assembled and soon they were sitting comfortably. Formalities were always needed when nobility was involved – good food and drink the only real comfort in which Nasher indulged.

Suddenly, Dernhelm looked around the room. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Nathyrra since they had entered. Finally he saw her. She was curled up by the fireplace, her black feline body sprawled in apparent sleep. As he glanced in her direction her head came up and she winked at him in an uncatlike way. He noticed her eyes were no longer lavender. He hid a smirk behind a raised wineglass.

She knew that although the others considered her a friend, they were still decidedly uncomfortable around her because she was a drow, and long-standing prejudices die hard. He knew she wanted to be here for the meeting but it would likely cause too many waves or make her feel too distressed, so it was easier for her to be present incognito. As he sat there, he burned to know what she had done with the real Vaash. He figured it would be equally humorous.

Finally, his appetite temporarily sated, Lord Nasher stood and began to pace. His adventuring blood wouldn't let him sit still for long, and it certainly did not permit him to get old and weak.

"So a force is gathering with what appears to be plans to besiege my city," he began, wasting no more time with pleasantries or preambles. He was an efficient commander. And he allowed only the minimum of formalities. "They are making battering rams for a force much greater than their number and are being led by an ogre mage of no small power able to overcome their fear of taboos and holed up in a cave in a dormant volcano. Did I leave anything out?" he said with a sarcastic tone.

"No, that just about covers it." Dernhelm responded with an equally sardonic reply.

"Any idea who they are building all of these rams and siege works for?"

"At the moment no and that concerns me. My scouts are looking into it. I believe they have a larger force but are very good at hiding it. We should uncover it soon. On the other hand, this phantom force may be tied to rumors of unusual quietness in the Spine of the World. It could be that the Crag orcs are making weapons for a force that will come out of the Spine of the World – like in the Horde Wars. Unlike the Wars, this one would involve magic. That could explain it. We're considering every possibility."

"Wonderful," Lord Nasher said acerbically.

"These new developments put Luskan in danger."

"Luskan. Luskan! Who cares about that wretched hive of warlocks and pirates? I say let them-" Lord Nasher stopped then relaxed. "You're right. You're right." He threw up his hands. Nasher was also a man of long-held emotions and a barely restrained temper. "We should be concerned about them as well.

"I trust you have already sent word for assistance from our allies?" he continued.

"Indeed. I sent word to Khelben Arunsun of the situation and I am sure he'll send troops. I suspect Helm's Hold will also come to our aid. I would estimate a bolster by two to three thousand troops at least."

"Good. Good." Lord Nasher continued to pace. Nasher wouldn't have expected any less. They were both veterans of many such conflicts. "That would make a sizeable garrison that will need to be fed and supplied." He tapped his lip in thought.

"While you were gone I forced the evacuation of all but Neverwinter Landing and we have completed repairs on the eastern wall. We have five thousand standing troops given the recruits we have from the farmers.

"Daelan says you estimate two months before the siege begins."

"That's what my scouts suggest, yes, as a maximum. They of course can't be certain since the numbers don't add up. But the rams send a clear message. I certainly wouldn't be surprised."

"Nor would I. Getting all of those troops here – especially from Waterdeep – may take that full time." He continued to pace. Like Dernhelm, he didn't like the way this was shaping up. Defense plans were being laid to function like a well-greased machine, but he knew a host of problems could arise on their end, even without any surprises by the enemy.

"Later today I am going to tell the engineers to speed up reconstruction efforts on our trebuchet and oil cauldrons. I'll also see if I can enlist the aid of Durga and Marrok at the Shining Knights to produce more specialized armaments for the city. Anything else you would suggest?" Lord Nasher asked.

"Not from my end, no," Dernhelm replied, as satisfied as Nasher for the moment. He sat back and continued to nurse his wine.

"Lady Aribeth?"

Lapsing in to a lecturing tone, she began ticking points off on her fingers as if reciting a plan long thought out.

"Since we have to consider these orcs well-disciplined, I would leave only about one thousand in reserve – preferably the militia – working in concert with the Academy's engineers. Establishing an effective shield wall should be our top priority with the cavalry in support. Even if we assume the orcs are more disciplined than normal, that would seem to be the best option against a larger force. Being conservative at the potential numbers they could throw at us, I'd say we'd need to purchase about three hundred more horses from Waterdeep. I would advocate giving more funds to the fletchers; as Neverwinter Wood is too dangerous now, this would require us to move our timbering efforts to the Charwood."

Dernhelm could see Tarlin and several of the Neverwinter Nine nodding in agreement to Aribeth's pronouncements. He glanced at Tarlin as if to warn her about giving away too much of knowledge that a High Courier should lack, but she was concentrating on Aribeth. For some reason, Tarlin seemed to be sizing her up.

Nasher considered her suggestions thoughtfully. "I'll sign the necessary disbursements." The he added, "How goes the training of the militia?"

"Slowly. They are not used to fighting in organized groups, but I am confident Commander Sebile will have them ready in time."

"Has anyone talked to Eltoora?" Lord Bornhald, one of the Nine, asked. A middle-aged man with wide, muscular shoulders, and a block-shaped head sporting a short mane of brown hair flecked with gray, Lord Fiador Bornhald exuded a cocky bravado even at rest. It was strange for a man of his size to be lounging so casually in his seat, his wine glass held nonchalantly in his right hand. One could almost picture him with a leg dangling over the chair arm if Nasher would indulge such unceremoniousness.

"I will do that this afternoon," Sharwyn replied, smiling. Lord Bornhald was completely likeable for all his airy bluster. "She will provide ample wizards and magical accoutrement to fill our needs, I'm sure."

"Good. Then it seems everything is progressing to the best of our abilities," Lord Nasher responded. "Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?"

"We of course need up to date information about the orcs' movements and reconnaissance about this ogre mage. I am wondering what you plan to be doing during the coming weeks, Dernhelm. Do you need more scouts? When and how often should we expect reports?" asked Lord Wingold. A man approaching sixty, but still strong and confident like Nasher, Lord Agrimar Wingold was an affable gentleman, an unpretentious aristocrat that inspired confidence and camaraderie and was Dernhelm's closest friend among the Nine. His hair, remarkably black considering his age, sported white wings at the temples, giving him an air of nobility.

Dernhelm rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes in the way he did when he didn't want to say something. "My scouts will come to you periodically, but I will actually be out of contact with you for several weeks. I have something else important I must attend to."

At this several of the Nine sat upright and began to talk excitedly over themselves. Though they trusted him, nobles were always an excitable lot and this didn't conform with the plans in their heads.

"You are going to leave us? Now?" Lord Bornhald said with exasperation. Clutching his glass forcefully as he gave Dernhelm his full attention, the half-elf could believe that the crystal stem of the goblet was near to shattering.

"Where are you going?" asked Lord Wingold. His face suggested he suspected the answer, but needed confirmation.

"What could be of greater importance?" Lord Antonin Handlebach almost shouted. Always the most excitable, at thirty-two and the youngest of the Nine, he had the appearance of a man with something to prove. A practical master of the sword and shield, he lacked the subtler skills of diplomacy, rational planning, and common sense. These, coupled with a boyish face that held only a patchy beard, made him seem a prepubescent idiot. Dernhelm had a natural dislike for the man.

"My lords," interrupted Lord Nasher with a gruff voice, in effect scolding them not to act like children in tantrum by reminding them of their station. This restored a semblance of order. "I am sure Dernhelm has a perfectly reasonable explanation; it has to be something of utmost importance." He fixed Dernhelm with a critical eye as if to say, "You do, don't you? This had better be good."

"Indeed," Dernhelm replied. "Since many elements of the situation are unknown, I am personally leading an expedition to get detailed information from the heart of the enemy territory. We need to uncover their missing numbers. I-"

"Don't let him fool you," Aribeth cut in with a warm smile for her husband, laying her hand on his arm. "He likes to beat around the bush. He plans to go and kill this ogre mage."

Dernhelm nodded somewhat sheepishly.

At this, Lord Nasher and the Nine visibly relaxed and many of them now wore grins. Lord Bornhald even barked a laugh.

"Ho, ho," he rubbed his hands together menacingly and his eyes shone with delight. "This is great news. This ogre won't know what hit him." An outsider would have thought by the sudden expressions of utter calm on the faces of the assembled lords that Aribeth had just pronounced that the war was over. The lords were quite familiar with Dernhelm's exploits, having been saved from the plague by him almost seventeen years ago, and seeing him lead them to victory in numerous other "wars." They were confident that if he was going to go see to this enemy personally – the one behind the orc uprising – that the war may very well vanish with a puff of smoke.

Dernhelm eschewed such confidence. He never liked viewing an undertaking such as this as 'open and shut.' As each enemy was different, he forced himself to consider that successes in the past provided no future guarantees. And, as much as he believed he could kill this ogre mage, he could not – would not – allow others to base decisions on any such self-assurance. He regarded the lords with a grim face. They all quieted down.

"I will take Thurgan Marst and Aniril Galwen. They will bring you reports whenever they can but you can understand, my lords, that this is not as easy as just spying on enemy positions. We will be in the heart of their territory. They may just be orcs, but given the unknowns they have presented us with, we can't rely on them 'just being orcs,'" he said in a flat voice, devoid of emotion.

Several of them took his rebuke as it was intended, but while they seemed to have soaked up his tone, a few still wore relaxed expressions. Lord Bornhald was even yet smiling.

"Who else will you take on this expedition?" asked Lord Nasher.

"Daelan Red Tiger, Nathyrra, and Davorin Galwen, plus Thurgan and Aniril, of course. I prefer my team small." Daelan smiled and flexed his muscles as if to show just why he should be going. Dernhelm could tell the lords certainly agreed with him; they all sat back a bit in their chairs though Daelan was still seated. As for Nathyrra, he presumed they were relieved that she would be somewhere else.

"Surely you could use more help than that?" Lord Nasher inquired.

Chuckling to himself as a plan suddenly came to him, he said "Oh, and I should like to take the High Courier along… if she is willing?"

Aribeth's eyebrows rose and yet she said nothing. He knew she could sense his internal jocularity, but he also knew she trusted his judgment.

Tarlin, however was unfazed, her face grim as always. She simply nodded.

Feeling the need to justify himself and to open the door to make a joke at her expense, he added "She may be useful for relaying messages."

Her eyes narrowed but she remained silent. Several of the Lords nodded in agreement. High Couriers were as exceptional at fighting as they were at delivering secure messages. They had to be at the price paid to employ their services.

"Or beating the enemy to death with her wonderful personality," he added under his breath.

Clearing his throat, Dernhelm continued. "That makes seven. We will need supplies. Eltoora will teleport us into the Wood at daybreak tomorrow."

"Teleport? But isn't that too much of a risk? You don't know the exact positions of the enemy within the Wood nor the terrain," Lord Handlebach asked nervously.

"I sent Thurgan with Aniril and Davorin ahead to the Wood with a magical… beacon, if you will. I instructed them to clear a space for a party of no more than five. When they activate the beacon I'll know the way is safe and Eltoora can teleport us directly there." The assembled lords regarded him with looks of incredulity. They had never heard of such a device, and certainly could not conceive that such a tool existed in Neverwinter.

"I had Eltoora develop it after years of learning how best to move groups in enemy territory unnoticed."

Aribeth smiled. Her husband was full of surprises… and ingenious gadgets.

"Well then," Lord Nasher said calmly. "Let's get to it."

Hours later in a small workshop across the city, a heavily muscled blacksmith stood in front of his furnace, his arms clasped across his chest. A cloaked figure stood before him with hood pulled far forward. The smith had no aversion to dealing with cloaked clientele – many buyers of his 'special goods' wanted to avoid attracting attention – but often he had disagreements with nature of the goods requested. Such was the case now.

"You want me to make this do what?" Marrok asked skeptically.

"Explode on impact. Is that too difficult?" the other responded gruffly.

"No," Marrok replied, with a flash of anger. "It's not what you want it to do it's the amount of powder you want me to pack into it. Do you realize how big of an explosion this little thing will cause?"

"I'd imagine it will be quite large."

"It will be huge!" Marrok said exasperated. He couldn't even separate his hands far enough to emphasize his point.

"The bigger the better," the customer replied.

The large purse sat beside Marrok on the table enticing him. He stared at his customer for a long moment. At last Marrok sighed. "Ok, it's your money…" "…And your funeral." he added under his breath.

It was mid-afternoon when Dernhelm entered the Trade of Blades. He was looking for someone. He had already been to see Eltoora and Marrok. Everything was prepared and in two hours they would be underway. This was his last stop. As the time drew near, he was starting to grow anxious; he wanted this mystery solved as soon as possible. He like tallies to add up and this one was still missing the tens column. As he mulled the possibilities over in his mind, the words of the bard playing in the corner drifted over to him.

"…And old boss belched a fiery blast

And sliced the knight in twain

And gobbled him up with a mighty gulp

And no one ever saw the knight a-gain…"

The bard paused in his singing and put on a quizzical expression.

"Well, that's not entirely true," he said to himself out loud as he scratched his scaly head. "Old Boss got indigestion. The armor didn't set well on his stomach. Old Boss sat and moaned until eventually he passed the armor." Everyone laughed. "…so, everyone did see the knight again. Sort of." The room erupted in raucous laughter.

He couldn't believe his ears. This was the last person he had expected to see. "Deekin!" Dernhelm shouted at his old friend. He could barely get out the word, he too was holding in his sides laughing.

At the sound of his name, the bard turned his head to look at the man standing in the doorway.

"Bawss!" Deekin dropped his lute and was moving in a flash, his tiny frame dodging about guests startled at the sudden transition. No one had expected him to move and certainly not that fast. Accidentally catching a mug on a nearby table with one of his wings, he swept it onto the floor with a crash. Surprised by the noise, he jumped and caught one of the ceiling beams, then used it to back-flip right into Dernhelm's arms.

With a smile that split his draconian face ear to ear he grinned up at Dernhelm. A draconian smile would be considered the stuff of nightmares to anyone but Dernhelm.

"Deekin?" he said and then let out a trailer of smoke from his small jaws as he belched straight into the half-elf's face. The smell was so awful and direct that Dernhelm dropped Deekin in surprise, staggering backward waving his hands in front of his nose. This proved too much for the guests; the suddenness of Deekin's movements coupled with seeing someone of Dernhelm's prominence staggered by a draconian belch caused grown men to actually fall to the floor laughing. Even the barkeep was laughing hard enough that he pounded the table, the broken mug forgotten.

"By Ao, what have you been eating?" Dernhelm asked but Deekin just kept smiling.

"No. Don't answer that," he said hurriedly.

As he regained his composure, Dernhelm couldn't help but laugh. It felt like the old times all over again. Unintended antics that diffused his anxiety even if the situation was dark as midnight. He chuckled again to himself and cautiously picked up Deekin. "As long as you don't fart," he said in a loud voice. The gathered men shrank away in mock horror and then slapped each other on the back and continued to laugh loudly as they drank. Tales of Dernhelm and Deekin's exploits began to be told around the tavern.

Dernhelm continued to chuckle as he carried Deekin to a nearby table and plunked him down on a bench. "Deekin, what are you doing here?" Dernhelm blurted out, as he sat on the bench across from him. "It's good to see you, but last I had heard you had been named king of the kobolds. What are you doing in Neverwinter?"

At the question Deekin tried to hide his head behind a wing and if it weren't impossible for a kobold's leathery face to make such an expression, Dernhelm would have thought he looked sheepish.

"Deekin be king of kobolds," he said, still trying to hide his head. "But Deekin needed to come to Neverwinter to be safe."

"Safe? From whom?" asked Dernhelm, suddenly on guard, hackles rising. Had the orcs made war on Deekin's folk?

"Kobolds." Deekin turned and gave Dernhelm a weak smile. It was enough to shatter the half-elf's dark thoughts; he began to laugh. "Deekin king, but sometimes not very popular. Other kobolds don't understand. They say Deekin too smart. Sometimes Deekin do stuff for their own good but they get scared. And a scared kobold be an angry kobold. They try and hang poor Deekin. There be big riots. Deekin needs to evacuate the city from time to time. They need time to cool down and think about it. Usually takes several weeks." He looked about as if to see if anyone was listening and then leaned closer conspiratorially. "They not very bright."

At this, Dernhelm began to laugh all the harder and thump the table. Several of the patrons looked up and began to chuckle as well, mainly just laughing at the size difference between Dernhelm and Deekin. Deekin's snout barely stuck above the table.

Deekin looked at "Bawss" quizzically not knowing what he said that was so funny and after a few seconds, not being able to figure it out, he began to laugh as well, a tiny reptilian-sounding noise between a hiss and the sound of someone blowing their nose.

Following the death of Mephistopheles, Deekin had gone back to the kobolds because he said he had needed some "time off" to organize his notes and start the new book about Dernhelm's adventures. When he had arrived, the kobolds were so awed by him, not because of his fame or the extensive wealth he had returned with but because he could form almost a complete sentence without having to stop, think, and then take a nap, that they instantly made him king… that is, after they got done hiding from him.

When Dernhelm had first heard, he couldn't speak for about an hour he had laughed so hard. Thinking about it later, he was so thankful for this fortuitous course of events. For the survival of the kobold people, this was the best thing that could have happened; Deekin was the smartest and he possessed an intuition and wisdom most did not see (including Dernhelm and Deekin himself, most of the time).

"So, you are in Neverwinter waiting for this to settle down?"

"Yes. And to perform some new ballads," Deekin said with a grin.

Dernhelm clasped his little friend's hand as a show of support.

"Do you know the problems Neverwinter has been having recently?" Dernhelm asked Deekin as they sucked back some mugs of ale that a barmaid had brought them. On the house, of course.

Deekin nodded. "With the orcses? Yes, Deekin knows. Nasty things, the orcses. Always destroying, always making war… and always breeding," he said with distaste. Deekin was kind-hearted but he had a surprising hatred for the orcs. They had made war on the kobolds more times than anyone could remember.

"And you know about the ogre mage?"

Deekin cocked his head to the side the way he did when he was confused. In a low voice, Dernhelm relayed to him all of the information they had received. When he had finished, Deekin sat back, his eyes closed to watchful slits as he mulled the information over.

Finally he looked up, and with surprising insight he said "Ogre mage must be powerful to do this."

"Indeed," Dernhelm replied. "Or something else is going on. Either way, I don't like it." He paused. "I am going to check the situation out."

In response, Deekin belched out another cloud of acrid smoke and began to laugh. Dernhelm leaned quickly out of the blast zone. He moved his mug to make sure it wasn't affected either. That'd be a waste of quality beer.

"Boss is going to go kill the ogre mage, isn't he?"

Dernhelm simply sat back and laughed. "Am I that predictable?" he asked with a grin.

"Change is not in Bawss' nature," Deekin replied and laughed until more smoke came out, his mouth lit by an orange glow.

They sat for a while talking about old times as Dernhelm waited for the one he had come to find. Finally, he could wait no longer.

"I have to go, Deekin," Dernhelm said and stood to leave. "Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"Deekin?" he replied, his head cocked.

"Since you're here, could you keep watch over Aribeth? Just say you were back in town and wanted to hang around for a while. I am sure she'd love to have you around. And it keeps you safe in the castle. This helps you and me both out."

Deekin grinned. "Ok, Bawss."

"Oh, by the way. Nice ballad," Dernhelm laughed as he walked out the door.

Deekin beamed with pride.

As he walked down the street back to the Beggar's Nest he was lost in thought as he usually was, thinking enough for three people in half the time. He couldn't help but wonder where his contact was. He had talked with Deekin in the Trade of Blades for nearly two hours and the man had never showed. Dernhelm however was never truly lost in thought, always paying close attention to the world around, a necessity in his line of work. He would avoid walking too close to alleys, preferring the middle of the street, and would check behind him both with his eyes and his senses. Therefore it came as a bit of a surprise when the long knife pressed up against his throat from behind.

"You are getting old, Dernhelm," the voice said. "Old and slow."

"Coming from you, that's a compliment," Dernhelm replied. No one on the street seemed to notice the two of them; in any case, he was relaxed. He chuckled, "As long as fat is not added to that list. Aribeth wouldn't approve. She'd restrict my beer intake for sure."

"What do you want me for?" the voice asked with an amused tone. The knife didn't move from his throat.

"Why weren't you in the Trade of Blades?"

"I had a run-in with the barkeep's daughter the other day and let's just say the place would be a little hot for me. I figured I'd be scarce in that place for a long while." The other laughed.

Dernhelm didn't question him about it. He didn't want to know. "I am going away for a few weeks. I need you to protect Aribeth."

"Off to hunt an ogre," the other asked with a laugh. Dernhelm wasn't about to ask how the other knew. "Is the city about to get more dangerous?" Incredulity filled the other's voice. The other didn't consider much as truly "dangerous."

"Not that I know of. I am just not taking any chances. You know how I operate. Think you can handle that?"

"She won't even know I am there."

"Better for you. She'd kill you if she did."

The voice chuckled. "She'll be even more ruthless with you if she found out you decided she needed protection."

"True indeed," Dernhelm replied with a grin. He could just imagine what her reaction would be. He would be dodging mugs and wash basins for a week. If he lived that long.

"It will be as you say," the other said. The knife retracted as suddenly as it had appeared. Whipping around, Dernhelm looked but as he suspected he could see no one but the ordinary commoners walking about their daily business. Dernhelm liked him. He never beat around the bush. And he was about the best agent Dernhelm had ever hired.